Spaces of Dissension: Towards a New Perspective on Contradiction (Contradiction Studies) 3658259892, 9783658259891

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Contradiction Studies

Julia Lossau · Daniel Schmidt-Brücken Ingo H. Warnke Eds.

Spaces of Dissension Towards a New Perspective on Contradiction

Contradiction Studies Series Editors Julia Lossau, Institut für Geographie, Universität Bremen, Bremen, Germany Ingo H. Warnke, Fachbereich 10, Universität Bremen, Bremen, Germany

Als Verbundinitiative an der Universität Bremen fokussiert Worlds of Contradiction Phänomene, Konzepte, gesellschaftlich relevante Aspekte und methodologische Konsequenzen von Widerspruch aus Perspektiven der Geisteswissenschaften. Widerspruch wird dabei nicht allein als eine Relation des Ausschlusses verstanden – es ist nicht möglich, dass A und nicht-A –, sondern als eine Relation des graduellen Kontrastes. Es geht also auch um Diskrepanzen, Missverhältnisse, Aporien, Abweichungen, Verschiedenheiten etc., die in Feldern umkämpften Wissens – das heißt im Bereich Von contested knowledge – als widersprüchlich deklariert werden. Neben logischem Widerspruch im Sinne eines Aussagenausschlusses rücken damit Phänomene des Sowohl-Als-Auch – es ist möglich, dass A und nicht-A –, also graduelle Widersprüche, in das Zentrum geisteswissenschaftlicher Interessen.

More information about this series at http://www.springer.com/series/15994

Julia Lossau · Daniel Schmidt-Brücken · Ingo H. Warnke Editors

Spaces of Dissension Towards a New Perspective on ­Contradiction

Editors Julia Lossau Institute of Geography University of Bremen Bremen, Germany

Daniel Schmidt-Brücken German Linguistics University of B ­ remen Bremen, Germany

Ingo H. Warnke German Linguistics University of B ­ remen Bremen, Germany

ISSN 2524-3608 ISSN 2524-3616  (electronic) Contradiction Studies ISBN 978-3-658-25989-1 ISBN 978-3-658-25990-7  (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7 Springer VS © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are reserved by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer VS imprint is published by the registered company Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH part of Springer Nature. The registered company address is: Abraham-Lincoln-Str. 46, 65189 Wiesbaden, Germany

Contents

The Challenge of Contradictions: Thinking Through Spaces of Dissension. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Julia Lossau, Daniel Schmidt-Brücken and Ingo H. Warnke Contradiction in Narrative and Discursive Orders Knowledges and Contradictions in Premodern Narratives . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Elisabeth Lienert Ghostwriting and its Contradictions, Or: Meet the Trumps . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Carsten Junker and Marie-Luise Löffler A Blob with Aplomb: Introducing Discourse-Linguistic Contradiction Studies Outside the Box. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Ingo H. Warnke and Daniel Schmidt-Brücken Contradiction in Interpersonal Communication and Institutions Family Structure and Ownership Transition as “Polar Opposites”: An Emotional Embeddedness Perspective . . . . . . . . . 99 Carolin Decker-Lange Negotiated Contradictions—Contradictory Negotiations: Tensions and Requirements in Education Reform from the Perspective of Educational Sciences. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 Sabine Doff and Till-Sebastian Idel

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Religion Beyond Secularisation Theories: Contradictional Findings of the Study of Religion in a (Post-)Modern World. . . . . . . . . . . 127 Gritt Klinkhammer, Petra Klug and Anna Neumaier Contradiction, Power and Governmentality Beyond a Binary Approach: Contradictions and Strict Antinomies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 Stefan Müller Governmentality and the Autonomous Subject: Persistent Contradictions in Philosophies of (Language) Education. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169 Barbara Schmenk Contradiction in Territorial Orders and Infrastructures Making a Living from Everyday Contradictions: Water Management and Cross-border Trade in post-Soviet Central Asia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193 Henryk Alff and Anna-Katharina Hornidge Creative Cities: On Handling Contradictions in Contemporary Urban Planning. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 215 Anna-Lisa Müller (In)Visible and (Un)Homely: Underground Infrastructures as Spaces of Dissension. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237 Julia Lossau Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 257

The Challenge of Contradictions: Thinking Through Spaces of Dissension Julia Lossau, Daniel Schmidt-Brücken and Ingo H. Warnke

1 Contradictions of Modernity When more than a million migrants came to Europe in 2015, the notion of a “European migrant crisis” was spreading and gaining strength. In Germany— the country which received the highest number of new asylum applications—the arrivals were met with ambivalence. On the one hand, vast numbers of Germans engaged in Angela Merkel’s “welcome culture,” volunteering in shelters, donating money and clothing, helping refugees with bureaucratic hurdles, and even inviting migrants into their homes. On the other hand, the perceived “migrant crisis” fueled anti-immigrant resentment. Thousands of ordinary Germans took to the streets, calling for Germany to defend itself against what they called “islamization.” As the German interior ministry reported in 2017, nearly ten attacks were made in Germany on migrants every day in 2016 (BBC News 2017). The German ambiguity vis-à-vis migrants, strangers, outsiders, and foreigners is nothing new. In fact, it is closely related to the contradictions of modernity that have been eloquently described by authors such as Berman (1982), Beck (1992) and Calhoun (1997). Feeding into—as well as informing—the then-growing body

J. Lossau (*)  Social Sciences, University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany e-mail: [email protected] D. Schmidt-Brücken · I. H. Warnke  Linguistics and Literary Studies, University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany e-mail: [email protected] I. H. Warnke e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 J. Lossau et al. (eds.), Spaces of Dissension, Contradiction Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7_1

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of globalization literature, their texts are emblematic of the late twentieth-century sociological debate critically discussing the contradictory effects of globalized (Western) modernity. While focusing on various aspects of modernity and modern life, all these texts are committed to the Marxist idea that, as Marshall Berman put it, to be modern “is to live a life of ambiguity and contradiction” (1982, p. 13). One of the most striking contradictions modernity has brought into being is that between universalism and particularism. As Alain Finkielkraut (1988) has noted, Herder in particular promoted the idea of a Volksgeist over universally binding principles of sameness, thus fueling the “transmutation of culture into my culture” (Finkielkraut 1988, p. 11): “From the beginning, or to be more precise, from the time of Plato until that of Voltaire, human diversity had come before the tribunal of universal values; with Herder the eternal values were condemned by the court of diversity” (Finkielkraut 1988, p. 14). Since Herder’s days, this “condemnation” left what Julia Kristeva (1991, p. 98) has famously described as a “scar” dividing “man and citizen”: “the foreigner.” In the ambiguity between the “welcome culture” and xenophobic resentment in present-day Germany, the hiatus between man and citizen is permanently actualized. As the deaths of thousands of migrants in the Mediterranean indicate, migration regimes across Europe rely on a fundamental difference between citizen and foreigner, implying that “he who is not a citizen is not fully a man” (Kristeva 1991, p. 98). The contradiction between universalism and particularism also plays out in other discursive arenas, notably that of climate change. Often represented as real in both discursive and material terms, climate change is frequently held to be among the most pressing problems of our times (e.g., Dyer 2008; Welzer 2012). Both academic and everyday debates of climate change regularly invoke the “imaginative geography” (Gregory 1994) of “one world” (Lossau 2002, p. 139). The rationale behind “one world” concept foregrounds the global effects of climate change, which are epitomized perhaps in the term “global warming.” Much like the assertion of universal values, the idea of “one world” relates to the ideal of peaceful exchange and mutual understanding, i.e., to a shared homeland for all human beings where conflicts can be resolved and harmony prevails (Lossau 2002, pp. 153–157). One of the central notions of the universalist worldview is the pronoun “we.” As cultural theorist Harald Welzer notes in his bestselling book Climate Wars, “no one makes more use of the first person plural than the authors of books on climate change and other topical environmental questions. ‘We’ have caused this or that; ‘we’ must stop doing such and such if ‘our’ world is to be saved” (Welzer

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2012, p. 28). It can be argued, however, that “we” both signifies and calls into question the very idea of “one world” at the same time. On the one hand, “we” stands for the whole of humanity. On the other hand, to quote Harald Welzer again, “humanity” is not an actor but an abstraction (Welzer 2012, p. 28): In reality there are billions of subjects from different cultural backgrounds, endowed with highly diverse economic opportunities and political resources, who act within a number of complex life communities. No socially identifiable “we” links together a landless Chinese farm labourer and the chairman of a multinational energy corporation; they inhabit completely different social worlds, each with its particular demands and, above all, its particular rationality (Welzer 2012, pp. 28–29).

Empirically speaking, the universalist “we” is problematic in that it obscures the particularity of perspectives and rationalities which account for the fabric of social life. In the discourse of climate change, however, it is not so much individual subjects (like the farm laborer or the chairman Welzer mentions) who disturb the supposed harmony of the global “we.” Like the European governance of migration, the logic of climate change is characterized by the agency of collective subjects, notably distinct countries, each of which seeks to pursue its own national interest. In this regard, Donald Trump’s decision to withdraw the United States from the 2015 Paris climate agreement seems to be merely the virtual “tip of the iceberg.” In fact, the reluctance of more “climate-friendly” countries to substantially reduce their nationally determined carbon emissions in order to meet their Paris climate targets sufficiently illustrates the weakness of “one world” in the face of the traditional political map consisting of individual countries and their national interests. Theoretically speaking, the whole of humanity inhibiting “one world” can be interpreted as representing a myth of modernity like those analyzed by Roland Barthes in his Mythologies (Barthes 2012). As Barthes explains with regard to a popular 1950s exhibition of photography named The Great Family of Man, this “ambiguous myth of the human ‘community’ […] functions in two stages” (Barthes 2012, p. 196). Both sides of this ambiguity, i.e., an essentialist understanding of human unity, on the one hand, and the belief in social or cultural diversity, on the other hand, can be retraced in the examples given above. In migration politics as well as in climate discourse, a universal world is imagined as the homeland of the human community in the first stage. This universal world disintegrates in the second stage, leaving fragmented blocks of space and the whole of humanity deconstructed into particular social worlds and incompatible perspectives.

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2 Discarding an Old Specter For scholars who aim to come to terms with the contradictions of modernity, Roland Barthes is a valuable mentor indeed. In his 1973 essay The Pleasure of the Text, the author imagines “someone,” or rather, he sketches this “someone” for his readers as a person “who abolishes within himself all barriers, all classes, all exclusions, not by syncretism but by simple discard of that old specter: logical contradiction” (Barthes 1975, p. 3 Italicized by D.S.-B). For Barthes, logical contradiction is not an unavoidable, inescapable fact. On the contrary, it is a specter that can be cast out. In etymological terms, this ghost is not only unreal but also tempting, seductive. This double meaning can be traced back to Old High German where gispensti means allure, seduction, inspiration. The ghost is therefore “peculiarly that which pulls sb. away, lures away, a (devilish) illusion.” (Pfeifer 1993, transl. IHW). Barthes’ short note on the nature of logical contradiction contains two surprising twists. First, Barthes considers the ghostbuster of logical contradictions to be someone “who mixes every language, even those said to be incompatible; who silently accepts every charge of illogicality, of incongruity; who remains passive in the face of Socratic irony (leading the interlocutor to the supreme disgrace: self-contradiction) and legal terrorism (how much penal evidence is based on a psychology of consistency!)” (Barthes 1975, p. 3). Mixing languages, embracing accusations of illogical thinking, daring to contradict oneself, and even rejecting the pursuit of unity: these are the traits of the very subject who has discarded the old specter of logical contradiction. “Such a man would be the mockery of our society: court, school, asylum, polite conversation would cast him out: who endures contradiction without shame?” (Barthes 1975, p. 3) Here is the first volte-face in the argument. The logical contradiction is not, as intuition suggests, a crystal-clear matter of the mind, but an instrument of control, a norm whose violation results in social isolation. The logical contradiction separates people who belong to an in-group from outsiders; it creates nonmembers who are supposed to be ashamed because they know exactly that they are violating an axiomatic imperative called “freedom from contradiction.” As such, logical contradictions have a very tempting aura indeed; they open up secure spaces of membership. Making allowance for their existence and avoiding their operation at the same time produces insiders who are free from the risk of marginalization because they speak the common language, think rationally and logically, and thus strive for unity.

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It can be argued that the old specter of contradiction has an ideological function. Those who acknowledge—or, inversely, plead to dissolve—contradictions ideologically increase the value of consistency by locating themselves on the side of rationality and logic (and not the side of irrationality and foolishness). Social actors who conform to the rules of contradiction operate in the realm of rational superiority. Acknowledging contradictions amounts to wielding an instrument of power, the marking of a universal logic of the fundamental order of thinking and knowing: an order based on the principle of freedom from contradictions. Who, then, is the subject who dares to discard the old specter, who dares to be indifferent to society and norms, to identity and belonging? Does such a person really exist? In his answer to this question, Barthes again offers a surprising twist: “Now this anti-hero exits: he is the reader of the text at the moment he takes his pleasure” (Barthes 1975, p. 3). Subjects who take possession of a text mix their language with the language of the text, contradict the author, disregard the author’s logic, simultaneously concur with the author and offer dissent (which is of course a rather contradictory practice), indeed cast out the old specter of contradiction. The reader as a contradictory figure—or, to put it another way, as a subject who attaches no value to the norms of logical contradiction—does not follow the temptation of consistency precisely because he or she is not afraid of contradiction.

3 Toward an Alternative Perspective on Contradictions In their text on historical epistemology, Albrecht et al. (2016, p. 138) speak of contradiction in the context of a series of so-called epistemic values in which they also include truth, simplicity, and plausibility. According to the authors, these values have no temporal validity: they are “the result of a historical finding” (2016, p. 138, transl. IHW). To them, “this also applies to the demand for freedom from contradiction, although it has been explicitly declared time and again since Plato and Aristotle; however, the reasons for this demand could vary” (Albrecht et al. 2016, 138, transl. IHW). From such a point of view, contradiction is thoroughly tied to “epistemic situations” (Albrecht et al. 2016, p. 140, transl. IHW). The idea that both contradiction and the imperative of freedom from contradiction are epistemically situated touches on—and threatens—the foundations of logical knowledge production and rationality. Support of this idea is, as Barthes

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would have it, disgraceful, instantly provoking the need for logical re-ordering, i.e., for some sort of safeguarding service for both the declaration of contradictions and the freedom from contradiction as a reliable constant independent of time and space. It seems almost impossible to recognize contradiction as merely a situational value, for the demand for freedom from contradiction enjoys monumental superiority over many other arguments of opposition, and it functions in agonal discourses—i.e., in debates shaped by competition for opinions—as a basic principle of knowledge production and the ascertainment of certainty. In a logical world, the question of contradiction is not least a question of cognitive regularity. The dis-acknowledgment of contradiction as a timeless and universal authority thus needs to be not merely avoided but actively condemned: “To most philosophers, contradictions in a philosophy flag cognitive worst case scenarios. From the perspective of formal standard logic, something is wrong when somebody states that p is the case and not the case at the same time […]. [E]ven the foolhardiest philosophers will not be foolish enough to accept all statements and their logical negations as true at the same time. This would be a complete logical chaos in which knowledge and cognition would have come to their end; it would be profoundly pathological, a case for psychiatrists but not for logicians” (Tetens 2006, p. 232, transl. JL).

What is at stake here, from a psychoanalytic point of view, is a disgust at, or an abjection of, contradiction (cf. Kristeva 1980). In a sharp refutation of the convictions of the history of ideas, Michel Foucault, in his Archeology of Knowledge, speaks of the “law of coherence,” reflecting on it as “a heuristic rule, a procedural obligation” which is “almost a moral constraint of research: not to multiply contradictions uselessly” (Foucault 1972, p. 149). Foucault concisely outlines what we think of as the deontic power of contradictions, i.e., their regulative or normative function according to which contradictions themselves are impertinent and impossible. It is due to their deontic power that, paradoxically, contradictions are the greatest enemies of contradiction. In this paradox, the meliorative value of coherence corresponds to the pejorative devaluation of contradiction. From a critical distance, Foucault identifies the obligation to acknowledge the law of coherence. This obligation is lifted, however, whenever we encounter situated rationalities, i.e., in situations which do not correspond to logical requirements, boundaries, and rules. For Foucault, such situations open up “spaces of dissension” (Foucault 1972, p. 152; original emphasis), which are probably best

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understood as spaces of multiple incompatible meanings, from Latin dissēnsus and dissentīre, meaning to disagree, to contradict.1 What Foucault is aiming at is the rejection of “contradictions as general function,” of the “great game of contradiction” (Foucault 1972, p. 153, original emphasis) and the concomitant reformulation of contradiction as a concept which is differentiated and situational. It is not by necessity, therefore, that contradictions have to be understood as imbued with a pejorative function, i.e., as relations containing the implicit imperative of their own dissolution regardless of the actual situation. Drawing again upon Albrecht et al. (2016), we suggest thinking of contradictions as epistemically bound. In so doing, we release the concept of contradiction, as it were, from its logical compound where it functions as an essential relation to be avoided absolutely if order is not to be put at risk. At the same time, we would like to stress that we do not want to free contradictions from all regulation. What we are aiming at is a perspective on contradictions that derives normativity from the discursivity of contradiction, as its socially situated character might also be called. When social actors produce contradictions in discourse, they bear responsibility for the consequences. It is not the world that is in contradiction; it is rather those who perceive the world as contradictory who have to live with the consequences of this perception. This is reminiscent of a statement by Ernst von Glasersfeld, according to which radical constructivism transfers responsibility from the world to the subject (cf. Glasersfeld 1997, pp. 50–51).

4 Situatedness and the Making of Contradictions From the point of view of standard logic, that which is contradictory (or is determined as such) has to exist simultaneously in order that a declaration of contradiction can take place at all. Such an approach is pursued, e.g., by Müller who speaks of a sharp contradiction when simultaneity of A and non-A is asserted (see Müller 2011, p. 146). Simultaneity in such a sense does not coincide with what we think of situatedness. To us, the term situatedness addresses the epistemic groundedness of the situation, i.e., with reference to Albrecht et al. (2016, p. 140), the coupling of contradiction and the declaration of contradiction with social and symbolic structures of order:

1See

“Dissens” in Digitales Wörterbuch der deutschen Sprache, https://www.dwds.de/wb/ Dissens, accessed 23.10.2017.

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J. Lossau et al. “In the history of thought, individual complexes of motives and aims in producing and preferring a practice in a given situation can be distinguished from the overarching, albeit temporally and spatially limited, elements of these situations […]. Taken together, these aspects are to be called epistemic situations containing the arguments about knowledge claims. […] In epistemic situations, knowledge claims are accepted, rejected, or ignored according to epistemic values. A knowledge claim is what can be argued about in a given situation.” (Albrecht et al. 2016, p.140, transl. JL)

Our idea of situatedness of contradiction corresponds to the more general “situatedness of knowledge” in Donna Haraway’s feminist concept of objectivity (Haraway 1988). As a consequence, we argue that contradictions are, first and foremost, a matter of someone claiming them. There is a need of social actors in order to describe a situation as contradictory. Situations are contradictory only when social actors describe them as such. A situational perspective on contradictions thus shifts the focus to the subjects involved in the claiming, or declaration, of contradictions—or involved in the demand for freedom from contradiction— and in the supra-individual structures of order in which contradictions can appear. In contrast to static and essentialist notions of contradiction, our dynamic concept of contradiction thus does not address contradictions in and for themselves, but their social production, i.e., their making. To us, the production of contradictions does not imply a relation of A and non-A, but the practice of determining A and non-A. In this sense, we emphasize the pragmatic dimension of contradictions as well as the fact that they have to be constituted. When we suggest that contradictions need to be constituted in order to come into being, we do not want to imply that there was a contradictory relation prior to the act of declaring the contradiction. In our approach to Contradiction Studies, there are no ready-made contradictions; they are constituted solely by the act of marking something as contradictory. It is a fundamental characteristic of declarative acts that what is said is becoming real through speech. In his famous 1976 paper A Classification of Illocutionary Acts, John R. Searle stated: “Declarations. It is the defining characteristic of this class that the successful performance of one of its members brings about the correspondence between the propositional content and reality” (Searle 1976, p. 13). In his book Making the Social World, Searle radicalizes the special function of constituting reality through declaration, focusing on the “mode of existence of social entities” (Searle 2010, p. 5). Searle assigns social entities a status function here, he characterizes them by their “collectively recognized status” (Searle 2010, p. 7). Against this background, we want to raise the question of whether or not contradictions can also be regarded as social entities. To discuss this question is worthwhile not least because Searle ascribes deontic, i.e., normative, power to the

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status function of social entities. As we have argued, drawing on the work of Foucault (1972, pp. 152–153), the same applies to contradictions in that they always call for something. With Searle, this calling for something abstractly reads as follows: “Without exception, the status functions carry what I call ‘deontic powers.’ That is, they carry rights, duties, obligations, requirements, permissions, authorizations, entitlements, and so on” (Searle 2010, pp. 8–9). A crucial aspect of Searle’s argument is the dependence of the status function and thus also of its deontic power on declarative acts: “all status functions […] are created by speech acts of a type that in 1975 I baptized as ‘Declarations’” (Searle 2010, p. 11). According to Searle, declarative speech acts change the world: “They change the world by declaring that a state of affairs exists and thus bringing that state of affairs into existence” (Searle 2010, p. 12). We can think of contradiction as such a phenomenon and thus as a social fact whose deontic power can only unfold once it has been declared.

5 Language as a Medium of Contradiction In order to illustrate our situational perspective on contradictions, we consider a medium in which contradiction plays a particularly important role: language. At a linguistic level, contradiction is primarily encountered as a language-based relation of statements. This may seem trivial but it shows that contradiction becomes evident in and through language. Even the common formula of the nonsimultaneous validity of A and non-A is a linguistic operation: A cannot be A and not A at the same time (see Gobrecht 2015, p. 51) because “not A” must be understood as a negation. If one follows this path of negation, then at first every affirmation and negation that exist side by side stand in contradiction. This view is founded on a logic-based view of how language works and how meaning is produced. There is a range of phenomena in language that might be treated as contradictory. Antonyms like the adjective efficient and its morphologically negated counterpart inefficient, or evaluative adjectives like beautiful and ugly, for instance, can be used to establish a contradiction when attributed to the same object: (1) Sydney is beautiful. (2) Sydney is ugly.

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Depending on who is uttering these propositions, (a) they can constitute one speaker’s self-contradiction since asserting that Sydney is beautiful usually implies that Sydney is not ugly and vice versa. In this setting, propositions (1) and (2) contradict each other based on the conventionalized meanings of the words beautiful and ugly. (b) When uttered by different speakers, proposition (2) can be used to contest proposition (1) intentionally (e.g., in a debate) or the second speaker might— unintentionally—contradict the first speaker (e.g., when the two speakers are expected to have the same opinion of Sydney’s appearance). In these settings, it is the two speakers who contradict (or contest) each other by relying on the adjectives’ conventionalized meanings. What follows is that contradiction must ultimately be viewed as the result of an absolute semantic contrast inherent in word meanings. Again, such reasoning is founded on a logic-based view of language and thus of contradiction as a purely logical relationship. From our non-essentialising, dynamic perspective which highlights the relevance of declarations, we assume instead that contradictions are bound to declarations of inconsistency. From such a perspective, our examples that (1) Sydney is beautiful and (2) Sydney is ugly are only contradictions when and to the extent that a declarative act makes them contradictory propositions. In other words, there is no inherent contradiction encoded in the adjectives beautiful and ugly. These adjectives may be set as the two extremes of an assumed semantic scale of “beauty” which enables speakers to evaluate the simultaneous application of both predicates to the same object (Sydney) as contradictory, but it is just that: an evaluation. Evaluations are declarative acts that produce the semantic orders (like scales, conceptual frameworks, taxonomies, etc.) we use to judge the world. We therefore suggest differentiating between contradictions as socially situated semantic relations and to contradict as a social practice. Contradictions as relations are, among other things, dependent on declarations of contradiction. “Contradiction” in this sense relates to a strict logical stipulation according to which speakers contradict themselves when they utter that (1) Sydney is beautiful and (2) Sydney is ugly. We would like to illustrate this further by a brief counterfactual example. Foucault cites a “‘certain Chinese encyclopedia’” which states that “‘animals are divided into: (a) belonging to the Emperor, (b) embalmed,

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(c) tame’” (Foucault 1970, p. xv), and so forth. The propositions of this—admittedly highly unconventional—semantic order can become contradictory only under the terms of a social convention in which the predicates of, say, (3) and (4) are not compatible with each other and cannot apply at the same time: (3) The horse over there belongs to the Emperor. (4) The horse over there is tame. In turn, the linguistic practice of contradicting becomes manifest when speakers contradict other speakers. To contradict, as we understand it (cf. SpranzFogasy 1986/2005 for a comprehensive study of this in German), is actually a whole complex of communicative practices that may or may not involve an explicit declarative act. Speakers may use a performative construction— “performative” in the sense of Austin (1970)—like I contradict you with respect to …, although this is rather unusual. Instead, speakers utilise a wide range of structural detours to contradict someone: lexical or morphological means (beautiful vs. ugly, efficient vs. inefficient, etc.), certain types of sentence complementization (like the adversative conjunction but, or the concessive conjunction although), and others. These practical forms of contradicting do not necessarily need to constitute contradictory semantic relations. When they do, however, they have to be declared as contradictory in the context of a social convention. Linguistic forms are not inherently contradictory unless they are so declared in some context. This context may be, among others, a grammar or some form of metalinguistic (or, more precisely, meta-structural) evaluation. Most often, though, these evaluations are not labeled contradictory but, e.g., antonymic, contrastive, etc. We reserve for contradictions in a narrow sense the status of distinct semantic relations which are produced by declaration. These formal considerations tie in with the examples of the contradictions of modernity given above, such as liberal universalism co-existing with ethnic particularism in discourses of both migration and climate change. The contradictions embedded in these discourses are established by way of declaring them to be contradictory—be it within the discourses themselves (e.g., in discourses on migration or on climate change), via academic reflection (e.g., the Berman 1982 quotation on the ambiguity and contradiction of living modern lives), or by our very efforts to provide a conceptual basis for Contradiction Studies.

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6 Fields of Contradiction Studies This volume is part of a new book series entitled Contradiction Studies. With this series, we aim to spark a reappraisal of contradictions beyond the narrow horizons of logical rationality and dialectics. In our ever more complex social reality, we are deeply critical of conventional understandings of contradiction as an essential, universal disorder figure whose dissolution is accompanied by the promise of an equally essential and universally ordered world. Accordingly, Contradiction Studies is meant to challenge the rational imperative that privileges freedom from contradiction over the messiness of the everyday (late) modern world. The present volume is intended to lay no more, but also no less than the foundations of Contradiction Studies. It aims to both implement and assess a fresh perspective according to which (1) contradictions are situational, i.e., exist only in the context of a particular social order, (2) contradictions are bound to their declaration, i.e., they do not derive from absolute or universal constellations, and (3) contradictions are imbued with deontic power in that they have normative functions of (de)valuation. We understand our reappraisal of contradictions as an approach that is less focused on contradictions as logical relations to be resolved. Rather, we are interested in the making of contradictions, as it is in their making that spaces of dissension are opened up. It is the mapping of these spaces, i.e., their circumspect and sometimes contradictory analysis, which poses a challenge to simplistic conceptualizations of the contradictive. We are convinced that the world we know it is full of spaces of dissension. Put differently, contradictions today are not limited to individual subject matters (as, for instance, jurisdiction), but have empirical omnipresence. In this regard, the German ambivalence vis-à-vis immigration and the political debates in the context of the Paris climate agreement are only two of the arenas in which contradictions—both as situated relations and as sociolinguistic practices—are paramount. As a consequence, we think of Contradiction Studies as a decidedly interdisciplinary project. Accordingly, the contributions of this first volume of our book series come from disciplines as varied as sociology and economics, religious studies and pedagogy, geography and area studies, literary studies and linguistics. At the same time, this collection does not seek to provide for an exhaustive examination of potential research areas but rather aims at stimulating further reflection. Indeed, this book is meant as an invitation to reflect on the making of contradictions and their social effects and to explore intersections with its readers’ own work. It is meant to foster dialogue about the power of contradictions, not least as

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a promotor of dialogue between the humanities, cultural studies, and social sciences. If we agree that contradictions are not necessarily about being resolved, but that they rather provide a starting point in their own right, then we come to see contradictions as an entry into polyphonic conversations. By way of opening up these conversations, we recognize four fields of research in which a critical focus on contradictions, in our opinion, can contribute to new and relevant insights. I. Contradiction in narrative and discursive orders Contradictions are essentially designed, constructed, manifested, and reflected upon in narratives and discourses. As such, contradictions have to be understood as effects of their narrative and discursive realization. With a focus on pre-modern narrative modes, Elisabeth Lienert examines how contradiction is used in collective memory and authoritative sources to construct and deconstruct knowledge. Underlining the significance of historical concepts of contradiction for presentday research, her paper provides a challenge to purely synchronic concepts of contradiction. In their analysis of ghostwriting, Carsten Junker and Marie-Luise Löffler examine the tension-filled relationships and positions of authorship. Taking controversies over Donald Trump’s bestselling autobiography Trump: The Art of the Deal as a point of departure, they work through the effects of ghostwriting as a common but often contradictive practice, showing that the use of contradictions is constitutive for American literature and cultures. Ingo H. Warnke and Daniel Schmidt-Brücken introduce contradictions as important objects of discourse linguistics. In their chapter, they also discuss the extent to which discourse analyses of contradictions are pivotal to Contradiction Studies. II. Contradiction in interpersonal communication and institutions Three case studies deal with the significance of contradictions in the communicative management of everyday problems as well as in social institutions such as schools or houses of worship. Carolin Decker-Lange examines the case of ownership transition in family businesses and the resulting contradiction scenarios with regard to emotions, arguing for the significance of Contradiction Studies in management contexts. With regard to reforms of teaching and the desire to create classroom settings sensitive to diversity issues, Sabine Doff and Till-Sebastian Idel examine the meaning of contradiction in school teaching. From the perspective of religious studies, Gritt Klinkhammer, Petra Klug, and Anna Neumaier address contradictions within religions and in studying religions. Drawing on empirical findings from research in Europe and America, the authors make use of concepts from Cultural Studies to shed light on frictions in the field of religion.

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III. Contradiction, power, and governmentality As contradictions often serve as figures of ordering, one section of the book is devoted to their power, both on the structural and on the personal level. With an interest in the social sciences, Stefan Müller discusses ways of avoiding strict binary concepts of contradiction, not least against the background of their supposed connection with power, oppression, and inequality. In the second paper of this section, Barbara Schmenk critically examines the fields of self-governance and lifelong learning. She discusses how the ideal of an autonomous subject can be understood as a mode of governing the subject, thus uncovering a fundamental contradictory figure located between autonomy and a state of being governed. IV. Contradiction in territorial orders and infrastructures In the last section of this book, contradiction serves as a heuristic concept for analyzing spatial orders and their complex tensions. The authors explore boundaries and delimitations, presence and absence of spatial materializations, and space as a resource of contradictory forms of spatial optimization. Henryk Alff and AnnaKatharina Hornidge discuss borders and boundaries as sociocultural structures of post-Soviet societies in Central Asia in relation to questions of water management. Second, Anna-Lisa Müller explores the concept of creativity in post-industrial urban development and analyzes it as substantially contradictory in both its objectives and functional designs. In her contribution on underground infrastructure, Julia Lossau finally uses the example of the AMFORA project, the plan for a “city under the city” in Amsterdam, to examine the relations of risk, urban infrastructures, and the uncanny through the lens of Contradiction Studies.

References Albrecht, Andrea, Lutz Danneberg, Carlos Spoerhase, and Dirk Werle. 2016. Zum Konzept historischer Epistemologie. Scientia Poetica 20: 135–165. Austin, John L. 1970. How to do things with words. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Barthes, Roland. 2012. Mythologies. Translated by Richard Howard and Jonathan Cape. New York: Hill and Wang. Barthes, Roland. 1975. The pleasure of the text. Translated by Richard Miller. With a Note on the Text by Richard Howard. New York: Hill and Wang. Beck, Ulrich. 1992. Risk society: Towards a new modernity. New Delhi: Sage. Berman, Marshall. 1982. All that is solid melts into air: The experience of modernity. New York: Simon & Schuster. BBC News. 2017. “Germany hate crime: Nearly 10 attacks a day on migrants in 2016.”. http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-39096833. Accessed 10. May 2018.

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Calhoun, Craig. 1997. Nationalism and the contradictions of modernity. Berkeley Journal of Sociology 42: 1–30. Dyer, Gwynne. 2008. Climate wars: The fight for survival as the world overheats. Melbourne: Scribe. Finkielkraut, Alain. 1988. The undoing of thought. Translated by Dennis O’Keefe. London: The Claridge Press. Foucault, Michel. 1970. The order of things. New York: Pantheon. Foucault, Michel. 1972. The archaeology of knowledge and the discourse on language. Translated by A.M. Sheridan Smith. New York: Pantheon. von Glaserfeld, Ernst. 1997. Radikaler Konstruktivismus: Ideen, Ergebnisse, Probleme. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Gobrecht, Reinhard. 2015. Grundgesetze und Methoden der Logik. Norderstedt: Books on Demand. Gregory, Derek. 1994. Geographical imaginations. Cambridge: Blackwell. Haraway, Donna. 1988. Situated knowledges: The science question in feminism and the privilege of partial perspective. Feminist Studies 14: 575–599. Kristeva, Julia. 1980. Pouvoirs de l’horreur: Essai sur l’abjection. Paris: Éditions du Seuil. Kristeva, Julia. 1991. Strangers to ourselves. Translated by Leon S. Roudiez. New York: Columbia University Press. Lossau, Julia. 2002. Die Politik der Verortung: Eine Reise zu einer anderen Geographie der Welt. Bielefeld: transcript. Müller, Stefan. 2011. Logik, Widerspruch und Vermittlung: Aspekte der Dialektik in den Sozialwissenschaften. Wiesbaden: Springer. Pfeifer, Wolfgang, et al. 1993. Etymologisches Wörterbuch des Deutschen, digitized revised version by Wolfgang Pfeifer In Digitales Wörterbuch der deutschen Sprache. https://www.dwds.de/wb/Gespenst. Accessed 12 Dec 2017. Searle, John R. 1976. A classification of illocutionary acts. Language in Society 5: 1–23. Searle, John. 2010. Making the social world: The structure of human civilization. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Spranz-Fogasy, Thomas. 1986/2005. 'widersprechen': Zu Form und Funktion eines Aktivitätstyps in Schlichtungsgesprächen. Eine gesprächsanalytische Untersuchung. Radolfzell: Verlag für Gesprächsforschung. Tetens, Holm. 2006. Philosophisches Argumentieren: Eine Einführung. München: Beck. Welzer, Harald. 2012. Climate wars: Why people will be killed in the twenty-first century. Translated by Patrick Camiller. Cambridge: Polity Press.

Julia Lossau is Professor of Human Geography at the University of Bremen. She is interested in cultural theory, urban studies, postcolonial theory and aesthetics. She is editor of Flitner, Michael, Lossau, Julia, and Anna-Lisa Müller. 2017. Infrastrukturen der Stadt. Wiesbaden: Springer and of Lossau, Julia, and Quentin Stevens. 2015. The Uses of Art in Public Space. New York: Routledge, with Quentin Stevens) and of Lossau, Julia, Freytag, Tim, and Lippuner, Roland. 2014. Schlüsselbegriffe der Kultur- und Sozialgeographie. Stuttgart: Ulmer UTB.

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Daniel Schmidt-Brücken  is currently working as a transcript writer at the State Parliament of Lower Saxony, Hanover. He was a post-doctoral researcher in German Linguistics at the University of Bremen/Germany. He received his MA from the University of Göttingen in 2009 and his PhD at the University of Bremen in 2014 with a dissertation on linguistic genericity in German colonial discourses of the early 20th century. His research focussed on the syntax, semantics, and pragmatics of contradiction in language use as well as the linguistic analysis of colonial discourses. Ingo H. Warnke  holds the Chair for German and Interdisciplinary Linguistics at the University of Bremen. His research interests include language in colonial contexts, specifically with reference to German colonialism, discourse analysis, and urban linguistics. He has published widely in those areas. He co-led the Creative Unit “Language in Colonial Contexts” at the University of Bremen, he is co-speaker of the Bremen Collaborative Research Initiative “Worlds of Contradiction,” and he also co-leads the Focus Group “Structures and Functions of Colonial Place-making” at the Hanse-Wissenschaftskolleg—Institute for Advanced Study (HWK).

Part I Contradiction in Narrative and Discursive Orders

Knowledges and Contradictions in Premodern Narratives Elisabeth Lienert

Abstract

Contradiction is not just a (post-)modern phenomenon. In premodern narratives, conflicting concepts and logical inconsistencies are omnipresent. This paper focuses on contradictions interdependent with knowledge: Traditional narratives may aggregate different versions of matters rooted in collective memory (heroic epic) or authoritative sources (romances of antiquity), sometimes without concern for the consistency of their own story. Narrative texts may use contradiction for didactic purposes. Contradictions may result in both construction and deconstruction of knowledge. Strategies of irritation and ambiguity involve recipients in the production of meaning. Thus, the concept of contradiction is apt to redefine premodern narrative strategies.

Keywords

Knowledge · Contradiction · Aggregation · Ambiguity · Narrative logic (Erzähllogik)

E. Lienert (*)  University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 J. Lossau et al. (eds.), Spaces of Dissension, Contradiction Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7_2

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1 Contradictions in a Medievalist and Narratological Perspective1 To medieval German philology, the concept of contradiction promises an instructive approach to its subject matter, the vernacular (German) literature of the period until around 1600. Within this context, contradictory conceptualisations and contradictions in textual logic are omnipresent. The Bremen exploration project ‘Contradiction as a Narrative Principle in Pre-Modern Literature’ (direction: Elisabeth Lienert) primarily investigates contradictions on a narratological level in vernacular narrative texts of the twelfth to sixteenth century. For the purposes of this analysis, we assume a heuristic definition of contradiction, which comprises the two basic meanings, i.e. objection and logical inconsistency. This corresponds with the evidence of the texts which expose significant acts of objection (especially by or against the narrator) as well as incompatible statements and know­ ledge, though mostly without plain dichotomies. As a rule, the principle ‘both and’ reigns instead of ‘either or’, since the Aristotelian principle of non-contradiction only gradually began to establish itself in academic culture during the twelfth century. In fact, certain areas of medieval thought (especially biblical exegesis) adhered to the possible coexistence and ultimate resolvability of contradictions even into the early modern period (Kay 2001, pp. 11–25; Brown 1998, pp. 1–14). Medieval German studies deal with contradictions, inconsistencies, and ambiguities both as elements of disruption in narrative coherence or of the alterity of premodern narrative logic and as factors of narrative ambivalence and multiple meanings (e.g. Schulz 2012, pp. 119–158, 348–366; Kragl and Schneider 2013; Auge and Witthöft 2016). In these diffuse contexts, the term ‘contradiction’ promises clarification. The applicability of the term in textual analysis necessarily requires a clear differentiation between contradictions and related phenomena.

1This article continues observations made in Lienert 2017 (cf. especially for details and further references for Sect. 1 as well as for hints at some of the texts discussed in detail in Sects. 2 and 3).—Citations from premodern primary texts are referenced as usual: citations from the Bible (Weber et al. 2015) with book name (abbreviated as usual), chapter number, verse number; from Middle High German strophic texts with strophe number(s) (Str.) for complete strophes or strophe number and verse number for single verses; from Wolfram’s Parzival with numbers of ‘Dreißiger’ (passage of thirty verses, marked in manuscripts and editions) and verse(s); from other Middle High German texts in rhymed couplets with verse numbers (V.); from Early Modern High German prose narratives with chapter number (Roman numerals), page(s) and line(s); when edited with Arabic numerals for the chapter number ‘chapter’ resp. ‘p.’ is added to avoid misunderstandings.

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We therefore preferably deal with obvious contradictions (in either definition), marked by acts of objection or by an ostentatious emphasis on discrepancies or inconsistencies in logic or content. Such markers also help to deal with the question who perceives contradictions (and whether they are perceived at all), because for premodern texts (post-)modern notions of narrative logic as well as of narrative meaning certainly have to be historicised.

2 Knowledge, Tradition, and Contradiction Contradictions in premodern narrative texts frequently emerge due to the simple aggregation of contradictory knowledge. Premodern literature is functional literature—that is, an independent aesthetic discourse only gradually arises—and one of its important functions is the communication of traditional knowledge. The adequate transfer of tradition is crucial. Tradition can, for a single author and his text, consist in a single source; following this source faithfully is one of the topoi of medieval narration. Generally, however, tradition is varied and nonhomogenous: Across the centuries, various layers of knowledge accumulate different versions of subject matters, episodes, and motifs in narrative literature. Even the basic text of medieval European culture which provides knowledge of salvific history for the Middle Ages, the Bible, starts with a contradiction that is followed by several more—a decisive impulse for the endeavours of medieval biblical exegesis to resolve and reconcile contrary elements (Brown 1998). The creation account includes two contrasting versions of the creation of Adam and Eve (cf. e.g. Rogers 1966, pp. 3f.): the Jahvist’s well-known report of Adam’s rib from which God subsequently creates Eve as Adam’s helpmate (Gn 2,18–23), preceded by the Elohist’s version in which man and woman are created simultaneously in God’s image (Gn 1,27). The misogynist anthropology of the Middle Ages tends to ignore the Elohist’s version; female inferiority and subordination are essentially deduced from the Jahvist’s. Medieval vernacular biblical narrations—such as the Wiener Genesis (second half of the eleventh century; Smits 1972, V. 86–222, 292–302) or the Weltchronik by Rudolf von Ems (mid-thirteenth century; Rudolf von Ems 1915, V. 219–228)—which, being re-narrating adaptations, are not bound to the exact wording of the Bible, entirely omit the alternative and thereby avoid the emergence of any contradiction. God unambiguously creates Adam, einen man nâch unserem bilidi getân [‘a man in our image’, Smits 1972, V. 88, translation EL], and only subsequently Eve from Adam’s rib in man’s image, ein wîb Adame vil nâch gelîch [‘a woman very similar to Adam’, Smits 1972, V. 297, translation EL].

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2.1 Accumulation and Levelling of Contradictions in the Heroic Epic Narrative genres that are strongly tied to tradition, the most notable being the heroic epic (cf., summarising, Lienert 2015), are confronted with divergent episodes and motifs. The heroic epic transmits and transmutes collective (historical) knowledge previously passed on orally into literacy. Having been transmitted orally for centuries, heroic tradition comprises different legends of, for instance, Siegfried, Brünhild or the fall of the Burgundians. When put into writing, this generates contradictions (cf., amongst many others, Heinzle 2014). The parallel existence of contradicting versions in orality often cannot be captured precisely; due to late transformation into writing and the existence of motifs from old legends in younger texts, the nature of the sources is usually too diffuse. For example, it is not clear to what extent the Nibelungenlied (about 1200) presumes in its audience knowledge of a former love affair between Siegfried and Brünhild as it is told in later Old Norse testimonies. It is striking that the narration seems to expressly refute such a story: when Gunther tries to secure Siegfried’s help in taming his unmanageable wife Brünhild, he imposes the condition that Siegfried must not sleep with her (Heinzle 2013, 655,1). Hence, the narrator affirms that Gunther, as an ear witness in the dark bedroom, convinces himself that Siegfried overcomes Brünhild only in combat (Heinzle 2013, 667,2 f.) so that the legitimate husband can consummate the marriage. The sexually charged description of Siegfried’s and Brünhild’s combat (er umbeslôz mit armen […]; er druhte’s an daz bette; Heinzle 2013, 668,2; 676,3 [‘he closed his arms around her’; ‘he pressed her onto the bed’, translation EL]), however, produces a latent subtext that tends to subvert the textual surface. In any case, the accusations of Kriemhild, who publicly depicts Brünhild as Siegfried’s mistress (‘[…] jâ wart mîn Sîvrit dîn man’; Heinzle 2013, 849,4 [‘Truly, my Siegfried has become your lover’, translation EL]), proving this only by the seemingly obvious sign of Brünhild’s belt that Siegfried tore from his opponent during the bridal night, are clearly contradictory to the factual narrative. Contradictions are openly exposed and therefore to be regarded as intentional, not as a mistaken relic from a saga tradition. Such a relic, for instance, appears in the famous Ortlieb-strophe of Nibelungenlied B (Heinzle 2013, Str. 1912), which insinuates that Kriemhild is going to sacrifice the life of her own child in order to launch an upsurge of violence that in fact breaks out in a completely different way. As is generally known, a contradictory motif from an older version of the saga has at first remained in the text; the almost simultaneous revision in Nibelungenlied C integrates the motif into the new context, levelling contradictions by deleting the accusation of Kriemhild.

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In the heroic epic, the sagas’ ancient tradition frequently conflicts with their adaptation. As a genre based on orality and constitutive of oral tradition, it shapes collective memory according to the contemporary circumstances of narrator and audience. Nevertheless, the ancient knowledge of the saga is kept present. According to the literary context of the time around 1200 and to the new courtly surface of the text, the Nibelungenlied introduces Siegfried as a courtly prince. At the same time and with the same validity, however, he remains a legendary hero in Hagen’s report (Heinzle 2013, Str. 86–100). With slight variations, Siegfried is similarly depicted in Old Norse testimonies and probably also known by the contemporary audience: the lonely errant warrior who acquires the treasure of the Nibelungs and the cloak of invisibility by exorbitant violence, the dragon killer who becomes (nearly) invulnerable through the horny skin he gains from a bath in the dragon’s blood (cf., amongst many others, Knapp 2013, pp. 204 f.). The Nibelungenlied poet apparently did not want to completely withhold the knowledge of the well-known legends from the audience. Another famous example (amongst many) is provided by the Dietrich epic Rabenschlacht ([‘Battle of Ravenna’, translation EL], late thirteenth century). Therein, the victory of exiled Dietrich against his archenemy Ermrich in the battle of Ravenna is diminished, because Dietrich’s former follower, the traitor Witege, kills Dietrich’s younger brother Diether and the Hun king’s two sons who had been entrusted to Dietrich. The representation of Witege’s victims oscillates between (then contemporary) sentimentalisation and (traditional) heroisation (cf. Lienert 2010, pp. 148–150, 153). On the one hand, the Hun princes and Diether appear as mere children who coincidently stray from Verona to the battleground near Ravenna and there fall victim to the great villain Witege. On the other hand, they are depicted as heroic youths who purposely and clandestinely sneak into battle and force the confrontation (Lienert and Wolter 2005, Str. 339–463). Witege himself even suspects his youthful opponents, in accordance with the Thidrekssaga, to be Dietrich’s official battle companions (Lienert and Wolter 2005, 416,4). That the three boys get lost and at the same time go to battle intentionally is logically irreconcilable. An error is to be excluded, since the contradictory information is repeated several times. Apparently, the connection with the audience’s previous knowledge of the saga and with the traditional ethical principles of heroism is decisive: the saga is kept present as an additional level of the narration and is regularly alluded to, regardless of whether it syntagmatically fits with plot and conception of the text. Possibly, contradictions were not even perceived as such, because both the continuity with the tradition of the saga and its actualisation are natural and self-evident in the heroic epic of the thirteenth century.

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2.2 Accumulation and Levelling of Contradictions in Romances of Antiquity In the literary traditions of antiquity, based on authoritative written sources (Latin or going back to Latin predecessors), different and even contradictory versions of narratives exist as well, for instance, to name but a few examples, on the causes and previous history of the Trojan war (the judgement of Paris or a first destruction of Troy) and on the downfall of Troy itself (Trojan horse or treason of Antenor and Aeneas); on Achilles’ vulnerability or invulnerability; on the father of Alexander the Great (Philip of Macedon or the Egyptian pharaoh and magician Nectanebus). The discrepancy between the classical (Homerian) Troy tradition and the Dares/Dictys/Benoît tradition that dominates the Middle Ages goes back to the ancient criticism of Homer often repeated even during the Middle Ages (cf. e.g. Benoît de Sainte-Maure 1904–1912, V. 45–74) that he untruthfully had gods fighting with men. Results of this criticism are alternative Troy narratives from late antiquity: alleged war reports by alleged war participants, Dares Phrygius (Latin, late fifth century AD) and Dictys Cretensis (Greek, first/second century AD; Latin, third/fourth century AD). These reports are adapted by Benoît de Sainte-Maure and, following Benoît, Guido de Columnis and the vast majority of vernacular Troy literature in medieval Europe. Even during the Middle Ages, narration in written literature, including the romances of antiquity (cf., summarising, Lienert 2001), on the whole is aimed at consistency and a narrative logic of cause and effect (cf. Knapp 2013). This is evident from the poetic precepts of Middle Latin poetics (cf. Schneider 2013). Although the knowledge of these poetics cannot necessarily be presupposed in vernacular poets, it is to be expected in the literate authors of romances of ­antiquity who obviously had to have a thorough knowledge of Latin (cf. Schmitz 2007) and, apparently, had a preference for consistency. They tended to harmonise when taking into account several versions, while in cases of genuine inconsistency they generally limited themselves to one version per episode, ignoring contradictory versions. The principle of alii-dicunt of medieval chronicles only plays a subsidiary part in romances of antiquity. Nevertheless, contradictions arise that are treated differently in each case. Source criticism is not very frequent in Medieval vernacular narratives. Amongst the authors of romances of antiquity, only Rudolf von Ems in his Alexander (before 1235 and around 1240/1254?) tries to compile the complete truth (gewæriu wârheit, Rudolf von Ems 1928/1929, V. 13058 [‘witnessed truth’, translation EL]) about Alexander the Great by examining and comparing a variety of sources. In doing so, he also turns against inappropriate sources and

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inferior earlier versions, for aesthetic reasons and reasons of credibility. He especially criticises (‘contradicts’) the oldest German version of the romance of Alexander (around 1155/1160) by Pfaffe Lambrecht. According to Rudolf, Lambrecht had written stumpflîche, niht wol besnitn (Rudolf von Ems 1928/1929, V. 15784 [‘crudely, not well formed’, translation EL]) and had not completely reported die rehten wârheit (Rudolf von Ems 1928/1929, V. 15788 [‘the proper truth’, translation EL]). Sometimes, though quite rarely, objections against traditional contents arise, as well. According to the widespread Greek romance of Alexander by PseudoCallisthenes and its medieval Latin adaptations in the Historia de Preliis, Alexander’s biological father is the exiled Egyptian king and magician Nectanebus. He pretends to Olympias, the wife of Philip of Macedon, to be the god Ammon, thereby seducing and impregnating her. This very likely is a counter-reaction against the myth of divine descent of the Macedonian king that had already been propagandistically spread during Alexander’s lifetime. Through conjuring tricks, dreams and visions, Philip is led to believe that his wife is expecting the god’s child and therefore raises Alexander as his own son (cf. e.g. Braun 2004; Kragl 2006). Most Middle and Early Modern High German romances of Alexander follow this version of Alexander’s descent. Following Alberic of Pisançon, however, Pfaffe Lambrecht disagrees: Nû sprechent bôse lugenâre, daz er eines goukelâres sun wâre. Di ez imer gesagent, di liegent alsô bôse zagen, […]

(Pfaffe Lambrecht 2007, Vorauer Alexander, V. 71–74, cf. also –82 [‘Now evil liars state that he was a wizard’s son. Those who ever say that lie like lowly minded foul wretches’, translation EL]). For the sake of a genealogical legitimation of hegemony, Lambrecht contradicts the tradition of Alexander’s illegitimate descent. Yet, precisely thereby he keeps the knowledge of the Nectanebus tradition present, calling it to mind repeatedly in his subsequent narration (cf. Kragl 2006, pp. 44–46). Damnatio memoriae [‘condemnation of memory’, translation EL] would have been a more effective strategy, but apparently it was out of the question considering the presence of the traditional knowledge about Nectanebus. On the whole, open protest and the exposing of discrepancies are quite rare. More frequently, contradictions are tacitly passed over. Sometimes new contradictions arise, either because of negligence or accepted as a negligible side

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effect of other narrative interests, while an author is trying to accumulate different knowledge. Konrad von Würzburg’s Trojanerkrieg ([‘War of Troy’, translation EL], 1281–1287) represents an excellent example for the masterful yet not entirely consistent integration of multiple and disparate traditions (cf. Lienert 2018). Programmatically, Konrad seeks to remove the logical inconsistencies from his literary source, the Roman de Troie by Benoît de Sainte-Maure (around 1165): ich büeze im [the book of Troy] sîner brüche schranz (Konrad von Würzburg 2015, V. 276 [‘I remedy the gaping of its discontinuities’, translation EL]). Konrad’s aim is the integration of all the stories possibly connected to the Trojan war. In general, Konrad suggests and establishes the homogeneity of the Troy tradition; only exceptionally the narrator contradicts tradition. That Hector should have taken the slain Patroclus’ suit of armour as his booty wil ich hân für eine lüge (Konrad von Würzburg 2015, V. 31012 [‘I will take for a lie’, translation EL]). The dying Hercules accuses himself of the first destruction of Troy, amongst other things, and therefore gives the order to bury his arrows that have been prophesied to cause the final downfall of the city. Those self-reproaches (cf. Worstbrock 1996) in fact fit the overriding narrative arc, provided by the narrator, between the first and second destructions of Troy and serve the integration of motifs only loosely connected to the Troy tradition. With regard to the logic of action and characters, however, they are incompatible with the otherwise unanimous praise of Hercules, the overall conception of his character, and the completely unsentimental matter-of-fact representation of the war. For the sake of the overarching context and the integration of additional knowledge, those smaller contradictions seem to be accepted. The representation of Achilles is even more striking. In the classical tradition, he is (nearly) invulnerable (cf. Ebenbauer 2006). His divine mother Thetis tries to overcome his mortality by bathing him in the river Styx. Thus, only the famous Achilles’ heel remains vulnerable. Contrary to Benoît, Konrad falls back upon this motif. In his romance, Hector is the superior hero but is doomed to fall by the hand of Achilles according to all traditions. This contradiction can only be resolved through Hector being unable to kill his opponent because of his invulnerability. Konrad paradigmatically introduces the motif of invulnerability well in advance: Thetis, who wants to withdraw Achilles from the custody of the centaur Chiron to prevent the recruitment of her son to the imminent Trojan war by the Greeks, feigns that she wants to make her son invulnerable through the aforementioned bath (Konrad von Würzburg 2015, V. 13602–13636). In fact, however, rendering him invulnerable is tacitly cancelled. Achilles is directly brought to Scyros by Thetis and from there directly to Troy by Ulysses and Diomedes. Nevertheless, Achilles proves to be invulnerable in his fights against Hector (Konrad von Würzburg 2015, e.g. V. 31168–31181).

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However, this is valid only for Konrad’s own text that breaks off at the beginning of the fourth battle; in all complete manuscripts, the anonymous TrojanerkriegsFortsetzung [‘Continuation of the war of Troy’, translation EL] continues the plot following Dictys. In this version, Achilles is vulnerable again, as is common in the Dares/Dictys/Benoît tradition, suffers several wounds in the fights, and is stabbed by Paris in an ambush (Konrad von Würzburg 2015, V. 43865–43874). There is no coordination with Konrad’s text at all. Moreover, in the Trojanerkriegs-Fortsetzung, moralisations and recriminations form a blatant contradiction to Konrad’s impartial narrative, to his courtly adaption and idealisation of the characters. In medieval literature, unfinished torsi by famous authors (in other narrative genres, for instance, Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Willehalm or Gottfried von Strassburg’s Tristan) are often completed by successors who usually follow other sources. In these cases, completing the narrative often implies a plainer and more conventional perspective. If this is perceived as a contradiction, as a gradual reinterpretation, or even as a subliminal correction is difficult to determine. In accumulating and compiling narratives, the completion of the materia seems to be the main end and an end in itself; the question of consistency or contradiction seems to be irrelevant. Conversely, the method of compilation can indeed also prove to be a mode of levelling contradictions. The prose stories of Troy following Konrad von Würzburg, for instance, compile his text with translations of the Latin Historia destructionis Troiae ([‘History of the destruction of Troy’, translation EL], 1287) by Guido de Columnis (who on his part follows Benoît de Sainte-Maure). The contradiction between Achilles’ vulnerability (according to Guido) and (limited) invulnerability (according to Konrad), for instance, is resolved in different ways. The Elsässisches Trojabuch ([‘Alsatian book of Troy’, translation EL], before 1386) (cf. Beck 2015, pp. 71–74) makes use of a reduction: Achilles consistently appears as a common mortal, even in his first fights against Hector (Konrad’s hints at Achilles’ invulnerability are deleted) (Witzel 1995, XXXIV–XXXVIII). Rendering Achilles invulnerable is only invoked as Thetis’ feigned plan expressed towards Chiron (Witzel 1995, XXI, 40,20–26) and never mentioned again. Significantly, the motif is not eliminated entirely; apparently, it remains worth knowing even without a narrative function. In further battles, Achilles is wounded several times (Witzel 1995, XLIV, 100,27 f., 101,7 f.; LVI, 111,25–112,1; LVIII, 113,3 f.). Paris kills him in an ambush with three ordinary arrow shots (Witzel 1995, LX, 114,12). In the Bairisch-österreichisches Trojabuch ([‘Bavarian-Austrian book of Troy’, translation EL], mid-fifteenth century), Thetis’ deception of the centaur is deleted (Hilgers and Thoelen 2012, chapters 54 f., p. 86 f.). The

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invulnerability effected by Thetis is first indicated as a fact during the battles (Hilgers and Thoelen 2012, chapter 118, 205,9–11), thus the inconsistency of Konrad’s version—that contrary to Thesis’ declaration of intent no attempt was made and no time remained to make Achilles invulnerable—is cleared. Achilles continuously is (nearly) invulnerable (Hilgers and Thoelen 2012, chapter 165. Von wew Achilles czw verch nicht verwundt wartt, p. 296 f. [‘Wherefore Achilles could not be wounded at his body’, translation EL]). Therefore, special mea­ sures are necessary to kill him: Paris shoots a poisoned arrow at Achilles’ heel that remained his sole vulnerable part (Hilgers and Thoelen 2012, chapter 166, 298,8–10). In the early Troy prints, the different prose versions of the Troy story are compiled and recompiled in different ways. In these ‘Trojasummen’ (Beck 2015 [‘sums of Troy’, translation EL]) any remaining contradictions are resolved. For the material on Aeneas, the Virgilian tradition that affects the Middle Ages by way of historiography and the concept of translatio imperii shows Aeneas as a positive character. Troy falls through Ulysses’ cunning invention, the Trojan horse; Aeneas, fugitive from Troy, is the founder of Rome and a pious agent of the will of the gods. In the Dares/Dictys tradition, however, ‘Eneas der Verräter’ (Fromm 1992 [‘Aeneas the traitor’, translation EL]) betrays his city to the Greek enemies. Both traditions irrevocably conflict with each other. In general, the incompatible images of the hero are clearly separated in vernacular narrative literature of the Middle Ages without any references of one tradition to the other. In the romances of Troy, Aeneas is depicted as the traitor of his hometown; in the romances of Aeneas, he is an honourable fugitive from a Troy that was lost because of Ulysses’ cunning. Not even the opponents and critics of the hero in the Middle High German romance of Aeneas, his rival Turnus and the queen of Latium, who do not tire of accusing Aeneas of cowardice during his escape from Troy and of his betrayal of the Carthaginian queen Dido, use the motif of political treason. In one Middle High German manuscript, however, a complete compilation of the Trojan war and Aeneas’ Italian enterprise was created. It is designed to correspond with the wider course of world history as depicted in medieval universal chronicles, the sequence of events from the fall of Troy via Aeneas and Rome to the medieval Staufen empire. Herbort of Fritzlar’s Liet von Troye ([‘Epic of Troy’, translation EL], after 1195) was by all appearances commissioned as a prequel of Heinrich von Veldeke’s Eneas (started around 1170/1174, completed around 1185). In the only complete manuscript of the Liet von Troye, Cpg 368 (dated 1333) (Universitätsbibliothek Heidelberg. 2016. https:// digi.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/diglit/cpg368), Liet von Troye and Eneas follow each other in direct sequence and in a narrative continuum. The discrepant valuation

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of the main character and the contradictions regarding the downfall of Troy are not commented on at all, without even the slightest attempt to resolve them. The contradictions were apparently accepted for the sake of the preeminent goal of a complete story. That an attentive reader would not have noticed these contradictions, especially those concerning the fall of Troy, can probably be ruled out due to the summary of events at the beginning of Eneas; it too clearly contradicts Herbort’s immediately preceding narrative. Certainly, the compilation in the sequence of events (not in the chronology of the texts) presents a sequel to the fall of Troy, which to some extent implies ‘neu und anders Erzählen’ (Hamm 2016, pp. 43–48 [‘a fresh and different retelling’, translation EL]). The narration as presented in the manuscript does not stop with the Trojan disaster; in Rome, a new Troy is founded; the misfortunes of the Greek victors are contrasted with Aeneas’ history of Trojan–Roman success. Evidently, that was more important than the contradictions in the conception of the hero and more important than the details regarding the taking of the city. The most important (even if incomplete) medieval German romance of Alexander, the aforementioned Alexander by Rudolf von Ems, also tends to level contradictions while still contradicting itself: The exceptional hero that in the sources appears fundamentally ambivalent is almost continuously idealised, while episodes and qualities casting doubt on the hero are omitted (cf. e.g. Brackert 1968, pp. 113–127; differently Wisbey 1966, pp. 64–99; Lienert 2020). Not even Alexander’s descent from Nectanebus is questioned, this extraordinary ancestry apparently fits a common scheme of a hero’s life (cf. Pörksen and Pörksen 1980). Nevertheless, Rudolf’s presentation of Alexander teems with ostentatiously exposed contradictions (Kragl 2006, pp. 66–73). Nectanebus is depicted as both an erudite king in exile and a dubious magician and stargazer, a conjurer summoning the devil. Furthermore, Olympias is both defrauded and willingly gets involved in the affair, once to remedy her infertility, but another time to satisfy her passion. Philip is appeased in principle, but time and again shows his hostility towards the cuckoo child. Alexander slays the stargazer in cold blood just to refute his prophecy that he is to be killed by his own child. When the young prince gains knowledge that he actually has murdered his biological father, the narrator describes only a trace of remorse and mourning, but nevertheless ascribes triuwe (Junk 1928/1929, V. 2049 [‘loyalty’, translation EL]) to the murderer; despite the patricide Alexander presents himself as the son and heir of the former pharaoh during his conquest of Egypt. The function of those contradictions largely remains in the dark. In part, they may be ascribed to a general tendency in premodern vernacular narrative literature to narrate and comment ad hoc, with statements valid only for the occasion. Neither the mere preservation of traditional knowledge nor the use of

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divergent sources alone can serve to explain those contradictions. Causing ambiguity and doubt in Alexander’s worth is hardly intended. It rather seems that the narrative potential (cf. Zimmermann 2015) of a traditional story worthy of telling has gained a life of its own. The exorbitant and exceptional character of Alexander—complex already as a historical figure, contradictory in his polarity of extreme success and early death, judged differently by various sources—runs contrary to the medieval (and Rudolf’s) interest in history. Medieval texts take up divergent aspects of tradition when presented in their sources, yet at the same time always tend to reduce the particular to the exemplary (Brackert 1968, pp. 113–116). Moreover, when Rudolf transforms his historical material into a courtly romance, historical facts and courtly ideals clash (Kragl 2013). These clashes generate contradictions on different levels, regarding material and sources, basic values, constellations of characters and cultures.

3 Construction and Deconstruction of Knowledge and Meaning in Contradictory Narrative While contradictions between different kinds of traditional knowledge or between traditional knowledge and new contexts in narration and/or reception characterise genres based on traditional lore, other narrative texts at times construct or deconstruct their own meaning and knowledge by means of contradiction. That contradiction in the form of objection and its denial or acceptance transmit knowledge and the ability to judge, thus supporting the learning process in teaching situations, is an essential constituent of didactic literature, especially didactic dialogues and disputes (cf. Brown 1998). More complex texts can make use of this technique to open up far more fundamental contradictions that shake the order of the texts and the worldviews preceding them. Heinrich Wittenwiler’s Ring (around 1408/1410?), for example, includes lengthy didactic dialogues and disputes before the wedding of the foolish peasant protagonists, including a debate on marriage and an examination and instruction of the bridegroom (Heinrich Wittenwiler 1999, V. 2655–5214; cf. Bulang 2011, pp. 230–233, 258–262). This does not only serve to prove the importance of marriage in speech and counterspeech or to convey basic everyday knowledge—from fundamental religious practices via dietetics and ethics to the theory of housekeeping—to the future husband. Rather, knowledge, teaching, and arguments are diametrically opposed to the narrative situation of

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the comical epic in which the marriage primarily serves to cover up the seduction of the bride, who is pregnant by the village doctor, while the groom only endures all the teachings in his sexual desire for seines lieben Mätzleins schoss (Heinrich Wittenwiler 1999, V. 5208 [‘his dear Mätzli’s lap’, translation EL]). The imparted teachings, most of which are reasonable, suitable for everyday use, and, when abstracted from the context, worth to be taken seriously, contradict the narrated world that is devoid of all reason, control of instincts, and morals. Such a contradiction between general norm and specific case is common in principle. In didactic as well as in narrative genres, the construction of the exemplum horrendum, the warning example, confirms the validity of the doctrine ex negativo precisely through its contradiction. To this effect, the guests at the wedding feast, who fill and empty themselves in every conceivable way, disregard all table manners in a sickeningly ruffian way (Heinrich Wittenwiler 1999, V. 5541–6186). However, the Ring goes far beyond this: its foolish world finally perishes in an orgy of feral violence. Knowledge and teaching (for a reading of the Ring in the perspective of knowledge history cf. Bulang 2011, pp. 189–336) have no effect. Whether they remain valid at all or for whom does not become apparent, particularly because the text—in spite of a promise to mark serious moralisation and comical story by different colour lines (Heinrich Wittenwiler 1999, V. 39–41)— does not clearly indicate where it is serious and where it is not. Learning through discourse, including contradictions and counterspeech, is also encountered as a strategy of courtly romance, primarily in Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival (around 1205). Wolfram’s hero does not learn from books but from the instructions of teaching characters, starting with the rather dubious teachings of his mother over the courtly education by the nobleman Gurnemanz up to the great dispute with the hermit Trevrizent, the brother of Parzival’s mother and of the suffering Grail King (cf. Lienert 2014). As a rule, Parzival accepts all teaching without objection and in an altogether too literal way, sometimes with disastrous consequences. A piece of advice from his mother, for instance, causes him to bring misfortune to a lady; in the castle of the Grail, he misses the redeeming question because of a teaching by Gurnemanz. Parzival still has to learn to object. Through contradictions or through actions contradicting the teaching conveyed to him, he gains understanding and success which is achieved by counterspeech in less important matters. When Trevrizent in his religious teachings talks of Adam’s son having deflowered his own grandmother (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 463,24–26), Parzival objects vigorously: ‘hêrre, ich waen daz ie geschah’ (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 464,2 [‘That never happened, my lord, I do not believe that’, translation EL]). Thereafter, Trevrizent uncovers his

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metaphor: His story refers to Cain’s fratricide of Abel. Adam’s mother and Cain’s grandmother is the earth. Abel’s blood defiled the then still uncontaminated earth, thereby causing Cain’s grandmother to figuratively lose her innocence (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 464,11–20). In this way, by contradicting and thereby receiving a better explanation, Parzival not only acquires biblical knowledge and an understanding of the strategies of non-actual speaking but also comprehends Trevrizent’s real point, namely, that murdering one’s relatives is sinful and that all killing is reprehensible because all humans are related through Adam. Thereupon, Parzival is able to conclude independently that he committed a sin through his first act of violence, the slaying of the red knight Ither (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 475,9 f.). Trevrizent himself only adds that Ither was Parzival’s relative in the more narrow sense as well (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 475,21). In greater matters, Parzival, who otherwise willingly obeys his hermit uncle, can be appointed as the new Grail King, because he does not give up the search for the Grail in spite of Trevrizent’s advice to do so. With Wolfram, riddles and inconsistencies especially accumulate around the grail. Contrary to Chrétien de Troyes and Robert de Boron, Wolfram’s Grail is not a vessel (be it chalice or ciborium), but an undefined dinc (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 454,21; narrator’s statement [‘object’, translation EL]) or a stein (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 469,2–470,30; Trevrizent’s statement [‘stone’, translation EL]) with miraculous properties. According to the narrator, it was left on earth by angels during their ascension (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 454,24 f.). Trevrizent explains that the neutral angels had been sent to earth during Lucifer’s rebellion against God—apparently against their will (muosen, Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 471,20 [‘had to’, translation EL]); later they were thrown down even further by God, or else possibly pardoned (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 471,15–25). After Parzival is appointed as the Grail King, Trevrizent declares the neutral angels to definitely be damned (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 798,11–22) and thereby not only contradicts himself but also the contrary statement of the narrator (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 454,24 f.). The contradictory constellation that the service to the Grail, otherwise depicted as a privilege and vocation in the entire work, according to Trevrizent seems to be some kind of punishment for the neutral angels is never clarified. With the exception of Robert de Boron, none of the medieval romances of the Grail unambiguously and finally clears up what the Grail is about. Mystery and uncertain knowledge are rather skirted around and/or narrowed down by partially overlapping and complementary, partially contradictory reports from different agents (the narrator and some characters). Especially, the (real or supposed?) unravelling of

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the secrets of the Grail by Trevrizent is embedded in a fundamental contradiction. According to the narrator, it is Trevrizent who introduces die verholnen maere umben grâl (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 452,30 [‘the mysteries of the Grail’, translation EL]) to Parzival. Hero and audience actually learn a lot from the hermit with regard to the Grail, its laws and rules, its royal family, and the desperate situation of the Grail King, who is wasting away from an incurable wound. The knowledge of the Grail contained in Wolfram’s work is mainly imparted through Trevrizent. Yet, Trevrizent is wrong in at least one point: that Parzival’s persistent search for the Grail is in vain (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 483,20–484,8). Accordingly, Trevrizent revokes his statements on the Grail after Parzival’s appointment as the Grail King: ich louc durch ableitens list / vome grâl, wiez umb in stüende (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 798,6 f. [‘I lied in order to discourage you artfully, when I told you the story of the Grail’, translation EL]). This revocation is highly irritating and therefore frequently discussed in research (summarising: Schmitz 2012, pp. 89–102). Trevrizent himself expounds that his (false) teaching, whatever the confession is referring to precisely, is not an error like the equally false accusations against Parzival by Sigune and Cundrie. His self-contestation casts severe doubt upon Trevrizent’s reliability, and the knowledge of the Grail slips back into riddle and mystery. Contradiction serves mystification. Of all characters of the romance, the one person who has been established by the narrator as an authority on Grail knowledge (and thereby, although being a character, as an authoritative narrator) exposes himself as a liar, his knowledge as unreliable. Which part of the knowledge that Parzival and the audience or readers only gained from Trevrizent is still valid then? Moreover, even the Grail contradicts itself by revising its (according to Trevrizent) first message regarding Parzival. Contrary to this first inscription on the Grail, Parzival effectively gets a second chance and finally is successful (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 781,15–29). However, this happy ending is thwarted as well by Loherangrin’s disastrous story, which is based on the fact that the Grail had paradoxically transformed his order to question into a prohibition of questioning (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 818,24–819,8; 823,27–826,28); by the contradictory connection between humour and salvific history with regard to Parzival’s half-brother Feirefiz, his marriage with the bearer of the Grail and his oriental Christian empire (Wolfram von Eschenbach 1998, 814,1–823,10); by the irritation caused by Trevrizent’s revocation and the resulting uncertainty of any knowledge of the Grail. Contradiction increases the complexity of meaning. Contradictory and irritating narrative is a challenge to listeners or readers to participate in the production of knowledge and meaning—and therefore on a meta-level transforms the fundamentally didactic function of contradiction into narrative.

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4 Conclusion Textual analyses and discussions in the scientific community will have to show whether the term contradiction can be adequately applied to all these phenomena or whether the terms inconsistency (for contradictions in narrative logic), ambiguity and ambivalence (for semantic multiplicity and discrepancies in meaning), or objection (for acts of counterspeech) are preferable. From our point of view, the term contradiction permits a more precise and comprehensive access to the diffuse fields of inconsistency and ambiguity, and to narrative techniques that display contradictions and intentionally use them to communicate with the audience or readers and/or to constitute a more complex meaning of the texts. The evidence is largely known and addressed in research from various perspectives; the focus on contradiction, however, sheds a clearer light on the mentioned phenomena and sets them in relation to each other. Conversely, the application of the concept of contradiction on premodern texts offers a chance of historicising Contradiction Studies and notions of contradiction primarily developed from (post-)modern constellations because it shows that contradiction as a principle of thought and narrative is not only relevant to modern and postmodern times. In the premodern period, the coexistence of contradictory elements is the self-evident norm, since premodern orders of knowledge prove to be particularly non-homogenous. A ‘Jenseits der Dichotomie’ (Müller 2013 [‘beyond dichotomy’, translation EL]) already exists before dichotomies bindingly become fully differentiated during the Enlightenment.

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Schneider, Christian. 2013. Narrationis contextus: Erzähllogik, narrative Kohärenz und das Wahrscheinliche in der Sicht der hochmittelalterlichen Poetik. In Erzähllogiken in der Literatur des Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit: Akten der Heidelberger Tagung vom 17. bis 19. Februar 2011, ed. Florian Kragl and Christian Schneider, 155–186. Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universitätsverlag. Schulz, Armin. 2012. Erzähltheorie in mediävistischer Perspektive. Edited by Manuel Braun, Alexandra Dunkel, and Jan-Dirk Müller. Berlin: de Gruyter. Studienausgabe (2nd ed.) 2015. Wisbey, Roy. 1966. Das Alexanderbild Rudolfs von Ems. Berlin: Erich Schmidt. Worstbrock, Franz Josef. 1996. Der Tod des Hercules: Eine Problemskizze zur Poetik des Zerfalls in Konrads von Würzburg Trojanerkrieg. In Erzählungen in Erzählungen: Phänomene der Narration in Mittelalter und Früher Neuzeit, ed. Harald Haferland and Michael Mecklenburg, 273–284. München: Fink. Zimmermann, Julia. 2015. Narrative Lust am Betrug: Zur Nektânabus-Erzählung in Rudolf von Ems ‘Alexander’. In Verstellung und Betrug im Mittelalter und in der mittelalterlichen Literatur, ed. Matthias Meyer and Alexander Sager, 261–279. Göttingen: V&R unipress.

Elisabeth Lienert  is Professor for (German) Literature of the Middle Ages and Humanism at the University of Bremen, Germany. Her main current research interests are medieval and early modern literature in the European context, cultural transfer, medieval reception of antiquity, narrative literature of the premodern period (esp. heroic epic, romance of antiquity, courtly romance, early modern prose narrative), medieval lyrics, medieval manuscript culture, edition, and narratology. She is author of Lienert, Elisabeth. 2001. Deutsche Antikenromane des Mittelalters. Berlin: Erich Schmidt; Lienert, Elisabeth. 2015. Mittelhochdeutsche Heldenepik. Berlin: Erich Schmidt; editor of Lienert, Elisabeth (Ed.). 2019. Poetiken des Widerspruchs in vormoderner Erzählliteratur. Wiesbaden: Springer; co-editor of Lienert, Elisabeth, Sonja Kerth and Svenja Nierentz (Eds.). 2015. Rosengarten. Berlin/ München/Boston: de Gruyter.

Ghostwriting and its Contradictions, Or: Meet the Trumps Carsten Junker and Marie-Luise Löffler

If a president has a ghostwriter, who’s the president? Dennis Kucinich (qtd. in Meadows 2004, p. 12) (Dennis Kucinich is a U.S. politician who was a candidate for the Democratic nomination for U.S. President in the 2004 and 2008 elections)

Abstract

This contribution explores ghostwriting as a cultural practice marked by contradictions. It takes as its example the case of Donald J. Trump’s ghostwritten memoir titled Trump: The Art of the Deal from 1987. Following Trump’s announcement to run for the U.S. presidency in 2016, the ghostwriter of his memoir, Tony Schwartz, publicly announced that the book had not been written by Trump but by him instead, thus contradicting Trump’s claim to the authorship of the book. The debate around this disclosure points to one aspect of contradictions discussed in the chapter: the ghostwriter’s act of contradicting the pact between author and ghostwriter according to which the latter remain in the background. The chapter further highlights how the book itself delineates and mobilizes various dialectical contradictions, arguing that the text straddles various contradictory fault lines concerning the relationship between fact and fiction, the in/authenticity of the content of the book, the in/

C. Junker (*)  TU Dresden, Dresden, Germany e-mail: [email protected] M.-L. Löffler  University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 J. Lossau et al. (eds.), Spaces of Dissension, Contradiction Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7_3

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visibility of its ghostwriter, and the power/lessness of both author and ghostwriter in the cultural field. Hence it is argued that the practice of ghostwriting is a paradigmatic case of deploying contradictions as a constitutive element of (American) literature and cultures and their theorization.

Keywords

Ghostwriter/Ghostwriting · Authority, cultural · authenticity · Power · Literature

1 Introduction: Contradicting Trumpism Donald J. Trump was elected the 45th president of the United States on November 8, 2016. Before the U.S. presidential campaign ended, ushering in a new era of Trumpism, most of his adversaries had confidently envisioned they would eventually be able to shelve him as a disputatious but failed businessman-gonepolitician who would stumble over his reputation, dented among other things by his negative image as a “serial sexual predator” (Cassidy 2016). His supporters, in contrast, celebrated his victory perhaps precisely because they came to appreciate him as a successful self-made man, an image not least shaped by his bestselling autobiography Trump: The Art of the Deal (1987).1 Conceivably more than ever before, the 2016 election campaign created a climate in which both candidates’ integrity and credibility were fiercely debated and contested. Although to no avail, many of Trump’s opponents came out publicly to contradict him and undermine his trustworthiness: “I wrote the Art of the Deal. Donald Trump read it” (Schwartz 2016). What was at stake? We might expect an autobiography to be written (and not just read) by its autobiographer, that is, Donald Trump himself, so for someone else to claim that they wrote it might seem counter-intuitively wrong. Yet, what this scenario points to are the multilayered contradictions that arise when someone else enters the game: Tony Schwartz, the ghostwriter of that very book. It was he who made the claim. In an interview for the renowned magazine The New Yorker in July 2016, Schwartz went public for the first time, openly declaring that he, by writing Trump: The Art of the Deal, had helped shape Trump’s public image of a skillful dealmaker,2 1According

to Mayer (2016), the book sold “more than a million copies, generating several million dollars in royalties.” 2Cesar Chelala notes in a 2016 article in CounterPunch titled “The Real Donald Trump” that the memoir is “a book that […] catapulted Trump’s fame among the general public.”

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“a winner with a golden touch” (Rappeport 2016). It is this image which allowed Trump to eventually announce he would be running for president of the United States and which was continuously fostered during his campaign.3 When Trump began to promote himself as future president, capitalizing on his image in Trump: The Art of the Deal, Schwartz (a progressive liberal) found himself in a position that was ethically hard for him to bear. He “wanted to set the record straight,” as he felt that ghostwriting Trump’s book was “almost like I created a monster” (Breslow 2016). Thus, when Trump boasted that “[w]e need a leader that wrote ‘The Art of the Deal,’” Schwartz in turn tweeted: “Many thanks Donald Trump for suggesting I run for President, based on the fact that I wrote ‘The Art of the Deal’” (Mayer 2016).4 This public exchange not only highlights how ghostwriting can shape the image of a public persona, it also prompts an interrogation of the dynamics at play in the phenomenon of ghostwriting, which constitutes a specific kind of authorship, pulling back the curtain on some of the central contradictions surrounding a rather nebulous figure in literary history: the ghostwriter. In the following, we claim that the ghostwriter and the practice of ghostwriting serve as sites of inquiry par excellence to shed light on a number of specific contradictions—and to highlight questions central to Contradiction Studies—regarding authorial visibility, authenticity, and original voice. We take Schwarz’s act of contradicting Trump as a point of departure to throw into relief the dialectical contradictions operative in the production and consumption of cultural texts. These contradictions concern the visibility and invisibility of the text’s ghostwriter, the authenticity and inauthenticity of the content of the book, including the precarious relationship between fact and fiction, as well as the power and powerlessness of both authors and ghostwriters in the cultural field. What we suggest is at stake here is a general concern at the heart of literary and cultural theory: the question of cultural authority yielded from the symbolic value of authorship. As our discussion of ghostwriting shows, contradictions do not have to be disambiguated; instead the figure of the ghostwriter helps to consider (American) literature and culture as always already conflicted, ambiguous, paradoxical, and struggled over by contradictory forces.

3“Donald

J. Trump has regularly boasted about ‘The Art of the Deal,’ his best-selling autobiography, as a business bible that demonstrates the sharp negotiating prowess he would bring to the presidency” (Rappeport 2016). 4This exchange echoes Dennis Kucinich’s statement “If a president has a ghostwriter, who’s the president?” (qtd. in Meadows 2004, p. 12), in which Kucinich boasted that he, in contrast to other candidates, had written his own campaign book during the Democratic nomination for presidency in 2013 (Brandt 2007, p. 549).

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2 The Ghostwriter in (American) Literature The phenomenon of ghostwriting has not only come to the surface in American biographies of politicians—among them John F. Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, and Hillary Rodham Clinton (cf. Farhi 2014)—or celebrities—Public Enemy, Keith Richards, Victoria Beckham (McCrum 2014)—but is, as John Sutherland has noted, as old as literature itself (Sutherland 2011, p. 188) and can also be “directly connected to the origins of rhetoric” (Brown and Riley 1996, p. 711). From scribes in Ancient Egypt, an anonymous monk transcribing the orally passed down story of Beowulf in the tenth century (cf. Sutherland 2011, p. 188), and the controversy surrounding the authenticity of Shakespeare’s works,5 to Sir Walter Scott’s son-in-law, J.G. Lockhart, finishing his Count Robert of Paris in 1832 (Sutherland 2011, p. 188), and Alexandre Dumas’s assistant, Auguste Maquet, largely composing The Three Musketeers (1844) and The Count of Monte Christo (1846) (Sutherland 2011, p. 189),6 the ghostwriter has long existed in the shadows of the most renowned authors and works of world literature. The pervasiveness of ghostwriting can also be traced throughout American literature in particular. In fact, the term ghostwriting itself goes back to the 1920s and was coined by the American Christy Walsh, a baseball agent, who created a highly successful syndicate for ghostwriters, Christy Walsh Syndicate, which specialized in memoirs of baseball stars at the time (Sutherland 2011, p. 189). But one might also think of eighteenth-century love letters “on demand,”7 Walt Whitman’s helping hand in William Swinton’s Rambles Among Words (1859) (cf. Warren 1984), Mark Twain’s supposed ghosting of Ulysses S. Grant’s memoir (cf. Hitt 1997), William Faulkner’s public acceptance speeches, partially

5In

2009, the Supreme Court of the United States held a mock trial over the authorship of Shakespeare’s works, conducting hearings over the question whether the works ascribed to Shakespeare were actually composed by Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford. For further discussion, see Garber 2010, p. xiv. The hearings can be accessed under: http://www.cspan.org/video/?618-1/shakespeare-author-pseudonym. 6Dumas himself started out his writing career as a ghostwriter, copying and writing texts for the Duc d’Orléans as an employé surnuméraire (untrained employee) (Mielke 1995, p. 111). 7In the footnote of a broadside published in 1795 by Jonathan Plummer (1761–1816) titled “Dying Confession of Pomp,” Plummer advertises his services in “various branches of trifling business,” offering to write “Love-letters in prose and verse furnished on the shortest notice.” Plummer was “one of the first authors to try to earn a living with his pen in the years following the American Revolution” (Hutchins 2004).

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written by Joseph L. Blotner (Brodsky 2013, pp. 196–199), W.E.B. Du Bois’s hiring of Truman Capote for his autobiography (Dyson 2015),8 Theodore Sorensen’s alleged creation of John F. Kennedy’s Pulitzer Prize awarded Profiles in Courage (1956) (cf. Hitt 1997), Alex Haley’s work on The Autobiography of Malcolm X, David Ritz’s co-writing of Cornel West’s Brother West: Living or Loving out Loud, A Memoir (cf. Hitt 1997), or Tom Clancy’s staff of ghostwriters—among them Jerome Preisler (Stein 2013)—to meet the high demand for his books and their tight publication deadlines,9 to name only a few further instances of literary ghostwriting in U.S. history.10 The pervasiveness of ghostwriting in the contemporary United States—and the extent to which its publishing industry relies on ghostwriting services—becomes particularly apparent in a New York Times article by sought-after ghostwriter Jack Hitt, who, after being hired as what he refers to as a “book doctor” for a “multimillion-dollar nonfiction book by a famous person,” had to first sign “three different, hysterically phrased nondisclosure agreements” (Hitt 1997). As Hitt later found out, he would not only never talk to the actual client but would work on a manuscript by a journalist who received the ideas for the celebrity’s autobiography from a third person—“a ghost-thinker” (Hitt 1997). As he notes, “I took a breath at the shore one afternoon, reflected on the vast zagging distance between me and the celebrity author—and realized that I was, to be honest, a ghost-ghostghostwriter” (Hitt 1997). As he concludes, “the writing of a book is no longer the most important part of authoring one” (Hitt 1997). Obviously, claiming the authorship of a book does not necessarily entail the capacity to write it.

8While

Dyson does not specify to which of Du Bois’s three autobiographies he refers, it is most likely Du Bois’s third autobiographical text, The Autobiography of W.E.B. Du Bois: A Soliloquy on Viewing My Life from the Last Decade of Its First Century (1968). At the time of its publication, Capote had established himself as a well-known writer; his writing career had not yet set off in 1940, the year that saw the publication of Du Bois’s second autobiography Dusk of Dawn. If Dyson is correct, The Autobiography would constitute a case of fully covert ghostwriting: Du Bois makes no mention of Capote as co-author or ghostwriter. 9John Sutherland refers to Tom Clancy’s novels as products of the “Clancy factory”: Tom Clancy “pastes his name happily on works by a platoon of writers as invisible to the reader’s eye as his Ghost Recon force is to the enemy they invariably defeat. As Clancy’s publisher unblushingly puts it: ‘Tom Clancy creates the ideas for these series, and the writers execute Clancy’s ideas’” (2011, p. 190). 10McCrum notes, interestingly, that most ghostwritten books fall into the genre of “misery memoir,” life stories containing episodes of a tragic childhood, followed by celebrity autobiographies and “true-crime memoirs” (2014).

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3 Ghost/Writing Contradictions As literary scholar Deborah Brandt notes, “we might define ghostwriting as taking on substantial parts of a composing process for which someone else, not you, will be credited—whether by byline, signature, institutional title, oral delivery, or some other way” (2007, p. 549). More specifically, ghostwriting is a kind of authorship in which a more or less covert writing position is linked by commercial contract to an overt authorial position.11 Such a commercial relationship that links (partially) covert writing and overt authorship positions includes a relational exchange between a ghostwriter who is largely socially invisible and an author who is highly socially visible or seeks to achieve such visibility. In contrast to the overt authorial position occupied by an author whose name is publicized, the ghostwriter can inhabit a covert position that remains anonymous. Numerous contradictions can emerge from such a relationship, resulting from the precarious discretion of such an exchange and relating to concomitant assumptions, among others, about the veracity of authorship on the part of the readers of a ghostwritten text. The contractual relationship entails the ghostwriter trading his or her writing skills for a conceptual idea or a story that the other party provides. The ghostwriter then channels the ideas of those for whom he or she acts as an agent in the process of writing for them, delivering a text to fulfill the contract. A central component of successful ghostwriting involves collecting existing materials, detailed interviews, and extensive research into the client’s life or a subject area (in case of non-autobiographical writing). The ghostwriter thus, as Robert McCrum notes, “starts out as a hybrid of therapist, muse and friend” in order to not only “tak[e] on another’s voice and character” (2014) but to “ascertain their client’s or employer’s thoughts or ways of thinking so these can serve as the origin of writing” (Brandt 2007, p. 555, original emphasis). By minutely and patiently studying how the

11Ghostwriting

in the U.S. falls under the so-called “Works for Hire” section of copyright law, which states that “If a work is made for hire, an employer is considered the author even if an employee actually created the work. The employer can be a firm, an organization, or an individual” (United States Copyright Office 2012). As Deborah Brandt explains, “[o]n the one hand, this provision underscores the indivisibility between writers and their work (one can give for hire only that which one controls). On the other hand, the law makes authorship, at least as a legal status, thoroughly severable from actual composing. You may be considered the author without having written a word. This is what allows a public personality to put his or her byline on the cover of a commissioned book while often relegating the name of the ghostwriter to a smaller font or to the acknowledgement page, or, in some cases, to oblivion” (2007, p. 553).

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mind of the client works and then seeking to imitate the client’s tone and diction in convincing ways, the ghost, paradoxically, may be able to give the impression that it is the client who has written the text herself or himself. However, the process of ghostwriting does not necessarily follow this logic of mimicking a client’s original voice; the writer can also simulate a copy without there being an original, creating a public voice which the client can then strive to appropriate as his or her own. The role of the ghostwriter—and the process of ghostwriting—seems, then, at least at first glance, rather straightforward and easy to grasp. At its center usually stands a business transaction between a client (who either does not have the time or skills to write a text) and a ghostwriter who delivers both—albeit some ghosting is also based on friendship or collaboration.12 We except from our definition of ghostwriting here practices of writing that are performed within institutionalized work environments, for instance, the writing of letters or speeches for superiors in the context of administrative or corporate communications, or the production of user guides for customers of a particular product within a company. Ghostwriters are not just contracted by a “principal” (Goffman 1979, 17) for writing books,13 but also for crafting speeches,14 public relations articles, blogs, love letters, or personal correspondence, mainstream science articles—and, maneuvering in a legal gray area—even academic work. As Daniela Lukaßen notes, “Wherever words are

12The

monetary compensation of a ghostwriter often entails intense negotiations and can vary widely, as different sources indicate. As Paul Farhi explains for a large New Yorkbased ghostwriting company, fees for books written for professionals (businessmen, doctors, etc.) may start at $15.000 per book but can go up to $500.000 and higher for a celebrity bestseller (2014). Robert McCrum sets the conventional price at 33% of the advance (plus royalties), yet indicates that it can go as low as 10% (2014). Prices are either negotiated per page or project; in Germany, this can vary between 50 and 300 Euros per page (Lukaßen 2016, p. iv). 13The meaning of the term “principal” as we use it here corresponds to that of the same term in Erving Goffman’s elaborations on “footing”: “someone whose position is established by the words that are spoken, someone whose beliefs have been told, someone who has committed himself to what the words say” (1979, p. 17). 14As Lois J. Einhorn comments, “[a]lmost every statement spoken today by major political, business, and academic leaders was written by someone else” (1991, p. 115), a notion that is particularly prevalent (and well known) for American presidents, as extensive research by numerous scholars has shown. As Karlyn Kohrs Campbell and Kathleen Hall Jamieson note, “virtually all presidents had collaborators in creating their rhetoric” (1990, p. 10). Indeed, as William N. Brigance showed as early as 1956, ghostwriting can be traced back to the beginnings of the American presidency.

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put in print, you will find the so-called ghostwriter. It is impossible to imagine the guild of writers without this group” (our translation 2016, p. iv).15 Thus, as Robert McCrum sums it up, “[y]ou may not know it, but literary ghosts are everywhere.” They may leave more or less explicit marks in a text, thus haunting and impacting the perceptions of its readers and those readers’ assumptions of its author.

3.1 In/Visibility The degree of the involvement of a ghostwriter can vary widely—sometimes it entails help in merely structuring the client’s thoughts, or writing a few passages, but it can also comprise editorial tasks such as shaping an existent narrative into a more reader-appealing format, or—most frequently—composing an entire book. The actual impact of a ghostwriter on a text can be difficult to define as this transaction rests on a crucial foundation: the ghostwriter’s work is not to be known and seen, only rarely does his or her name appear on the final literary product. The more the production of a work relies on ghostwriting, the more contradictory it seems not to give it credit, as much as the ghostwriter’s covertness is a fundamental aspect of the practice. This is not so much an ethical question of giving the ghostwriter his or her due (we may assume the contract arranges for their payment) as it is a question of steering, structuring, or even manipulating the expectations of audiences who may want to know whose words they are hearing or reading. As Paul Farhi has noted of contemporary ghostwriting for politicians: Since most ghostwriters sign nondisclosure agreements that prohibit them from revealing the extent of their involvement or their remuneration, it’s hard to know whether the putative author had assistance or even did any work. Given such secrecy, the author credits on many books are rarely a guide to who did the actual work. That is, you can’t judge a book by its cover.16

15[‘Überall

dort, wo Wörter zu Papier gebracht werden, finden sich auch sogenannte Ghostwriter. Längst schon ist diese Gruppe aus der schreibenden Zunft nicht mehr wegzudenken’] (Lukaßen 2016, p. iv); also see Stockman and Mureithi 2019. 16In a similar vein, Robert McCrum of the Guardian has noted: “To a degree that might astonish the reading public, a significant percentage of any current bestseller list will not have been written by the authors whose names appear on the jackets.” As Jack Hitt specifies for the U.S., “[o]n any given week, up to a half of any nonfiction best-seller list is written by someone other than the name on the book. Add those authors who feel enough latent uneasiness to bury the writer’s name in the acknowledgements and the percentage […] reaches as high as 80.”

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It is this very secrecy that has given the phenomenon of ghostwriting its name— and given life to its shadowy existence. Thus, ghostwriting may well be regarded as a ghostly presence that haunts principals, raising questions about their actual authorship, if not provoking unease that stems from the insecurity of whose words we actually get to read. The ghostwriter takes on the role of a ghost that is hidden, clandestine, and invisible but—paradoxically—whose apparition, at times, can become very manifest. This ghostliness, the ghostwriter’s simultaneous absence and presence, seems to present us with a predicament: a ghostwriter can hardly be visible and invisible at the same time.17 Yet, what may appear as a contradiction here can be captured and analyzed, we suggest, when considering ghostwriting as a practice situated on an axis between two poles of invisibility and visibility. We thus distinguish different degrees of ghostwriting visibility on a scale spanning a) fully covert, b) partially covert, and c) uncovert–covert ghostwriting: a) Fully covert ghostwriting may not be acknowledged by the overt, official author of a text; secrecy and invisibility are a constitutive part of the contractual relationship here. We may assume that this indicates a desire on the part of the overt author to project a sense of full authorial agency in the public arena. Ghostwriting seems worthy of concealment; for principals to admit that they relied on the expertise of ghostwriter can certainly undermine their authority as authors. For ghostwriters, doing their work may be considered inferior to the pursuit of public, ‘original’ authorship. However, ghostwriters have rejected such a disdainful attitude toward their work. Barbara Feinman-Todd, the ghostwriter of Hillary Clinton’s 1996 It Takes a Village, was not credited for her work on the book, about which she expressed open dismay (cf. Farhi 2014). She went public on National Public Radio noting about her principals that “it shouldn’t bother me when, come book tour time, they pretend I don’t exist. But it does. I remember how annoyed I got when one publisher called

17We

are reminded here of Toni Morrison’s call in the late 1980s to consider and question the representational absence of a nonetheless constitutive and ubiquitous presence of African American culture in the literary canon and in much ‘white’ canonical literature—her plea for examining the “‘unspeakable things unspoken’; for the ways in which the presence of Afro-Americans has shaped the choices, the language, the structure—the meaning of so much American literature,” her plea, in short, for “search[ing for] the ghost in the machine” (1989, p. 11). Without intending to de-referentialize Morrison’s agenda, we regard her invocation of the logic of an absent presence as a useful conceptual lens through which to grasp the tensions among which the figure of the ghostwriter moves.

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ghostwriters basically typists” (Feinman-Todd 2006).18 Had Feinman-Todd only served as a typist, Clinton could surely have hired someone else to do the job. To other ghostwriters, secrecy does not pose a problem. They may “see no ethical issue in permitting a client to take credit for work produced anonymously by someone else” (Farhi 2014). b) In contrast, much ghostwriting practice is only partially covert. Black Power leader Malcolm X’s autobiography, for instance, features the phrase “As Told To” on its cover. Journalist Alex Haley is known to have collaborated with Malcolm X on the project. His ghostwriting authorship included researching, structuring, and writing the book (Farhi 2014). Another marker of partially covert ghostwriting is a phrase like “edited by” (McCrum 2014). Many books give names of ghostwriters in their acknowledgements. In such cases, as McCrum notes, the “discreet, sometimes grudging, nod [is made] to the invisible man or woman who quarried the angel from the marble.” Thus, while ghostwriting is generally performed in the background and not necessarily to be known, it is often acknowledged in some form. This is a code of conduct within the trade of ghostwriting that still lingers from Christy Walsh’s times in the 1920s, who went by the following rule: “Don’t insult the intelligence of the public by claiming these men [in this case, baseball stars] write their own stuff” (McCrum 2014). c) In yet other cases, book covers feature both, the name of a public person and the ghostwriter’s name. Here, the connector with may indicate an oxymoronic type of uncovert–covert ghostwriting: [principal] with [ghostwriter]. In such cases, readers can witness ghostwriting as a matter-of-fact profession of which the principal makes no secret. The names of both author and ghostwriter on the cover of a book may even erase the contractual client–ghostwriter relation to present itself as co-authorship—which it may well be. Hitt corroborates this when he suggests that the ghostwriter personifies a conspicuously old-fashioned concept: “the word is now pure anachronism. Most ghosts are out of the attic and prefer names like ‘collaborator’ or ‘co-author.’ They routinely command big-dollar advances and get their names on the book jacket.” A number of ghostwriters have gained celebrity status themselves (which also contradicts the idea of the ghostwriter being merely the “typist,” as well as contradicting the assumption of the ghost as a presence that haunts the ghostwritten text and its principal in a potentially ghastly manner): an example is the bestselling

18Accordingly,

Robert McCrum (2014) sardonically remarks, “the ghost is advised never to forget that, at the end of the day, he or she ranks somewhere between a valet and a cleaner.”

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ghostwriter Andrew Crofts who has written over 80 books and sold millions of copies. He wrote “Ghostwriting,” a ghostwriting manual, which was a huge success. He is now the “ghost’s ghost, the go-to spook” (McCrum 2014) for celebrities all over the world. In fact, Crofts has a higher income than most professional writers in the UK (McCrum 2014). Like Crofts’s statements in The Guardian, numerous ghostwriters have gone public in interviews: Schwartz (in numerous big newspapers) and Clinton’s ghostwriter FeinmanTodd are merely selected instances among many others. So while ghostwriters may linger in the background, we do in numerous cases know who wrote a book, especially for celebrities and politicians. Considering these different types of ghostwriting, there is no necessary contradiction in the phenomenon of a present absence of ghostwriting; rather, ghostwriting appears on a scale of different degrees of in/visibility. The Trump/Schwartz book is a particularly ambivalent case: while the line “Donald J. Trump with Tony Schwartz” is featured on the bottom of its cover, letting readers assume that it is the product of a collaborative effort, its full title, Trump: The Art of the Deal, printed in larger, glaringly golden boldface on the top of the cover, stresses Trump’s authorship. The uncovert ghostwriter is relegated to a secondary, covert position in the acknowledgment section of the book as well, featuring Trump in first-person internal focalization before shifting to a paragraph that opens with a sentence focalized through Schwartz in third-person. This transition installs Trump as the book’s speaking subject and Schwartz as its spoken-for object—an inversion that contradicts the writing process, if we are to believe Schwartz’s declaration that he wrote the book and Trump merely read it. In going public, Schwartz violated the contract between Trump and himself which demanded that he remain silent and thus bear the awkward tension of his uncovered–covered ghostwriting position. Trump commented on Schwartz’s decision to publicly declare his ghostwriting in the following: “I could have sued you, but I didn’t” (qtd. in Mayer 2016). Such a scenario not only meddles with and inverts assumptions about underlying notions of visibility and invisibility when it comes to ghostwriting but also, closely intertwined, raises the issue of our expectations of authorship and authenticity, a notion that becomes even more complex with respect to uncovert–covert ghostwriting, as we may end up asking: how much of a ghost remains in the ghostwriter then?

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3.2 In/Authenticity The phenomenon of ghostwriting in its various instantiations determines the underlying framework of its writing process and structures readers’ expectations. Unless the ghostwriter is given his or her visible due, most readers, when picking up a book by a certain author, would expect to read those very author’s words. They may not necessarily share a critical awareness of scholars trained in postmodern literary criticism—that the author’s signature alone does not count as a credible source of authentication and authorization.19 A ghostwriter therefore, generally, needs to emulate and create a supposedly authentic author’s voice or, put differently and inversely, a writer is required to embody the author’s ghost. The central question that comes to the forefront here—one that highlights one of the core contradictions emanating from and circling around the figure of the ghostwriter—has been captured by Barbara Feinman-Todd: “How can a writer construct something authentic in an inauthentic voice?” This question is central to Contradiction Studies; it points to a fundamental set of cultural assumptions that go along with concepts of authorship, writing, and authenticity which are continuously evoked and subverted in the ghosting of texts. While the span of this essay does not allow for an in-depth discussion of literary conceptions of authorship,20 we stress that Feinman-Todd’s question points to an issue which has been prevalent particularly with regard to the relationship between authors and their readership and its underlying expectations. As Brandt argues, this relationship largely relies on the conception of “the cult of individual authorship” (2007, p. 553) or “the author as originator” (2007, p. 569); that is, a “direct and reliable connection” (2007, p. 549) between the authoring and writing of a text located in one and the same person. The instability of this assumed need for (and trust in) “authentic” representation encapsulated in such normative constructions of authorship, the absolute certainty about who tells the story (or as Brandt also refers to it, the meaningfulness of “the presence of the writer” (2007, p. 550)), is highlighted by ghostwriting. A literary ghost not only subverts such certainty in an original locus of creation (cf. Garber 2010, p. 21) but even more so entangles the reader (unbeknownst) in a complex web of referentialities: who can be referenced as the

19We

refer to Roland Barthes here, who formulated his skepticism about an author’s autonomy and intentionality perhaps more poignantly than others in his famous essay “The Death of the Author” (2001/1967). 20For an excellent overview of theoretical debates on authorship, see Bennett (2005).

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“true” author, who as the original, who as the copy? As Marjorie Garber notes, a ghost is always simultaneously “a copy, somehow both nominally identical to and numinously different from a vanished or unavailable original” (2010, p. 21). The figure of the ghost thus embodies the crucial contradiction between copy and original itself. And in it lie further contradictions: the ghost can be fleeting yet abiding, evasive yet insisting, elusive yet effective, unpredictable yet calculating, comforting yet fear-inducing. The ghost, in other words, may well be one of the most contradictory figures ever brought forth by cultural history. And although there is no essential nexus between the figure of the ghost and the practice of ghostwriting (the practice does not inevitably rely on the ghost; it could also be called shadow-writing, for instance), the compound opens up an imaginary realm which places the pact between author and writer in a sphere of ambiguities brought forth by such ghostly contradictions. Thus, the term “ghost” is by no means just happenstance. While the transaction underlying ghostwriting encompasses a clear separation between the author and the actual work of writing done by the ghostwriter, authorship and writing are simultaneously very closely linked through voice: it is essential that the voice of the ghostwriter disappears—that s/he takes on a voice entirely different of his/her own—and becomes a “second I” (Mielke 1995, p. 183) in order to “locat[e] the status of authorship in the mind or person of the client/employer” (Brandt 2007, p. 555). As Brandt explains further, “[t]hrough the sharing of thoughts or revealing of systems of thought, clients lend their status or position to the ghostwriter. This is the site of authorization which serves both practical and ethical functions for the ghostwriter” (Brandt 2007, p. 556). At the same time, however, the ghostwriter, in lending services where skill, structure, ideas, and time are lacking, allows the client to become an author in the first place; the ghostwriter often quite literally “bring[s] the author into being” (Brandt 2007, p. 555). As such a surrogate, a ghostwriter frequently feels “authorial responsibility,” as Schwartz’s example shows, although it is the very disavowal of such responsibility that can underlie the publication of the final piece of writing (Brandt 2007, p. 557). While we may assume that the assumption of an “authentic” voice rests on an author’s original ideas and creative use of imagination, ghostwriting may also be considered a craft that stages authenticity, which highlights authenticity as an effect that can be created by formulaic scripts and the distinctive styles of authors’ voices. In that sense, original and formulaic writing are less of a contradiction than we might assume. Trump’s success story in Trump: The Art of the

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Deal may seem so “authentic” precisely because it follows templates, utilizing narrative scripts that seem “truly,” authentically American—in this case borrowing and activating from a succinctly national myth of the American self-made man. Indeed, it is this universally known myth that became the springboard for creating Trump’s image as the “charmingly brash entrepreneur with an unfailing knack for business” (Mayer 2016) which he eventually capitalized on again and again during his campaign. Such an employment of Trump’s story into the frame of a nationally recognizable rags-to-riches tale had two effects: it not only assured readers’ attention because it invited them to read Trump’s narrative as part of recognizable life story, the patterns of which are familiar to many readers; it also invited them to assume Trump’s narrative as a self-made man was plausible. The myth of the self-made man can be considered part of a well-known mythology that is foundational for the United States. Heike Paul notes that the idea of expressive individualism is closely tied to constructing a shared national U.S. exceptionalism: “the providential success of the self-made man was identified with the success of the national project, and expressive individualism was thus regarded not only as the basis for individual but also for collective success” (2014, p. 368). This broad acceptance of the myth of the self-made man may partly explain why Trump’s narrative script of success met with such widespread public approval, measured by its high sales figures;21 it was yet another piece in a puzzle that confirmed the validity of the collectively shared tale, according to which one can make it if one only tries hard enough. In the myth of the self-made man resonates the contradictory logic of a European early eighteenth-century economic discourse that locked private vices and public benefits in a mutually constitutive rhetorical figure. Mandeville’s paradox (1724) sought to neutralize the contradiction between individual gain and collective success.22 It seems ironic that this paradox, claimed as a collectively shared foundational myth of the imagined American nation, lends itself in flexible ways to individualized adaptations; but it is because of its adaptability that it is so enduring. To turn what Trump biographer Timothy L. O’Brien calls the “glittering fable” (qtd. in Mayer 2016) of Trump’s rise as a hardworking American self-made man into a highly individualized story featuring a “Horatio Alger figure” from rags to

21The number of “more than a million copies” sold (Mayer 2016) presumably increased after Trump’s successful election. 22See Mandeville 1989.

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riches,23 Schwartz had to first capture—and, even more so, “mak[e] palatable,” i.e., skillfully adapt—Trump’s original voice in order to bring this narrative script to life (Mayer). That is, Schwartz had not only to mimic Trump’s peculiar rhetoric, his “blunt, staccato, no apologies delivery” (Mayer), but to make it more appealing to readers in order to, as Schwartz notes, “create a character far more winning than Trump actually is” (qtd. in Mayer). One such example is given by Schwartz to illustrate the process of constructing his voice as “authentic” and appealing by giving it an eloquent twist. Mimicking Trump’s parlance, Schwartz wrote at the very beginning of Trump: The Art of the Deal: “I don’t do it for the money. I’ve got enough, much more than I’ll ever need. I do it to do it. Deals are my art form. Other people paint beautifully on canvas or write beautiful poetry. I like making deals, preferably big deals. That’s how I get my kicks.” (Trump and Schwartz 2015, p. 1). As Schwartz notes in his interview with Jane Mayer: “Of course he’s in it for the money […]. One of the most deep and basic needs he has is to prove that ‘I’m richer than you,’” noting about its poetic language that “‘[h]e was incapable of saying something like that—it wouldn’t even be in his vocabulary’” (Mayer 2016, original emphasis). An expression of how convincingly “authentic” such an approach to framing Trump’s voice can be is Joe Queenan’s New York Times article on the role of ghostwriting in the American publishing industry, “Ghost in the Machine,” which appeared in 2005. While Queenan scathingly writes about the reliance of politicians (such as Newt Gingrich and Hillary Clinton) on ghostwriters—exclaiming that “ghostwriters perform a valuable function by shielding the public from the authentically dimwitted voices of those they channel”—he takes the example of Donald Trump’s (ghostwritten) works as being consistently “authentic” (Queenan 2005). As he notes: “One of the few ‘authors’ who have succeeded in avoiding the pitfalls that increasingly ensnare ghostwritees is Donald Trump,” as Queenan sees the latter’s books to be characterized by a “stylistic seamlessness.” He cites Trump: The Art of the Deal, its “clipped, staccato, tough-guy style” (Queenan 2005), as a prime example of successful and convincing ghostwriting that manages to perform authenticity through the recognizable style of Trump’s invented voice.

23The

fictitiousness of the fable is corroborated, for example, in Wayne Barrett’s book Trump: The Deals and the Downfall (1992) as well as in Timothy L. O’Brien’s TrumpNation (2005). Trump’s father, in fact, had a major impact on the success of Trump’s dealmaking, both in terms of monetary support and networking. As Barrett says in an interview with Jane Mayer: “The notion that he’s [Trump is] a self-made man is a joke. But I guess they couldn’t call the book ‘The Art of My Father’s Deal’” (Mayer 2016).

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By ghostwriting Trump: The Art of the Deal, then, authenticity is created in mediating steps in a process of what can be called “vicarious writing,” of writing for someone else. In a memoir like Trump’s, one mediating step can be seen in the movement away from an “authentic” representation by the primary author toward a narrativization of his perspective through a ghostwriter. We might say that the author keeps on speaking while it is the in/visible hand of the ghostwriter that takes on/over the narration in an act of writing: the overt author speaks, the (partially) covert ghostwriter sees, writes, and creates a palpable narrative. Thus, authenticity becomes a minutely crafted effect that lingers in a field of tension or, put differently, that results from a contradiction between catering to the reader’s assumption of an original voice (based on the ghostwriter’s mastery of imitation thereof) and the construction of a story based on formulaic narrative scripts, a highly idealized version of the nonexistent original. Authenticity is thus effectuated through a skillfully crafted simulacrum text. Yet, these examples from Schwartz’s writing process of Trump: The Art of the Deal not only point to notions of authenticity with respect to narrative scripts and voice but also—closely intertwined—to the issue of truth (i.e., “facts”) and the manufacturing thereof (fiction) in order to lend a story its plausibility. By transforming “facts” into narrative, or rather, imitating or even inventing an original story and giving it narrative shape, the narrative may come across as original, plausible, and truthful, precisely because it becomes an idealized version of a (putative) original. This is a further mediating step: transforming assumed facts into narrative to authorize their telling. In Trump/Schwartz’s case, the ghostwriter presents “facts,” or rather embellishes and even invents them, utilizing them in order to construct a story which fits into a recognizable script found in the myth of the American self-made man. A number of contradictions can be identified in the process: while Schwartz was supposed to write down “facts” and base his narrative on them, he had to manufacture them as Trump was not willing to disclose information to Schwartz in interviews. Indeed, as Schwartz claims, his original intention when starting out the ghosting of Trump’s book was to follow a well-established path: conducting extensive interviews in order to collect in-depth material about Trump’s life. Yet, apparently, he soon gave up on this endeavor, as Trump seemed unable to extendedly reflect on his life (as Schwartz notes, “it’s impossible to keep him [Trump] focused on any topic, other than his own self-aggrandizement, for more than a few minutes” (qtd. in Mayer 2016)). Schwartz, thus, could not merely appropriate Trump’s life story. Rather, he had to create it in the first place. Moreover, he also realized that writing down the details of Trump’s business deals and his way of making business (“Trump’s loose relationship with the truth” (Mayer 2016))

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would not make for a successful book. Jane Mayer explains the process: “Rhetorically, Schwartz’s aim in ‘The Art of the Deal’ was to present Trump as the hero of every chapter, but, after looking into some of his supposedly brilliant deals, Schwartz concluded that there were cases in which there was no way to make Trump look good. So he sidestepped unflattering incidents and details.” She thus argues that Schwartz, as Trump’s ghostwriter, began to “put an acceptable face on Trump” by substituting the attractive myth of Trump as a faultless dealmaker for the much less flattering but more plausible version of Trump as a notoriously cunning businessman who failed in numerous businesses but was brilliant at make-believe. Schwartz thus created what Timothy L. O’Brien has referred to as a “‘nonfiction work of fiction’” (qtd. in Mayer 2016), which literally presents us, by definition, with a contradiction in terms. The contradiction consists of spinning manufactured facts into a popular storyline that would not only catch the reader’s attention but would also reference, authenticate, and ultimately authorize Trump’s “real”-life story. While, in so doing, much of Trump/Schwartz’s book was able to reaffirm the myth of the American self-made man, it is exactly this fictionalization of facts which has provided a platform on which Trump’s adversaries have recently contradicted his political endeavors in an attempt to set the record “straight”: As Mayer notes, Trump is less of a self-made man than he is his father’s protégé: “his origins were hardly humble.” Further, critics have noted that the book’s mythical ideals and its business fairy tales prepared the ground for creating an image of Trump as a “dealmaker nonpareil who could always get the best out of every situation—and who can now deliver America from its malaise” (qtd. in Mayer 2016). If it were not for the notoriety of Trump’s public persona, his ghostwritten business book might be relegated to the business-advice section of secondhand bookstores. But the book’s mythologizing provided a basis for Trump’s later media successes—continued through the “mythmaking on steroids” of Trump’s TV show The Apprentice—which paved the way for the 2016 presidential campaign (Mayer 2016). It is precisely the “bypassing [of] the manifold discrepancies between mythic text and lived reality” that is the “ideological function of myth and the ongoing cultural work it performs,” Paul notes (2014, p. 407). Trump’s critics, who have foreseen the bleak future of an authoritarian era of Trumpism on the horizon, can consider Trump’s memoir a prime example of mythical storytelling which hides its internal contradictions. Exposing these ghostwritten contradictions of Trump’s panegyric—contradicting Trump’s mythologizing—may well be considered an urgent act of cultural critique in so far as it holds Trump as author and politician accountable for a rhetoric that begs the trust of a broad public, or of his constituency at least—unless

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caring about a firm belief in a president’s reliability is not necessarily opportune these days. An exposure of Trump: The Art of the Deal as a piece of ghostwriting in its uncovert–covert form undermines Trump’s trustworthiness because, in effect, ghostwriting constitutes a violation of one of the central maxims of conversation as elaborated by pragmatist Paul Grice: the maxim of quality. According to pragmatists, the “category of Quality” is governed by the supermaxim: “Try to make your contribution one that is true” (Grice 1991, p. 27; Grandy and Warner 2005). Failing to do so entails the violation of trustworthiness. When authors disclose that their stories are those of ghostwriters, they can (re)gain the trust of their audiences. When, in the case of Trump, it is the ghostwriter himself who discloses such a fact—moving from writing for his principal to speaking out against him, contradicting him in public—the power of Trump’s mythmaking of the self-made man turns out to be little more than yet another fabricated deal, however artfully crafted. And it may be the inventiveness of its writer to which Trump’s book owes its success. If we assume that mythmaking enjoys widespread recognition precisely because myths are acknowledged as invention, we may also assume that readers do not necessarily rely on Trump’s text to be authentic. They may, in contrast, enjoy it as a fabrication. In that case, it would be the readers’ willing suspension of disbelief in the authenticity of Trump’s narrative that allows them to authorize it in the first place.

3.3 Power/Lessness As the example of Trump/Schwartz shows, much is at stake, not least because the image fabricated through the ghostwritten memoir has helped shape the ascendency of Trump to the U.S. presidency. Much is also at stake in the contractual relation between Trump (as author, ghostwritee, Schwartz’s principal, employer, and/or client) and Schwartz (as ghostwriter, Trump’s employee, and/ or seller of his writing skills). As Brandt notes, “ghostwriting […] highlights power exchanges” (2007, p. 549). The author as “a person with currency, social importance, celebrity, or notoriety […] brings status to the writing” (Brandt 2007, p. 550), potentially compromising and controlling the contracted ghostwriter’s work and subjecting him or her to what Brand considers a “coercive literacy practice [which] can force alignment with ways of thinking that are not one’s own” (2007, p. 568). At the same time, the author’s status is prone to increase due to the social prestige of having a book out, which depends on writing. It is the

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ghostwriter who is the one who creates, endowing the author with the prestige of writing, which is “associated with creativity, talent, intellect, sensibility, knowledge—in a word, authority” (Brandt 2007, p. 550). It thus comes as no surprise that Trump, after Tony Schwartz went public, contradicted Schwartz’s contradiction in turn, claiming: “He [Schwartz] didn’t write the book […]. I wrote the book. I wrote the book. It was my book” (Mayer 2016, original emphasis).24 This contractual relationship is marked, then, by a paradox: while the author is in a position of power and the ghostwriter at his or her mercy, it is also the ghostwriter who is in a position of power and the author at his or her mercy. In what is called an Aristotelian “logical contradiction,” both assumptions would cancel each other out irreconcilably (Junker and Warnke 2015). But we may instead take into consideration the complexity inherent in the positions of both ghostwriter and author and assume that both positions in the exchange are endowed with power and powerlessness. We thus bring into view a “dialectical contradiction that makes visible a contradictory tension between two statements without one statement showing the other as true or false” (Junker and Warnke 2015). We may in fact assume that both statements are true: the author is both powerful and powerless, and the ghostwriter is equally powerful and powerless. While Trump’s name was a requirement that facilitated landing a book contract with a publisher, he was in need of someone able to meet his publisher’s expectations; the book required a famous name but at the same time, it was the book that helped to create the name that became the brand name Trump to begin with. At the same time, Schwartz was entirely dependent on Trump, at the mercy of his principal, who had to disclose personal facts; yet Schwartz was also the one who possessed the skills that allowed him to invent and give credibility to the persona which Trump later appropriated for himself to build his career. Judging from the appearance Trump made in June 2016 to declare his candidacy for the presidency, Schwartz could not help but note that “Trump appeared to have convinced himself that he had written the book[, ...] thinking, ‘If he could lie about that on Day One—when it was so easily refuted he is likely to lie about anything” (qtd. in Mayer 2016). This “lie” is based precisely on the myth of Trump’s full, singular authorship that conceals the contradiction between contracting a ghostwriter and later denying this fact, claiming both its writing and its authorship.

24As

Mayer writes in response: “Howard Kaminsky, the former Random House head, laughed and said, ‘Trump didn’t write a postcard for us!’”

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To focus on the power/lessness of the ghostwriter: in Trump’s case, it seems obvious that Schwartz’s “words are made significant not by having been written but by the status of the official issuer” (Brandt 2007, p. 550). The ghostwriter apparently was in a financially unstable situation when Trump offered him the contract. Schwartz himself considered it a “Faustian bargain,” knowing that “if he took Trump’s money and adopted Trump’s voice his journalism career would be badly damaged” (Mayer 2016). Such a compromise points to the principal keeping the upper hand in the transaction. An article about British ghostwriter Andrew Crofts addresses the ghostwriter’s potential difficulties in the process of researching and writing for someone else. This process may create a “world of private pain: tearful interviews, angry confrontations, threats of violence, shocking revelations and interminable waiting, waiting, waiting” (McCrum 2014). The author of the article goes on to refer to French, where the terminology used to describe ghostwriting encapsulates this dependency with recourse to a metaphorization that strikes us as problematically colonialist: “ghosts are known as nègres, and there is a kind of slavery implicit in this transaction” (McCrum 2014, emphasis in original). From a perspective informed by anti-racist theorizing, the metaphor cannot but be noted for its epistemologically violent implications. Such a figurative description of the ghostwriter may also divert attention from the ghostwriter’s financial gain accruing from the contract as well as from the agency and prestige involved in ghostwriting. Brandt thus notes: In general, writing is a desirable skill, a somewhat scarce skill, respected for its difficulty and the achievement it represents, particularly when it results in publication. Writing benefits most of all from the cultural prestige of reading. Because many forms of reading over time have been marked with high cultural value, this value has come to extend to those who can write in those forms. In this climate, then, writing may bequeath its high status to an individual person who engages in it. One can “make a name” through writing. Writing also is its own verifiable record of a powerful engagement with literacy and all of its goodness—including, often, the human growth that is presumed to be entailed in a writing experience. This achievement of the writing per se certifies the writer and warrants the reading. Writing then can be an independent source of social value and power and, with some exceptions, enhances the stature of anyone who claims authorship. (2007, p. 550)

The high social prestige attached to reading and thus writing may be one reason why a publishing company sought to offer Trump a book contract initially—and

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why, by extension, Trump offered a contract to Schwartz.25 The high value of having a book out, of claiming authorship, as well as the publicity, the recognition, and the opportunity to fashion oneself all point to the high regard for writing that Brandt highlights. Schwartz helped Trump to create a product that helped the latter to acquire “cultural legitimacy” in a “market of symbolic goods” in which the publication of a book allows the official author to receive “consecration” (Bourdieu 1985, pp. 13–14, 24); Trump could strive toward a secularized form of deification by capitalizing on authorship as a symbolic good of high social value. Brandt underscores the consecrating effects that the publication of ghostwritten books has for their authors when she notes that “typically, subordinates write not for higher-ups but as if they are higher-ups and deliberately for the aggrandizement of higher-ups” (2007, p. 552, original emphasis). By ghostwriting Trump’s first book, Schwartz gave him cultural legitimacy and invested his (Schwartz’s) own position in their relationship with power. Ghostwriters may thus exchange a subordinate position for a superior one.

4 Coda: Trumpist Ghostwriting Turned on Its Head On July 18, 2016, Melania Trump gave her first speech at the Republican National Convention in front of a TV audience of 23 million Americans, which soon after garnered national attention and went viral on social media worldwide (Haberman and Barbaro 2016). Not, however, for its brilliance or eloquent style, as Trump campaign officials might have hoped, but for what was later called an “innocent mistake” by Donald Trump, and a case of “disastrous plagiarism” by the New York Times (Horowitz 2016). What became a Facebook and Twitter sensation involved not only M. Trump but also the former First Lady, Michelle Obama, since key points from her speech at the Democratic National Convention in 2008 had been inserted into M. Trump’s later speech—as well as the central scapegoat of this political charade: the ghostwriter of M. Trump’s speech,

25Mayer

relates an anecdote that lead to the signing of the book contract. A representative of Random House apparently pursued Trump, wrapping a “thick Russian novel in a dummy cover that featured a photograph of Trump looking like a conquering hero; […] Trump was pleased by the mockup, but had one suggestion: ‘Please make my name much bigger.’” Not only is the book contract thus based on a fake, but what is even more noteworthy here is the implicit assumption that the prestige of canonized Russian novels might rub off on Trump’s to-be-ghostwritten memoir so that the producers and author might capitalize on the project.

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Meredith McIver. It is this instance of ghostwriting (allegedly) gone wrong that sheds yet more light on the contradictions that arise within this literary practice, albeit in a different way than one might expect at first glance. The official story is quickly told: as the New York Times reports, the first draft of the speech was written by two experienced Republican speechwriters and ghosts, Matthew Scully and John McConnell, after having been commissioned by Jared Kushner, one of Donald Trump’s senior advisors and son-in-law (Horowitz 2016). Yet, when M. Trump received the speech, she supposedly tore it up and refused to use it (Horowitz 2016) and instead turned to McIver, a long time employee of the Trump clan, to help her write a different speech. In McIver’s official statement issued on July 20 (which was soon taken off D. Trump’s website),26 she notes that M. Trump had “read me some passages from Mrs. Obama’s speech [whom she admires] as examples. I wrote them down and later included some of the phrasing in the draft that ultimately became the final speech” (qtd. in Diamond 2016). As a consequence of the plagiarism, according to McIver, she turned in her resignation, which Mr. Trump, however, turned down by telling her that mistakes are made and “we learn and grow from these experiences” (Diamond 2016). Another explanation was put forth by the author Joshua Cohen in an interview in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, who, in contrast, claims that the speech was used to strategically distract from M. Trump’s Slovenian origins. As Cohen notes, the Trump family wanted to avoid potential headlines such as “‘How can you trust this woman from a former communist country?,’” and explains, “To most Americans, she [M. Trump] comes across as a rich ex-model from ex-Yugoslavia who has nothing in common with them” (Wiele 2016, p. 16, our translation).27 It seems plausible that the Trumps were likely to capitalize on Obama’s popularity by appropriating her words to their own advantage. Such a reading is not as easy to dismiss as one might think, particularly when considering that McIver had extensive experience working as a ghostwriter for the Trump family before she was supposedly approached by M. Trump. Among the numerous books McIver has written for or with Donald Trump are, for example, How to Get Rich (2004), Trump: Think Like a Billionaire (2004), Trump

26See

https://assets.donaldjtrump.com/MeredithStatement.pdf. The former link now merely reads “Thank you for your support.” For her full statement, see Diamond (2016). 27[“Was halten Sie vom Plagiat in der Rede von Trumps Frau Melania? Ich glaube, dass man für ihre Rede bewusst bei Michelle Obama plagiiert hat. Wäre dem nicht so gewesen, hätte später die Überschrift vielleicht gelautet: ‘Wie kann man dieser Frau aus einem ehemals kommunistischen Land vertrauen?’ So, wie sie rüberkommt, ist sie für viele Amerikaner ein reiches Ex-Model aus Ex-Jugoslawien, das nichts mit ihnen gemein hat. Davon hat diese Geschichte abgelenkt. Es war ein klassischer Internet-Coup.”] (Wiele 2016, p. 16).

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101: The Way to Success (2006), Why We Want You to Be Rich (2006), Trump: Never Give Up (2008). She has been repeatedly described as being valued for her “precision” and her “generally meticulous attention to detail” (Horowitz 2016). In addition, as the New York Times discusses in detail, such a strategic scenario also becomes plausible when keeping in mind that political speeches, especially such crucial ones as that of M. Trump, have to undergo a rigorous review process to avoid such an “entirely preventable blunder” (Haberman and Barbaro 2016), including plagiarism software and numerous rounds of editorship. Most importantly, McIver, by openly including Obama’s words in numerous phrases, would have naively broken with the central code of conduct in the business: “avoiding the slightest hint of oratorical theft” (Haberman and Barbaro 2016). As Matt Latimer, one of George W. Bush’s speechwriters, points out, “‘[t]he most cardinal rule of any speech-writing operation is that you cannot plagiarize’” (qtd. in Haberman and Barbaro 2016). What is striking about this potential instance of strategic deception is not necessarily that Donald Trump might have used such a media stunt (albeit a major one) to distract from his wife’s origins—as Tony Schwartz makes clear in his interview with Jane Mayer, Donald Trump has repeatedly fabricated stories with journalists or gotten in touch with news outlets under a pseudonym to do so (Mayer 2016)—but much rather what light it sheds on the role of the ghostwriter—in this case, importantly so, a female one—in this political battle emanating from Trump Tower. This becomes particularly noteworthy when one returns to the issue of power/lessness. While it is not uncommon for ghostwriters to be relegated to an invisible position of non-acknowledgment, with (contractual and financial) pressure being used to relegate them to the background, Tony Schwartz, in fact, also managed to gain substantial power in the process of writing Trump: The Art of the Deal. Not only did he receive $250,000 of the book’s advance and half of its royalties—which, given that it was a “phenomenal success, spending forty-eight weeks on the Times best-seller list” (Mayer 2016) and selling millions of copies, amounted to millions of dollars for him. In fact, the book helped him build his second career as the founder of the consulting firm The Energy Project (2003) and triggered his work as an author and co-author of various books.28 When he went public in July 2016 in order to caution voters about

28Schwartz

wrote What Really Matters: Searching for Wisdom in America (1995) as a reaction to his work as a ghostwriter of Trump: The Art of the Deal. He has also co-authored books with Michael Eisner (Risking Failure, Surviving Success, 1998), Jim Loehr (The Power of Full Engagement: Managing Energy Not Time, 2003), and Jean Gomes and Catherine McCarthy (The Way We’re Working Isn’t Working: Fueling the Four Needs that Energize Performance, 2010).

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Trump, Schwartz thus did so from a financially comfortable and independent position. While McIver has also published various books as Trump’s ghostwriter, and, similar to Schwartz, has close access to his innermost circles and information channels,29 she nevertheless seems to be in the position of almost complete, and passive, dependence. As her public statement highlights, not only is she at Trump’s mercy in terms of keeping her job and her financial stability as his fulltime employee, but—much more so—she is constructed as the original perpetrator, taking the blame for a scheme always already out of her hands. As such, she could be cast as the perfect scapegoat: a 65-year-old pleasant former ballerina who, after having to leave her dancing career, began writing and “dreamed [that] her name [would] appear on the covers of books” (Horowitz 2016). It was as Donald and Melania Trump’s ghostwriter that this dream would come true. As such, McIver has delivered (life) stories that would make her unimpeachable and sympathetic enough to allow for an “innocent mistake” and thus ultimately allow her to continue to exist, and disappear again, in the Trump universe. Contrasting Schwartz and McIver as two opposite cases of ghostwriting points to yet another contradiction: while he was supposed to stay in the background but went public, she was pressured to go public but, with the Trumps officially accepting her apology, was again relegated to the veiled background of ghostwriting inconspicuousness. As this contradictory dynamic highlights, the phenomenon of ghostwriting is located in a force field in which a number of tensions are negotiated, if not staged: the tension between visibility and invisibility, a ghostwriter’s dis/investment with power at the hands of an author, the continuing cultural authority and social prestige of authorship, and repeated claims to authenticity among the reading public despite the implication that ghostwriting undermines such authenticity. As McIver’s example once again shows, there is nothing authentic about “Melania’s speech” despite or because of the fact that giving the speech was supposed to lend credibility and authenticity to her husband’s image as a caring family man and national leader. In both cases, ghostwriting the Trumps has sought to contribute to creating a mythical narrative of a successful and charismatic businessman as well as that of a genuine husband and father who would successfully extend his role as a paterfamilias in private to the leadership of a nation. Ghostwriting here glosses over narrative contradictions between fact and fiction and the social contradictions inherent in the conflict between the U.S. nation-based myth that you

29As

Jason Horowitz notes: “Ms. McIver is considered part of the extended Trump family. ‘She is terrific, she’s a terrific woman,’ Trump said […], ‘She’s been with us a long time.’”

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can make it if only you try hard enough and the overwhelming difficulty if not impossibility of making this myth come true. As our discussion of ghostwriting has shown, however, the production and reception of texts like Donald Trump’s memoir or Melania Trump’s speech are invested in straddling various contradictory fault lines which concern the presences and absences of its ghostwriters, the plausibility of the textual material including the precarious relationship between fact and fiction, as well as the power/lessness and status of both authors and ghostwriters in the cultural field. We consider ghostwriting an excellent phenomenon to highlight the contradictory dynamics at work in such a cultural practice—and our examination of ghostwriting the Trumps has shown these dynamics in symptomatic fashion. But our discussion of ghostwriting the Trumps has not sought to solve and disambiguate contradictions. Instead, a consideration of ghostwriting and an analysis of different figures of the ghostwriter in cultural history facilitate an inquiry into (American) literature and culture at large that assumes they are and have always been composite, contested, and contradictory. This assumption will also be imperative for Contradiction Studies as an emerging field. The practice of ghostwriting reminds us that unresolvable contradictions are a constitutive element of literature and cultures and their theorization.

References Barrett, Wayne. 1992. Trump: The deals and the downfall. New York: HarperCollins. Barthes, Roland. 2001/1967. The death of the author. In The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, ed. Vincent B. Leitch, 1466–1470. New York: W.W. Norton. Bennett, Andrew. 2005. The author. New York: Routledge. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1985. The market of symbolic goods. Poetics 14 (1–2): 13–44. (Translated by R. Swyer). Brandt, Deborah. 2007. Who’s the president? Ghostwriting and shifting values in literacy. College English 69: 549–71. Breslow, Jason M. 2016. The frontline interview: Tony Schwartz. Public Broadcasting Service, 27 September. http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/frontline/article/the-frontline-interview-tony-schwartz/. Accessed 13 Dec 2016. Brigance, William N. 1956. Ghostwriting before Franklin D. Roosevelt and the radio. Today’s Speech 4 (3): 10–12. Brodsky, Louis Daniel. 2013. William Faulkner: Life glimpses. Austin: University of Texas Press. Brown, Stuart C., and Linda A. Riley. 1996. Crafting a public image: An empirical study of the ethics of ghostwriting. Journal of Business Ethics 15 (7): 711–720.

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Campbell, Karlyn Kohrs, and Kathleen Hall Jamieson. 1990. Deeds done in words: Presidential rhetoric and the genres of governance. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Cassidy, John. 2016. The election may be over, but Trump’s blowup is just starting. The New Yorker, 13 October. http://www.newyorker.com/news/john-cassidy/the-electionmay-be-over-but-trumps-blowup-is-just-starting. Accessed 12 Dec 2016. Chelala, Cesar. 2016. The real Donald Trump. CounterPunch, 25 July. http://www.counterpunch.org/2016/07/25/the-real-donald-trump/. Accessed 20 Oct 2016. Diamond, Jeremy. 2016. Trump aide offers resignation in Melania Trump plagiarism incident. Cable News Network, 21 July. http://edition.cnn.com/2016/07/20/politics/trumpaide-offers-resignation-in-melania-trump-plagiarism-incident/. Accessed 6 Dec 2016. Dyson, Michael Eric. 2015 The ghost of Cornel West. The New Republic, 20 April. http:// www.newrepublic.com/article/121550/cornel-wests-rise-fall-our-most-exciting-blackscholar-ghost. Accessed 13 Oct 2016. Einhorn, Lois J. 1991. Ghostwriting: Two famous ghosts speak on its nature and its ethical implications. In Ethical dimensions of political communication, ed. Robert E. Denton, 115–44. New York: Praeger. Farhi, Paul. 2014. Who wrote that political memoir? No, who actually wrote it? The Washington Post, 9 June. https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/who-wrotethat-political-memoirno-who-actually-wrote-it/2014/06/09/8e89ccae-f00a-11e3-9ebc2ee6f81ed217_story.html. Accessed 2 Oct 2016. Feinman-Todd, Barbara. 2006. It’s time to put ghost writing in its place. National Public Radio, 31 October. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6410194. Accessed 16 December 2016. Garber, Marjorie. 2010. Shakespeare’s ghost writers: Literature as uncanny casualty. New York: Routledge. Goffman, Erving. 1979. Footing. Semiotica 25 (1–2): 1–29. Grandy, Richard E., and Warner, Richard. 2005. “Paul Grice.” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy Archive. Last modified 9 September 2013. http://plato.stanford.edu/ archives/spr2014/entries/grice/. Accessed 1 Dec 2016. Grice, Paul. 1991. Studies in the way of words. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Haberman, Maggie, and Michael Barbaro. 2016. How Melania Trump’s speech veered off course and caused an uproar. The New York Times, 19 July. http://www.nytimes. com/2016/07/20/us/politics/melania-trump-convention-speech.html. Accessed 15 Nov 2016. Hitt, Jack. 1997. The writer is dead. The New York Times, 25 May. http://www.nytimes. com/1997/05/25/magazine/the-writer-is-dead.html. Accessed 27 Oct 2016. Horowitz, Jason. 2016. Behind Melania Trump’s cribbed lines, an ex-ballerina who loved writing. The New York Times, 20. July. http://www.nytimes.com/2016/07/21/us/politics/ melania-trump-speech-meredith-mciver.html. Accessed 6 Dec 2016. Hutchins, Zachary. 2004. Summary of ‘dying confession of Pomp.’ Documenting the ­American South, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. http://docsouth.unc.edu/ neh/pomp/summary.html. Accessed 10 Jan 2014. Junker, Carsten, and Ingo H. Warnke. 2015. Marguerite stix and the shell: Notes on disciplinarity and contradiction. Quaderna no. 3. http://quaderna.org/marguerite-stix-andthe-shell-notes-on-disciplinarity-and-contradiction/. Accessed 16 Dec 2016.

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Lukaßen, Daniela. 2016. Ghostwriting: Schreiben im Namen anderer. In Infodienst für Berufe in Bildung, Kultur und Sozialwesen, ed. Krischan Ostenrath, iv–viii. Bonn: Wissenschaftsladen Bonn e. V. Mandeville, Bernard. 1989/1724. The fable of the bees: Or private vices, publick benefits. New York: Penguin. Mayer, Jane. 2016. Donald Trump’s ghostwriter tells all. The New Yorker, 25 July. http:// www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/07/25/donald-trumps-ghostwriter-tells-all. Accessed 24 Oct 2016. McCrum, Robert. 2014. Bestselling ghostwriter reveals the secret world of the author for hire. The Guardian, 27 July. https://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/jul/27/bestselling-ghostwriter-reveals-secret-world. Accessed 17 Oct 2016. Meadows, Susannah. 2004. Between the lines. Newsweek, 12 January, 12. Mielke, Ulrike. 1995. Der Schatten und sein Autor: Eine Untersuchung zur Bedeutung des Ghostwriters. Frankfurt a. M.: Peter Lang. Morrison, Toni. 1989. Unspeakable things unspoken: The Afro-American presence in American literature. Michigan Quarterly Review 28 (1): 1–34. O’Brien, Timothy L. 2005. TrumpNation: The art of being the Donald. New York: Warner. Paul, Heike. 2014. The myths that made America: An introduction to American studies. Bielefeld: transcript. Plummer, Jonathan. 1795. Dying confession of Pomp, a Negro man, who was executed at Ipswich, on the 6th August, 1795, for murdering Capt. Charles Furbush, of Andover, taken from the mouth of the prisoner, and penned by Jonathan Plummer, Jun. Phillips Library, Peabody Essex Museum, Salem, MA. Queenan, Joe. 2005. Ghosts in the machine. The New York Times, 20 March. http://www. nytimes.com/2005/03/20/books/review/ghosts-in-the-machine.html. Accessed 16 Dec 2016. Rappeport, Alan. 2016. ‘I feel a deep sense of remorse,’ Donald Trump’s ghostwriter says. The New York Times, 18 July. https://www.nytimes.com/2016/07/19/us/politics/trumpbook-tony-schwartz.html. Accessed 27 Oct 2016. Schwartz, Tony (@tonyschwartz). 2016. I wrote the art of the deal. Donald Trump read it. Twitter, 16 September 2016, 5:19 p.m. https://twitter.com/tonyschwartz/status/644304700884582400. Accessed 13 Dec 2016. Stein, Sadie. 2013. Ghostwriting Tom Clancy. The Paris Review, 3 October. http://www. theparisreview.org/blog/2013/10/03/ghostwriting-tom-clancy/. Accessed 17 Oct 2016. Stockman, Farah, and Carlos Mureithi. 2019. Cheating, Inc.: How writing papers for American college students has become a lucrative profession overseas. The New York Times, 7. September. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/09/07/us/college-cheating-papers.html. Accessed 10 Sept 2019. Sutherland, John. 2011. How literature works: 50 key concepts. New York: Oxford University Press. Trump, Donald J., and Tony Schwartz. 2015/1987. Trump: The art of the deal. New York: Ballantine. United States Copyright Office. 2012. Works made for hire. Library of Congress, September. https://www.copyright.gov/circs/circ09.pdf. Accessed 20 Oct 2016. Warren, James Perrin. 1984. Whitman as ghostwriter: The case of rambles among words. Walt Whitman Quarterly Review 2 (2): 22–30. Wiele, Jan. 2016. Joshua Cohen im Gespräch: Scham ist ein Konzept der Vergangenheit. Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 30 July 16.

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Carsten Junker  is Professor of American Studies with a Focus on Diversity Studies at TU Dresden. His research interests include North American literatures and cultures including Canada and the Caribbean from the seventeenth century to the present, structural violence, genre theory, and theories of authorship. He is author of Patterns of Positioning: On the Poetics of Early Abolition. Heidelberg: Winter, 2016; Frames of Friction: Black Genealogies, White Hegemony, and the Essay as Critical Intervention. Frankfurt/New York: Campus, 2010; and, with Ingo H. Warnke, Marguerite Stix and the Shell—Notes on Disciplinarity and Contradiction. Quaderna no. 3, 2015. Marie-Luise Löffler  currently works at the Equal Opportunity Office of the City of Heidelberg, implementing diversity management with a particular focus on women at the intersection of gender, race/ethnicity and disability. She was a postdoctoral fellow at the department of Languages and Literatures (English-Speaking Cultures) at the University of Bremen. Her research interests include African American literature, women’s literature and speculative fiction. She is the author of ‘She Would Be No Man’s Property Ever Again:’ Vampirism, Slavery, and Black Female Heroism in Contemporary African American Women’s Fiction. Images of the Modern Vampire. Ed. Barbara Brodman and James E. Doan. 99–113. Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2013; ‘Why white people feel they got to mark us?:’ Bodily Inscription, Healing, and Maternal ‘Plots of Power’ in Jewelle Gomez’s ‘Louisiana 1850.’ The Black Imagination: Science Fiction, Futurism and the Speculative. Ed. Sandra Jackson and Julie E. Moody-Freeman. 146–166. New York: Peter Lang, 2011; ‘All We Remember Is Their Scars:’ African American Speculative Fiction’s Dismantling of the Foundations of Home. Constructions of Home: Interdisciplinary Studies in Architecture, Law, and Literature. Ed. Klaus Stierstorfer. 339–359. New York: AMS Press, 2010.

A Blob with Aplomb Introducing Discourse-Linguistic Contradiction Studies Outside the Box Ingo H. Warnke and Daniel Schmidt-Brücken aliud eos in religione suscepisse cum populo. et aliud eodem ipso populo audiente defendisse privatim. Augustinus, De vera religione I.1 (‘That they publicly participated in the usual cult, but privately and not secretly defended something quite different’ (our translation, IHW & DSB))

Abstract

In a hypothesis-based approach, the paper examines the relevance of concepts of contradiction in discourse analysis and, in turn, also addresses the relevance of discourse analysis in Contradiction Studies. Starting from a (self)critical re-reading of a central discourse-linguistic foundational model (DIMEAN, cf. Spitzmüller & Warnke 2011), contradiction will first be conceptualized as a double relation. In discourse-linguistic modeling, clusters of utterances and practices of utterance are commonly pitted against each other in a relation of tension. This raises questions about the status of the object of discourse linguistics: is discourse considered a constructivist practice or an arrangement of utterances? In a theory of language-based discourse, the assumption of an “as-well-as” is central. Layers of text as well as praxis are interdependent and may indeed

I. H. Warnke (*) · D. Schmidt-Brücken  University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany e-mail: [email protected] D. Schmidt-Brücken e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 J. Lossau et al. (eds.), Spaces of Dissension, Contradiction Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7_4

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relate to each other in a tension-filled contradictory relation. This becomes most clear in pragmatic contradiction or in the contradiction between the actor-bound purpose of an utterance and its discursive effects. A further potential field of contradictory relationality results from the status of utterances as elements of singular texts, that is, within their intra-textual environment, and as constituents of trans-textual networks of utterances. This tension-laden relation becomes particularly relevant with regard to the historicity of utterances and their truth claims. Keywords

Discourse linguistics · Methodology · Principles · Positioning

1 Blobbing the Box All discourse happens inside a box, although this box may take on different looks, can materialize in changing shapes, may serve various functions, and can even be staged. We arrive at adopting the box metaphor of discourse if we turn to Ludwig Wittgenstein, who remarks that “the limits of my language mean the limits of my world” (Wittgenstein [1921] 2001, p. 68). This may indeed be the most fundamental box in which discourses move: the limits of words. We can furthermore relate this to Michel Foucault’s understanding of the archive which he describes as “the law of what can be said” (Foucault [1969] 1972, p. 129). Discourses are marked by limits of the sayable, and it is precisely for this reason that they happen in a limited space of linguistic behavior. Contradicting the belief that linguistic principles must be a “set of rules that constitute our grammar, and by reference to which we can produce or understand or make judgments on any of an infinite set of sentences” (Smith and Allott 2016, p. 32), we assume that a never-ending set of emerging principles delimit what we can say, hear, and understand. There are thus no discourses outside a strictly delimiting box. Whoever holds the box in their hands also has the power over what can be said and understood. It is a key characteristic of discourses that they take place within limits of the sayable; this is a fundamental premise of all poststructuralist semantics, even though the dissolution of boundaries is a marker of poststructuralism as well; for instance, when conceptualizations of text are unlimited—which may seem contradictory (cf. Rusterholz 1998, p. 2333). Taking up the metaphor of the box, we notice a severe tension between its inside and outside. If you take part in a discourse—i.e., if you position yourself with respect to other discourse participants—you inevitably find yourself in a ready-set frame (cf. Fig. 1).

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Fig. 1   Discursive positioning inside the box as limitation of the sayable

Consider the following example: in the tale The Emperor’s New Clothes by Danish author Hans Christian Andersen, the vain Emperor is deceived by a fraud of two men who promise him a new set of clothes that are—so they tell him— invisible to incompetent and stupid people: “but clothes made of this cloth had a wonderful way of becoming invisible to anyone who was unfit for his office, or who was unusually stupid.”1 The fraud thus takes place within a constructed system of knowledge, within an epistemic order whose acceptance entails belonging to a desired social world, namely, that of competent and clever people. While the emperor is generally vain, he takes interest in precisely this function of powerful control of his subjects’ knowledge: “‘Those would be just the clothes for me,’ thought the Emperor. ‘If I wore them I would be able to discover which men in my empire are unfit for their posts. And I could tell the wise men from the fools. Yes, I certainly must get some of the stuff woven for me right away.’” Accordingly, Andersen’s tale demonstrates the temptation of discursive control, and it furthermore shows—since we are faced with a fraud—the lure for being inside the desirable box: being inside discourse, possessing its knowledge, and thus belonging to the powerful, even at the expense of truthfulness. Intrigued by the fraudulent offer, the Emperor commissions the clothes and, while it becomes apparent that neither he nor his courtiers can actually see the alleged new suit, everybody plays along in the delusion of seeing clothes that do not exist. This continues until, during a parade where the Emperor is showing off his new clothes, a voice of objection makes itself heard:

1We

cite the translation from Danish by Jean Hersholt at The Hans Christian Andersen Centre at http://www.andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/hersholt/TheEmperorsNewClothes_e.html (accessed August 31, 2016).

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(1) “But he hasn’t got anything on,” a little child said. We learn from this episode that it takes only one statement, a discursive event in the sense of Foucault’s stipulation of the term (cf. Foucault 1972, p. 231), to question an entire discourse, to rupture the consensual behavior of a community, and to contradict. The box gets fissured. A child dares to object and to distrust the limits of the sayable, while everyone else is content in participating in the agreedupon discourse: (2) “How well Your Majesty’s new clothes look. Aren’t they becoming!” He heard on all sides. And from the child’s statement onward, it becomes possible that anyone can utter sentence (1): (3) “But he hasn’t got anything on!” the whole town cried out at last. Andersen’s tale illustrates the concept of a “discursive event” rather nicely. The consensus of conformist communicative behavior is interrupted by confronting it with a contradicting position whose first feature is a single syllable: but. The discourse, promising power and belonging, is being breached by an outside agent, the child, whose father exclaims: “‘Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?’” The discursive breach becomes even more obvious in a predecessor text of Andersen’s tale, the fourteenth-century Conde Lucanor. The setting takes on a much more distinct shape here: the clothes are invisible for those who are illegitimate descendants, although this is hidden knowledge: (4) “three impostors came to a King, and told him they were cloth-weavers, and could fabricate a cloth of so peculiar a nature that a legitimate son of his father could see the cloth; but if he were illegitimate, though believed to be legitimate, he could not see it.” (Conde Lucanor 1899, p. 53) We are thus faced with questions of legitimate filiation and therefore—to use contemporary terminology—with bio-political discourses of power. This raises questions of controlling social inclusion, of the danger of potential exclusion, of demarcation. Interestingly enough, the discourse here is breached by a figure positioned outside the social order, someone who is socially dead: a man who, in the English translation of the late nineteenth century, is introduced as “a negro” and, as he reflects on his social status himself, has “nothing to lose:”

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(5) “Not so, however, with a negro, who happened to notice the King thus equipped; for he, having nothing to lose, came to him and said, ‘Sire, to me it matters not whose son I am, therefore, I tell you that you are riding without any clothes’.” (Conde Lucanor 1899, p. 56–57) We can speak of a socially dead figure when we consider enslavement as an apparatus that positions a black person outside of kinship relations; in a discursive context shaped by slavery, a black person is positioned outside the order of discourse and, by extension, society. According to Orlando Patterson (1982, p. 7), social death partly results from a person being a “genealogical isolate,” from their “natal alienation,” in other words, from “the loss of ties of birth in both ascending and descending generations.” The so-called “negro” in the English version of Conde Lucanor has to assume such a position. What does this have to do with contradictions? To put it in technical terms, we may define “contradiction,” on the one hand, as a relation of mutual exclusion between two propositions (p and not-p) and, on the other hand, as a practice of objection (a speaker, faced with p, says not-p).2 Now, from a discourse-theoretical perspective, a contradiction between two propositions is not an essentially given relation but has a rather contingent status. It is something “made” within the bounds of social norms and institutions: a declaration (Searle 2010). To “make” a contradiction means to assemble statements side by side and to declare them contradictory. From this vantage point, “logical” relations of contradiction presuppose “linguistic” practices of contradicting.3 Contradicting a general enthusiasm about the emperor’s new clothes—a performance full of uncertainty—calls for a but and a voice that is articulated from outside the powerful box, even if it is the voice of a socially dead person. A discursive event expands the limits of the sayable, which means that contradictory practices have consequences on a more general level of relating propositions, i.e., for a discourse. In the case of Andersen’s tale, the child’s objection makes it possible to point to the nakedness of the emperor, i.e., to say not-p; to declare he hasn’t got anything on. The child or the black subject poses a contradiction, regardless of any intentions. The child says what she

2Even though these stipulations may seem rather formal, we would like to stress that “p and not-p” are not variables in a strict logical sense since language use is not restricted or—to a large extent—adequately represented by logical operators. Not-p may have an entirely different linguistic form from p and still contradict p in the relational or practical sense. 3Busse (1987, p. 226) points out that “discursive events have their predominant form in linguistic expressions” (our translation, IHW & DSB).

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or he sees, and thus opens up new possibilities of the sayable. The discourse is expanding; it is now also a discourse about the nakedness of the emperor and no longer merely about his supposedly new clothes, for it is not only the child who expresses her or his perception: (3) “But he hasn’t got anything on!” the whole town cried out at last. This does not mean, however, that the discourse has completely changed, as the emperor—to save his face—does not withdraw from his powerful position: (6) The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, “This procession has got to go on.” So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn’t there at all. Different and once again more radical in Conde Lucanor—a tale about the courage of truth, the condition of which is to contradict; more precisely an account of the loss of an anxiety to contradict by way of a converse declaration: (7) “But no sooner had the negro said this, than others were convinced of its truth, and said the same; until, at last, the King and all with him lost their fear of declaring the truth, and saw through the trick of which these impostors had made them the victims.” (Conde Lucanor 1899, p. 57) What does the black person or the child do, what does the emperor do? The black person and the child think outside the box, they breach the square of the sayable, creating a discursive event which demands courage or naïveté. This contradicts the consensus and thus opens up a contradictory propositional relation: (p) the emperor has (new) clothes vs. (not-p) the emperor has no clothes. Meanwhile, in Anderson’s version, the emperor remains in his position inside the box, not allowing an alternative way of looking at himself. But the contradiction is now a fact; it seems that p and not-p are incompatible. A discursive event can be understood as confronting typical discursive attitudes with something else and thus, by way of “doing” contradiction, making contradictory relations possible: a “square which becomes blobby” (Oldenburg 19614).

4Cf.

https://users.wfu.edu/~laugh/painting2/oldenburg.pdf (accessed April 12, 2017).

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Fig. 2   Discursive positioning outside the box as expansion of the sayable

The boundaries of what-can-be-said are clearly defined and constituted by solidified routines. What goes beyond this shifts to a non-formatted space. Inspired by Claes Oldenburg’s Manifesto I am for an Art (1961),5 we call the creation of a discursive event a blob (cf. Fig. 2). The goal of this chapter is to reflect upon the relevance of contradiction(s) for discourse and discourse analysis from a linguistic point of view. Taking Andersen’s tale and the concept of the blob as a departure point, we take three complementary perspectives into account: practices of contradiction, relations of contradiction, and their connection. Our considerations result in postulating three principles of Discourse-Linguistic Contradiction Studies (DLCS): 1. The both-and principle, resulting from the modeling of methodological levels of contradictory relations in discourse. 2. The more-or-less principle, resulting from the discussion of conceptual characteristics of discursive events, allowing an assessment of degrees of contradictory tension in discourses. 3. The as-well-as principle, resulting from analyses of contradictory objects in DLCS.

5Our

immediate inspiration, however, is Julian Rosenfeldt’s Manifesto (http://www.julianrosefeldtinberlin.de/), an adaptation of Oldenburg’s manifesto I am for an Art.

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Here, too, we were inspired by positions beyond the linguistic box that can oftentimes be rather confining. We develop the three principles from our reading of Robert Venturi’s Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture (1966). Venturi (1966, p. 23) calls for an architecture of complexity and contradiction, arguing against a functional modernism in favor of an architecture based on a logic of “as well as” and “‘both-and’,” using the formula “More is not less.” An entire chapter of his book addresses Contradictory Levels and The Phenomenon of “Both-And” in Architecture (Venturi 1966, p. 30–38). This provides a transdisciplinary inspiration for our considerations of the principles of DLCS.

2 Dimensions and Principles of Contradiction in Discourse-Linguistic Contradiction Studies (DLCS) 2.1 Methodological Relations in DLCS First, we attempt a self-critical re-reading of the so-called DIMEAN model which is a multilayered methodology for discourse-linguistic analysis (“Diskurslinguistische Mehrebenenanalyse,” cf. Spitzmüller and Warnke 2011). The key aspect of this model is a triadic structure containing an intra-textual layer (with analytical objects like keywords, argument structure, textual functions), agents (e.g., voice, stance), and a trans-textual layer (e.g., frames, tropes, inter-textuality) to be considered in any discourse analysis. While it is not necessary for a proper discourse analysis to focus on all possible forms of discursive elements, the main argument DIMEAN makes is to reflect upon what is analyzed in terms of its relation to other layers of the model. a) Discourses are constituted by the immediate linguistic contexts of statements, commonly called text; the appropriate level in the DIMEAN model is the intra-textual analysis. If we apply this to Andersen’s text, an intra-textual analysis would take up on the structure of the text, the linguistic means used in the text itself, the positioning within this text, and so on. b) Intra-textual and trans-textual levels are connected in the discourse by agents. Individuals, institutions, media, political parties, interest groups, etc., put statements in relation to each other, thus constantly re-formulating the boundaries of what can be said. Andersen, as an author, is such an agent himself; staged within the discursive scenario of the text, the child, as a naïve agent, says what others do not deem possible, generally questioning the common way of talking, or at least expanding its possibilities.

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c) Discourses can be described as propositional networks. They emerge from inter-textual references, from what connects propositions beyond individual texts; in the DIMEAN model, this is the domain of a trans-textual analysis. Andersen’s text is a good example of trans-textuality in two respects. The text itself already reflects on how a society behaves linguistically, depending on what prerequisites are in place; so it deals precisely with this trans-textual level. The moment the child speaks, everyone else is awarded the opportunity to object as well. The discourse now has a way to expand the box; different agents may speak differently after a discursive event. Andersen’s tale can also be viewed in the context of other discourses: texts or propositional networks in which opportunism, adaptation, and submission are discussed. Against such a background, an abstract, trans-textual level can be used to describe a connection between completely different texts, such as Andersen’s The Emperor’s New Clothes and Michel Houellebecq’s Submission (2015)—a novel that also addresses the question of the sayable in social orders. In summary, three levels are described in DIMEAN with agents being conceived as a hinge between intra- and trans-textual levels (cf. Fig. 3). We here suggest that the intra-textual layer, the layer of agents, and the transtextual layer can contradict each other in certain respects, regardless of whether the analytical focus in fact lies on contradictions. This is why we regard linguistic

a) INTRA-TEXTUAL LAYER

b) AGENTS

c) TRANS-TEXTUAL LAYER

Fig. 3   Discourse-linguistic layers in DIMEAN

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TRANS-TEXTUAL LAYER AGENTS

β INTRA-TEXTUAL LAYER

α Fig. 4   Dimensions of contradiction in DIMEAN

discourse analysis as a central field of Contradiction Studies. There are two dimensions of contradiction in the methodology of DIMEAN, represented schematically in Fig. 4 by a horizontal and a vertical arrow: Dimension α refers to tensions that can arise between different disciplinary approaches to discourses. While discourse analysis in the social sciences is, for example, primarily interested in discourse practices and thus in agents and events, a linguistic discourse analysis is more concentrated on discourses as virtual text corpora (Busse and Teubert 1994, p. 14), even more so in some corpus-linguistic approaches to discourse. One could also argue that a discourse analysis which is corpus-oriented is less interested in agents or their behavior and vice versa. However, it is a characteristic feature of discourses that the seeming contradiction between an analysis of discursive practices and an analysis of discursive products is not resolved. Rather, the diversity of these disciplinary preferences remains and can even be used productively. This is theoretically justifiable: discourse is neither a practice nor a product; rather it is characterized by the fact that solidified discursive products determine new practices. And practices, in turn, create new products, etc. At first glance, this may be perceived as circular, but it is nothing but a basic mechanism of social phenomena. All social phenomena—be they languages in general, institutional routines, behavioral patterns, etc.—function in the way Pierre Bourdieu (2010, p. 168) has stipulated: they are both “structured products (opus operatum) and a structuring structure (modus operandi).” By extension, discourses as well as habitus, language, routines, etc. can be described as performance and as

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product simultaneously. Karl Bühler, in his theory of language (2011, p. 31), hints at this synchronicity in describing the linguistic product as being “both effectus and efficiens,” i.e., product and production at the same time. The alleged contradiction between an agent-based discourse analysis and a text-based discourse analysis is thus resolved in what we call the both-and principle. We can thus maintain that Discourse Linguistics is a text-oriented and, simultaneously, an agent-oriented practice. As a consequence, discourse analysis presents a contribution to Contradiction Studies: it necessarily combines dimensions of practice and product; both are methodological concepts of multilayered Discourse Linguistics. Dimension β has quite similar properties. Here, we see the both-and principle at work as well. It seems obvious to understand discourse analysis from the outset as an inquiry into trans-textual propositional networks, for discourse appears to be precisely what lies beyond the individual text, i.e., that which is no longer linked to an immediate context, and is shaped by different agents over periods of time. However, discourses are not only present where individual texts are transcended, so we do not necessarily need a multitude of texts to practice discourse analysis in the linguistic sense. Rather, discourse analysis can also be applied to individual texts and can even be related to individual sentences. Ulla Fix (2015) proposes the concept of one-text discourse analysis, and Josef Klein (2014) considers salient sentences as emblems of entire discourses. On the other hand, linguistic discourse analysis in its corpus-linguistic form shows a certain quantitative bias. Discourse Linguistics, however, is not necessarily bound to big data and the digital humanities. Obviously, corpus linguistics can be useful for discourse-analytical purposes, but it is in no way a necessary condition. Thus, in addition to the tension between discourse as practice and discourse as product, we identify a tension between immediate intratextual contexts and trans-textual assemblages of propositions. Here too, we suggest that the supposed contradiction dissolves in the both-and principle. The both-and principle is thus manifested in Discourse Linguistics in two dimensions: α) the agent-text dimension and β) the intra-/trans-textual dimension:

Overview

The both-and principle in Discourse-Linguistic Contradiction Studies • BOTH agents AND texts are concepts in the methodology of DL • BOTH intra-textual AND trans-textual layers are concepts in the methodology of DL • Contradictory tensions between these aspects cannot be resolved in DL

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2.2 Conceptual Properties of Discursive Events in DLCS Having identified these contradictory dimensions in Discourse-Linguistic methodology, we now turn to some key conceptual properties of discursive events that, we suggest, help to assess their “degree of contradictory tension.” The tensions that exist, on the one hand, between the categories of agent and (intra-/trans-)text, and those that exist, on the other hand, between intra- and trans-textual layers are relational and dynamic. Relationality and dynamicity are conceptual properties of discursive events that can be described in terms of prototypicality (cf. the explication following Fig. 5). By relationality, we mean that any of the mentioned (contradictory) tensions can only be identified by analyzing a discursive datum in relation to other data. The seriality of the sequence of propositions in discourses is a necessary condition for the assessment of a discursive event—be it for the purpose of analytical classification or in the normative evaluation of actions. The box of the sayable is constituted by agents and propositions referring to each other and thus by referring to

Fig. 5   Prototypical model of measures of contradictory tension in discourses

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preceding propositions. The fundamental prerequisites for contradictory discourse relations are thus laid out: contradiction as practice and contradiction as a propositional relation. The relationality of a contradictory tension between agents or propositions in discourse is a scalar property that operates on a continuum. Consider as an example the 2016 media discourse following a poem about the Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan by the German satirist Jan Böhmermann.6 Prior to reciting the poem in his TV program, Böhmermann explicitly announces that he is going to transgress the limits of freedom of art, freedom of press, and freedom of expression. What follows is an onslaught of insults deliberately lacking in taste, to say the least. If applied to the box model of discourse and its expansion into a blob, Böhmermann’s poem Schmähkritik (roughly translated as “abusive criticism”) is a deliberate transgression of the sayable by means of a staged contradiction (cf. Drouet 2015), i.e., an intentional objection against some established discursive position (cf. Spitzmüller et al. 2017). This contradiction is not constituted as a propositional relation, because no statement not-p is placed against a statement p. Rather, it stems from a generalized objection to (media-political) positions of the Erdoğan government. At the same time, the poem, as a discursive event, has the effect of transcending the box of the sayable and opens up a space of possibility which only potentially expands the box at this point; however, it becomes clear in the further progression of the discourse whether this scope of possibility is realized: a square which becomes blobby. The relationality of propositions in the critical discourse about the Turkish government in 2016 is scalar in that, for example, an official statement by a Turkish government spokesperson would conceivably be positioned firmly inside the box, a government-critical position could be located at the periphery of the box, and the Böhmermann poem expands the bounds of the box turning it into a blob. To be clear: the purpose of postulating a relational property is not to assert the exact determination of a system-related valeur of a text in the sense of structuralist theories. Rather, it is a tool for describing discourse data as to their potential for inconsistency, and explaining why—in Foucauldian terms—a contradiction is expressed in a particular place at a given time by a particular agent. For this reason, we call relationality a conceptual property of discursive events: knowledge activated in discourses is conceptually structured. Degrees of tension encompass

6A

summary of this discourse can be found here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ B%C3%B6hmermann_affair (April 7, 2017).

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a spectrum from (almost) absolute discourse-conformity—a firm anchoring inside the box—to contradictory positions at the margins of the box up to the opening of completely new discursive spaces initiated by a blob. Dynamicity as a conceptual property of discursive events pertains to the fact that the degree of tension between a discursive datum and another datum is variable depending on potential discourse shifts. The status of discourse positions, agents, or propositions to each other can change between two points in time t0 and t1. This is a rather trivial stipulation that results from a diachronic perspective on discourse. However, dynamicity as a variability of discourse relations is not limited to a temporal dimension. Discourse positions (statements, agents) can also change their respective status by inclusion of further discourse data into the analysis (this corresponds to the methodological requirement for triangulation, cf. Spitzmüller and Warnke 2011, p. 40). To give a counterfactual example corresponding to the Böhmermann-Erdoğan discourse constellation: if an agent were to contribute an utterance to the discourse which would even be more provocative than the Böhmermann poem, this discursive event would relativize all further discourse data on the assumed scale of tensions. Again, this is not a question of fixing “values of contradiction” but a tool for theorizing the potential of discourses to allow for conclusions to be drawn about the limits of what is sayable at a given moment in time. To schematize these considerations, we can draw upon a radial model of concentric circles used in linguistic prototype theory (cf. Lakoff 1987, p. 83) that includes the box model of discourse as well as the space of possibility (the blob) and an analytical scale of discursive tensions (represented by the double arrow) (cf. Fig. 5). A propositional datum that has maximum conformity with a given, powerful discourse is positioned at the center of the box and simultaneously in the innermost of the concentric circles. Since, practically, no such maximum conformity can truly be achieved, this presents a theoretical ideal type or prototype. The tension represented by the double arrow increases in the direction of the periphery and is thus scalar. At the intersection of the arrow and the box, there is a contradiction which is usually explicated—for example, by lexical or grammatical means such as the adversative connector but. Intersections of the arrow and the concentric circles indicate that discursive data can be identified here with respect to their tensions. The positions of propositions on the arrow scale are, on the one hand, relational and, on the other hand, dynamic, in so far as these positions are not permanent. An analysis that takes these conceptual properties into account follows the more-or-less principle of DLCS. Contradiction is no static relation of propositions but results from dynamic, interdependent, mutual ascriptions.

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Overview

The more-or-less principle in Discourse-Linguistic Contradiction Studies • Discursive propositions are placed MORE OR LESS in the center of the sayable • Discursive propositions transcend bounds of the sayable MORE OR LESS through a blob • Contradictory tensions are MORE OR LESS results of a specific discursive order

2.3 Analytical Objects in DLCS Contradiction is relevant for DLCS not only as a methodological relation or as a reference point of discourse-analytical maxims but also, of course, as a feature of its objects of research. Such objects must meet two conditions: they must be discursive objects and they must be contradictory objects. By a discursive object, we mean all propositional positioning of agents by routine behavior or by the production of discursive events. In Andersen’s text as well as in Conde Lucanor, routine behavior can be observed in all those who position themselves inside the box by exclaiming: (2) “How well Your Majesty’s new clothes look. Aren’t they becoming!” This routine is interrupted by the occurrence of a blob which, in Andersen’s text, also marks the turning point of the tale: (1) “But he hasn’t got anything on,” a little child said. Both phenomena (1) and (2) are of discourse-analytical interest because the corresponding propositions and their variants are means of agents to position themselves within and outside the bounds of what is sayable. By contradictory object, we mean a proposition like (1) if it contradicts another proposition such as (2). The emperor cannot wear new clothes and be naked at the same time; this would constitute a contradiction in the sense of

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(p∧¬p). Be it mentioned that interestingly enough, Andersen precisely states p∧¬p when the emperor continues his walk irrespective of the realization of his own nakedness, as if the discourse were not of his concern: (6) The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, “This procession has got to go on.” So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn’t there at all. Two interpretations impose themselves here: first, power bears contradiction— i.e., bearing contradictions indicates a position of power (cf. Warnke and Acke 2018, p. 332–342); second, power sliding into contradiction can reduce itself to absurdity. In the process of writing this chapter, the 45th President of the United States, Donald Trump, provided examples of this logic: claiming a position of power through contradictory utterances. Contradictory relations of propositions which are unfolded consecutively on a narrative level in Andersen’s text can be captured analytically in implicit and explicit ways. An implicit contradiction arises whenever something is perceived as contradictory in terms of a specific framework of a given presupposed or activated knowledge. Inside the box, the emperor has new clothes, regardless of whether they can be seen or not because it is his power to assert it as fact. The child confronts this conformist knowledge with her or his own knowledge or maxim: “say what you see.” She or he does not perceive the necessary submissive code of conduct—a knowledge framework in which adults exist habitually—and, therefore, identifies a contradiction between what the people say and what she or he sees. The child asserts this but, and by doing so articulates the implicit contradiction. In sentence (1), which lexically marks the child’s objection by this connector but, we additionally find an explicitly contradictory object. Objects of DLCS are therefore necessarily discursive objects and contradictory objects which may be implicit and/or explicit.

2.3.1 Example 1: Inconsistencies of Claims, or: Implicit Contradictions of Critique Imagine a trivial everyday experience: people tend not to question their own perspectives including their preconditions, assumptions, and conclusions, even when they are familiar with others’ perspectives from various contexts. Typically, for instance, this occurs when we take on roles in traffic: as pedestrian, cyclist, biker, motorist, and user of public transportation. When we take the bike, we tend to ignore the perspective of motorists. When we change our role, cyclists may

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become a source of annoyance. This simple fact shows that we tend to prioritize an endocentric perspective and ignore exocentric viewpoints. More relevant than the question of perspective is the knowledge connected to such viewpoints and our intentions in different roles. We move as x through space and follow a certain goal. It could be of use to focalize a situation through an exocentric position, e.g., to show consideration for other traffic participants; this would allow us to reach our destination in the safest way possible. Taking on exocentric positions can be convincing partially and vice versa; insisting on our own perspectives does not necessarily have to be convincing. Blocking others’ knowledge from our own view constitutes what we call an inconsistency of claims. By this, we refer to the fact that our purposeful actions reveal frequent inconsistencies which result from dismissing other perspectives. Inconsistencies of claims are characterized by onesided, endocentric perspectives and actions that are organized correspondingly. While an everyday traffic situation provides an appropriate example of an inconsistency of claims, scholarly discourse provides a rather different case. Unlike road users, scholarly agents are by default acquainted with others’ perspectives. However, where scholarship takes on a critical function—and this frequently applies to discourses formed and distinguished in the academic field— it runs the risk of producing implicit contradictions, falling into the trap of an inconsistency of claims. Considering implicit contradictory objects of DLCS, we turn toward three examples of such an inconsistency of claims in academic discourse: in Queer Studies, in the poststructuralist project of deconstruction, and in Postcolonial Studies. Those examples shall clarify why inconsistencies of claims matter with respect to the ways in which agents of discourse act and how they can be trapped in endocentric viewpoints. Queer Studies. In a handbook contribution to the keyword queer, Shioban Somerville (2007) points to a fundamental contradiction that cannot be resolved but shapes the field of Queer Studies. In the words of Somerville (2007, p. 187): “‘Queer’ causes confusion.” What is this confusion, or rather, what is this inconsistency of claims about? Somerville (2007, p. 187) shows that queer functions as “an umbrella term that refers to a range of sexual identities that are ‘not straight.’” However, this contradicts a quite different semantics and use of queer: “But in some political and theoretical contexts, ‘queer’ is used in a seemingly contradictory way: as a term that calls into question the stability of any categories of identity based on sexual orientation” (Somerville 2007, p. 187). The deconstruction of normative concepts of identity yield new, non-straight fixations of identity; in this sense, Queer Studies contribute to the construction of identities “based on sexual orientation” (Somerville 2007, p. 187). At the same time,

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Queer Studies follow an agenda critical of identities because it deconstructs concepts of identity. The construction and deconstruction of identity are placed in a contradictory field of tensions which characterizes Queer Studies as an academic approach. Where do we locate the inconsistency? The claim to deconstruct identity is inconsistent when it produces new ascriptions of identity and vice versa. Realizing a claim has a stake in producing a contrary result. And by no means does the critical impetus of Queer Studies bridge the gap between both camps of deconstructing old and constructing new identity models or even reconcile them in a dialectical solution. On the contrary, queer discourses are upheld along this inconsistency. Only a meta-perspective can regard this as a productive form of mutual stipulation. But it is precisely from this meta-level that the inconsistency of claims becomes apparent. I deconstruct putatively essential certainties about genders and in the process, I hide that I am doing precisely what I reject epistemologically: constructing an ontology of sexual identities. This example highlights how implicit contradictions operate in discourse and come to bear in critical discussions and interventions. Deconstruction. In his paper on poststructural semiotics, Rusterholz (1998) provides the example of Jacques Derrida and an epistemological contradiction which pinpoints what we call an inconsistency of claims. Derrida and poststructuralism enter the stage as a programmatic critique of ontology and the idea of a transcendental subject while, at the same time, Derrida may in fact be considered to ontologize the concept of sign as a consequence of his own emphasis on signs and, in this way, contributing to “unresolvable contradictions between the claim of a critique of metaphysics and a new metaphysics of the allegorical interpretation of his own terms” (Rusterholz 1998, p. 2332; translation from the German original, IHW and DSB). Deconstructions become inconsistent when deconstruction itself is exempt from deconstructive practices. Precisely, this logic reproduces and yields a suppression of its own foundational premises. Poststructuralism can exhaust itself painstakingly, reaching the limits of its own logic. This becomes apparent in processes in which truth is questioned in ways that do not challenge power but, on the contrary, manifest power and suppression. Taking up Trump once more, the rhetorical device of fake news shows this. It exposes other opinions strategically as false in order to spread so-called alternative facts as instruments of power. When we operate within an epistemology of deconstruction, there is little we can do about this logic, because there is no reliable set of criteria of judgment available to us. We can thus see that an anti-essentialist conviction in a program of a critique of ontology can and must itself be subjected to critique. Deconstruction as negation of a transcendental ontology of structure on the one hand, and simultaneously as an ontologization of the sign leads to an obvious

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contradiction: deconstruction and construction of ontology (cf. Rusterholz 1998, p. 2332). On a meta-level, this seems an inconsistent endeavor. Questioning everything but one’s own position leads directly into a pit of inconsistency. In DLCS, we are faced with an inconsistency of claims. Postcoloniality. Discursive contradictions are not only recognizable through explicit linguistic constructions. They can also come into effect without formal markers. This confronts linguistics with a fundamental problem, because linguistics is used to examining formal manifestations, i.e., what linguistics deems describable as form. But Discourse Linguistics has to deal with scattered relations of utterances which are more or less visibly related to each other and unfold their force in their discursive emergence. As we have seen, to describe such phenomena, we need a meta-level. The example of postcolonial critique shows this as well. Postcolonial critique claims to disclose colonial power relations in critical ways and is geared toward exposing inhuman ideologies and naming their neocolonial effects. But precisely these practices can be caught up in a Western or Northern poststructuralist way of thinking; Western or Northern subjects may operate in self-referential discourse frameworks, thereby making invisible decolonial practices of colonized subjects because the latter do not necessarily have an audible voice. So-called Postcolonial Studies—commodified by the publishing house Routledge as a “vibrant field” (Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin 2013, frontmatter)—have been confronted with a strong critique articulated in the project of Decolonizing Postcolonial Studies (Grosfoguel 2011). In this context, Walter Mignolo admonishes: “‘postcolonial’ criticism and theory was mainly employed by critics and intellectuals writing in English and in the domain of the British Empire and its ex-colonies (Australia, New Zeland, India)” (Mignolo 2000, p. 91). Speaking for others and doing so with good intentions of critical intervention whitewashes precisely those whose voices had already been silenced in the colonial project. Postcolonial critique can be anchored in epistemic claims which it critiques and can thus move itself into the position of an implicit contradiction: “The entire Americas, including the Caribbean, North Africa, and most of the time sub-Saharan Africa were left out of the picture”; it therefore seems convincing and consequential that Mignolo replaces the term “‘Postcolonial Reason’” with “‘Post-Occidental Reason’” (Mignolo 2000, p. 91). An impetus of critique can come into confrontation with its own epistemic orders and paradoxically reverse itself into its opposite. An impetus of postcolonial critique can thus potentially be exposed as a Western or Northern project located in traditions of poststructuralist interpretations of texts, confirming Western and Northern academic certainties. Is it possible that the academia of the Global North wants to provide evidence of its own rationality, this way turning

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into a more self-reflective, self-centered project than it may deem reasonable? Is it possible that Postcolonial Studies runs the risk of contradicting its own convictions? The critique of colonialism from a Western and Northern perspective can produce what Carsten Junker (2016) calls Self-Aggrandizement. In sum, doubts about binary conventional orders of gender and heteronormative certainties can fix new mappings of identities, to which the problem of deconstructing and reconstructing ontologies constitutes an analogy, as do the paradoxes of potentially counterproductive claims in Postcolonial Studies. It is not only possible in discourse that p∧¬p pertains at the same time; rather, this is frequently the case, not least in academic discourses of critique. Discourses are not structures free of contradiction; on the contrary, they become manifest through contradictions—contradictions that are repeatedly implicit.

2.3.2 Example 2: Explicit Contradictions and False Fronts Our second set of examples of a discursive, contradictory object refers to explicit linguistic constructions (in the sense of Construction Grammar, cf. Goldberg 2006, p. 5; Ziem and Lasch 2013, p. 16). We are interested here in explications of contradiction which consist of a speaker’s negative self-attribution and the subsequent proposition which is adversatively related, exemplified here in the German construction [Ich bin kein X, aber p] (“I am not an X, but p”). In the context of political and/or racist discourses, a certain instantiation of this construction is particularly controversial: this is the case when nouns like Nazi (“Nazi”) or Rassist (“racist”) enter into the X slot, while a manifestly racist proposition enters into the p slot. An example is (8), which was taken from a commentary thread on an online video platform. (8) Ich bin kein Rassist, hab ich auch nicht vor einer zu werden, aber mit unterqualifiziert dummen und respektlosen Schweinen möchte ich nicht zusammenleben.7 “I am not a racist, and I don’t intend to become one, but I don’t want to live together with under-qualified, dumb, and disrespectful pigs.” This specific form of the [I am not an X, but p] construction itself is under scrutiny in meta-linguistic online discourses which frame the constructional pattern as a “false front”:

7http://tubo1.com/ps4-attractio-trailer-id-s29t2lbA8qs.html?id=1Cr66viZL0E

(10.8.2016)

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(9) Any sentence that starts with the words “I’m not prejudiced, but…,” or similar formations (“not racist, but” or “not homophobic”, “not sexist”, etc.) is likely to contradict itself very rapidly. Saying a sentence that starts with “I’m not X, but…” very likely means that you are X. The technical term for this type of statement is “false front”, and the colloquial term for this kind of person is “but-head”.8 In this meta-linguistic discourse position, which here has the form of an encyclopedic definition, the false front is identified as a self-contradiction. This is based on the construction’s rhetorical function which leads us to an analysis of the specific linguistic pattern of a hedge used to express a controversial proposition on the pretext of a negative self-attestation that—superficially—contradicts this proposition. In the negative self-attribution, the speaker undertakes the attempt to pre-formulate the context of p (which is usually regarded as the domain of linguistic pragmatics) and thus to direct the hearer’s interpretation of p onto a particular path. In cases such as (8), this is the opening of a space of possibility—a blob, in our terminology—to express a proposition that has no place in the hegemonic discourse. The negative self-attribution I am not a racist is only an apparent explication of the speaker’s own discourse position and obscures the fact that the actual discourse positioning lies in the subsequent proposition p. The preamble I am not a racist is a concession to the discursive box, i.e., the hegemonic anti-racist discourse. In this case, the hegemony of the anti-racist discourse itself is at least partly a product of counter-discursive attribution by way of demands like Das wird man doch wohl noch sagen dürfen (roughly: “There’s no law against saying this.”). This production of discursive hegemony by counterdiscursive attribution is a paradox property of discourse in general. We analyze the discrepancy inherent in the [I am not an X, but p] construction as a type of pragmatic inconsistency. In terms of describing its linguistic function, the relation that holds between the two partial clauses can be regarded as a contrast of (pragmatic) context-bound reference and (semantic) propositional content. The pragmatically interesting aspect being the fact that the speaker (i.e., the agent) frames her or his words in such a way that they convey one of the communicative sub-functions of the overall construction, namely, by saying I am not an X. The contradiction lies in the claiming of truth or validity that is implicitly associated with uttering p—a proposition that characterizes the speaker exactly as an X.

8http://rationalwiki.org/wiki/I’m_not_prejudiced,_but…

(10.8.2016) We are explicitly citing this definition as a discursive datum instead of a linguistic textbook definition.

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The construction [I am not an X, but p] is highly productive beyond the instance (8), as is exemplified below by evidence of a corpus of Wikipedia user discussions.9 These, however, make it clear that the contradiction which applies to (8)—i.e., the hedge I am not an X contradicting the validity claim of p—cannot be applied analogously to all instantiations of the construction: (10) Ich bin kein Fachmann in Mikrobio aber der Artikel ist meiner Meinung nach schlichtweg falsch! (WDD15/P17.46858) ”I am not a specialist in microbiology, but, in my opinion, the article is simply wrong!” (11) Als erstes, nein ich bin kein Nazi und fand das nicht gut, aber zur historischen Richtigkeit müsste doch die Hakenkreuzfahne eingefügt werden, denn das ist die offizielle. (WDD15/T45.89746) ”First of all, no, I am not a Nazi and I did not condone this, but, for historical accuracy’s sake, the swastika flag should be included, because that is the official one.” (12) Ich bin kein Polnisch-Sprecher, aber ich war mal zum Erasmus in Polen. (WDD15/L70.83801) ”I am not a Polish speaker, but I once was in Poland with the Erasmus program.” The logical-semantic relation, which appears in all the examples cited so far, is that of the concession. Rezat writes: “A defining property of concessions at the logical-semantic level is, according to Grote/Lenke/Stede (1997), the synchronicity of two incompatible, mutually contradictory statements of affairs or propositions, respectively.” (Rezat 2009, p. 473; our translation, IHW and DSB) This is supported by the fact that all of the present cases can be modified with complex connectors like eigentlich … aber, zwar … aber “actually … but”

9The

data presented here were retrieved from the German language corpus “WP15-gesamt—alle Korpora des Archivs WP15 (Artikel u. Artikel- & Benutzerdiskussion 2015)” containing 1.442.658.173 word tokens of articles and user discussions on the German edition of Wikipedia. The corpus is available at the COSMAS website http://cosmas2.ids-mannheim.de (August 9, 2016). The search query was “(ich bin kein) /+ s0 aber” which results in occurrences of the bracketed string (“I am not a/an”) followed by the word aber “but” in the same sentence. The reference corpus used is the 2015-II release of “DeReKo” with approximately 29 billion word tokens.

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(cf. Zifonun, Hoffmann and Strecker 1997, p. 2409–2411), or by the conjunction obwohl “although” (while omitting aber “but”). Rezat (2009, p. 470) pointed out the constructional nature of concessions.10 In addition to these theoretical questions, DLCS is also interested in the specific filler values that enter into the [I am not an X, but p] construction. This is a shift of focus onto the realization of the construction in linguistic corpora, and it may best be framed by the collostructions concept by Stefanowitsch and Gries (2003) because Collostructional analysis always starts with a particular construction and investigates which lexemes are strongly attracted or repelled by a particular slot in the construction (i.e., occur more frequently or less frequently than expected) […] (Stefanowitsch and Gries 2003, p. 214).

In order to get a preliminary impression of the collexemes that enter into the construction, the above-mentioned German corpus of Wikipedia discussions was queried for the most significant fillers of X. The result is the following table of the ten most significant lexical fillers (including significant collocates in lines 4 and 10) (cf. Table 1). This description should ideally be accompanied by a (tentative) explanation as to why the false front is perceived as inconsistent at all. How do the online commentators come to recognize a self-contradiction in the [I am not an X, but p] construction? We suggest that a promising framework for answering this question is to be found in cognitive linguistics. Since the mentioning of a negative frame evokes the corresponding positive frame (cf. Kaup et al. 2006), the slot-filler structure of the concepts “racist” or “Nazi” mentioned in the first clause is automatically activated. It can now be assumed that the hearer, in interpreting the subsequent clause and following the semantic “instruction” given by the adversative conjunction, tries to construe a correspondingly adversative relation between the negated concepts “racist” or “Nazi” and the meaning of the, let us say, “racist proposition p,” with the highly probable result of an inconsistency in meaning construal. The coming-about of the contradiction here is twofold: there is the speaker’s attempt at producing the contradiction by using the false front construction, and there is the hearer’s construal of the contradiction by following the semantic and pragmatic instructions given by the construction.

10Also,

for the present examples, interpretations along the lines of content-level concession, epistemic-level concession, and speech-act-level concession (according to Sweetser 1990, p. 78–79) are conceivable.

LLR

4606

2083

850

718

665

650

408

369

339

331

#

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

Collocates

Freund

Admin hab Admin

47

Biologe

Briefmarkensammler

Mediziner

Fan

4

36

24

53

69

Spezialist

94

61

Freund großer

Jurist

Fachmann

Experte

10

117

179

371

Abs. freq.

Ich bin kein Admin und | aber …

Ich bin kein Admin hab aber

Ich bin kein Biologe aber …

Ich bin kein Briefmarkensammler meine mich

Ich bin kein Mediziner aber …

Ich bin kein Fan von …

Ich bin kein Spezialist für | aber …

Ich bin kein Freund von …

Ich bin kein so großer Freund der

Ich bin kein Jurist aber …

Ich bin kein Fachmann aber …

Ich bin kein Experte für | aber …

Syntagmatic patterns

Table 1   Most significant lexical fillers for X in [Ich bin kein X, aber p] in COSMAS Transl. of patterns

I am not an admin and | but

I am not an admin but have

I am not a biologist but …

I am not a stamp collector I think

I am not a physician but …

I am not a fan of …

I am not a specialist of | but …

I am not a friend of …

I am not a huge friend of

I am not a lawyer but …

I am not a specialist but …

I am not an expert for | but …

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These remarks can only be considered the starting point for an inquiry focusing on both the production and reception of linguistic contradictions: How do discourse participants cope with inconsistency (cf. Norrick 1991)? What are cognitive and discursive effects emerging from linguistic contradictions? These questions should be investigated further in qualitative and quantitative studies. Such a Cognitive Pragmatics of Inconsistency in the framework of a Linguistics of Contradiction (cf. Francois et al. 2013) is still a desideratum. The examples of the false fronts are of relevance to our overarching interest in a methodological, conceptual, and object-oriented foundation of DLCS, as they are a means to elucidate or extend limits of the sayable by mechanisms of linguistic inconsistency in different communicative contexts. Summed up, our two examples help to illustrate the as-well-as principle in Discourse-Linguistic Contradiction Studies:

Overview

The as-well-as principle in Discourse-Linguistic Contradiction Studies • Analytical objects of DLCS have contradictory AS WELL AS discursive properties. • DLCS focusses on implicit AS WELL AS explicit contradictions in discourses.

3 Conclusion Linguistic Discourse Analysis and Contradiction Studies have manifold connections. It is thus appropriate to speak of Discourse-Linguistic Contradiction Studies (DLCS). Discourses function inside a box which delimits the sayable. In their dynamic, discourses are also characterized by discursive events and threatened by them. This is the moment of what we have termed, after Claes Oldenburg, the blob. The blob introduces contradictory tensions in the orders of the sayable. It functions as a departure point for new propositions. This is what we have also done in a self-reflective way in this chapter: We have introduced Discourse-Linguistic Contradiction Studies (DLCS) outside the box of conventional frameworks of linguistic theorizing—making a blob with aplomb.

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As we have aimed to show, there are three aspects that should be taken into consideration when the linguistic analysis of discourses are carried out in the transdisciplinary frame of Contradiction Studies: Methodological relations: Discourse Linguistics addresses methodological tensions of a) agent vs. text, and b) intra- vs. trans-textual layers. This results in the both-and principle. Conceptual properties: Discourse Linguistics focusses on the properties of relationality and the dynamicity of its objects which become especially apparent in discursive contradictions. This results in the more-or-less principle. Analytical objects: Discourse Linguistics calls for a differentiation between implicit and explicit forms of contradictions in discourse—including those of self-contradiction. This results in the as-well-as principle. We are interested, not least, in the contradictions between discursive positioning and practical doing. Augustinus (2006, p. 4–5) already addressed this contradiction in his De vera religione. Keen-eyed, he convicted antique philosophers of a fundamental contradiction: they enjoyed engaging in an agonal competition of contrasting and contradictory opinions, positioning each other in a tension-filled performance, while, at the same time, they indulged in visiting sacrificial feasts together. On the one hand, they scripted a performance of diverging positions and opinions about the gods; on the other hand, they shared tension-free participation in rituals. There are two types of contradictions at play here which are of fundamental relevance for DLCS: a contradiction between different propositions and a contradiction between propositions and actions. Anderson also addresses these two types of contradictions. The tale The Emperor’s New Clothes exposes the contradiction between propositions—he has something on vs. he hasn’t got anything on—and the contradiction between the emperor’s acceptance of the proposition he hasn’t got anything on and a further, decisive action introduced on the narrative level through a but: (6) The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, “This procession has got to go on.” So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn’t there at all. While the emperor accepts the contradicting proposition—possibly a face-threatening experience—–this has no effect on his actions. Anderson and Augustinus both-and, more-or-less, as well as—do not resolve contradictions. Contradiction takes place—contradictions persist.

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References Augustinus. 2006. De vera religione. Über die wahre Religion, 3rd ed. Stuttgart: Reclam. Ashcroft, Bill, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin. 2013. Postcolonial studies. The key concepts, 3rd ed. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Bourdieu, Pierre. 2010. Distinction. A social critique of the judgment of taste. Translated by Richard Nice. Abingdon: Routledge. Bühler, Karl. 2011. Theory of language. The representational function of language. Translated by Donald Fraser Goodwin in collaboration with Achim Eschbach. Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Busse, Dietrich. 1987. Historische semantik: Analyse eines programms. Stuttgart: KlettCotta. Busse, Dietrich, and Wolfgang Teubert. 1994. „Ist Diskurs ein sprachwissenschaftliches Objekt? Zur Methodenfrage der historischen Semantik.“ In Begriffsgeschichte und diskursgeschichte. Methodenfragen und forschungsergebnisse der historischen semantik, ed. Dietrich Busse, Fritz Hermanns, and Wolfgang Teubert, 10–28. Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag. Conde Lucanor. 1899. Or the fifty pleasant stories of patronio written by the Prince Don Juan Manuel and first done into English by James York, M.D., 1868. London: Gibbings & Company. Accessed August 9, 2017. https://openlibrary.org/books/OL7173735M/ Count_Lucanor. Drouet, Griselda. 2015. Résumé de la thèse ‘la mise en scène de la contradiction à l’oral, analyse et système’. L’information grammaticale 144: 41–47. Fix, Ulla. 2015. “Die EIN-Text-Diskursanalyse. Unter welchen Umständen kann ein einzelner Text Gegenstand einer diskurslinguistischen Untersuchung sein?“ In Diskurs – interdisziplinär. Zugänge, gegenstände, perspektiven, ed. Heidrun Kämper, and Ingo H. Warnke, 317–333. Berlin and Boston: de Gruyter. Foucault, Michel. [1969] 1972. Archaeology of knowledge. Translated by A.M. Sheridan Smith. London and New York: Routledge. Francois, Jacques, Pierre Larrivee, Dominique Legallois, and Franck Neveu. 2013. La linguistique de la contradiction. Bruxelles: Lang. Goldberg, Adele E. 2006. Constructions at work: The nature of generalization in language. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Grosfoguel, Ramón. 2011. “Decolonizing Post-Colonial Studies and Paradigms of Political Economy: Transmodernity, Decolonial Thinking, and Global Coloniality.” Transmodernity. Journal of peripheral cultural production of the luso-hispanic world 1. Junker, Carsten. 2016. “Self-Aggrandizement: Discursive Effects of Early Abolitionist Self-Positioning.” Zeitschrift für diskursforschung – Jorunal for discourse studies 4:241–264. Kaup, Barbara, Jana Lüdtke, and Rolf A. Zwaan. 2006. Processing negated sentences with contradictory predicates: Is a door that is not open mentally closed? Journal of pragmatics 38: 1033–1050. Klein, Josef. 2014. „Sätze in der Politik: Struktur, Salienz, Resonanz.“ In Grundlagen der politolinguistik. Ausgewählte aufsätze, 115–126. Berlin: Frank & Timme.

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Lakoff, George. 1987. Women, fire, and dangerous things: What categories reveal about the mind. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Mignolo, Walter. 2000. Local histories/global designs. Coloniality, subaltern knowledges, and border thinking. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Norrick, Neal R. 1991. Contradiction and Paradox in Discourse. In Levels of linguistic adaptation, vol. 2, ed. Jef Verschueren, 195–202. Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Patterson, Orlando. 1982. Slavery and social death. A comparative study. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Rezat, Sara. 2009. Konzessive Konstruktionen: Ein Verfahren zur Rekonstruktion von Konzessionen. Zeitschrift für germanistische linguistik 37: 469–489. Rusterholz, Peter. 1998. „Poststrukturalistische Semiotik. In “Semiotik: Ein handbuch zu den zeichentheoretischen grundlagen von natur und kultur, vol. 2, ed. Roland Posner, Klaus Robering, and Thomas A. Sebeok, 2329–2339. Berlin and New York: de Gruyter. Searle, John R. 2010. Making the social world: The structure of human civilization. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Smith, Neil, and Nicholas Allott. 2016. Chomsky. Ideas and Ideals. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Somerville, Shioban B. 2007. Queer. In Keywords for american cultural studies, ed. Bruce Burgett and Glenn Hendler, 187–191. New York and London: New York University Press. Spitzmüller, Jürgen, Mi-Cha Flubacher, and Christian Bendl. 2017. Soziale Positionierung als Praxis und Praktik: Einführung in das Themenheft. In Soziale positionierung als praxis und praktik: Theoretische konzepte und methodische zugänge, ed. Jürgen Spitzmüller, Mi-Cha Flubacher, and Christian Bendl, 1–18. Wien: Universität Wien. Spitzmüller, Jürgen, and Ingo H. Warnke. 2011. Discourse as a ‘Linguistic Object’: Methodical and Methodological Delimitations. Critical discourse studies 8: 75–94. Stefanowitsch, Anatol, and Stefan T. Gries. 2003. Collostructions: Investigating the Interaction of Words and Constructions. International journal of corpus linguistics 8: 209–243. Sweetser, Eve. 1990. From etymology to pragmatics: Metaphorical and cultural aspects of semantic structure. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Venturi, Robert. 1966. Complexity and contradiction in architecture. New York: Museum of Modern Art. Warnke, Ingo H., and Hanna Acke. 2018. “Ist Widerspruch ein sprachwissenschaftliches Objekt?”. In Diskurs, wissen, sprache. Linguistische annäherungen an kulturwissenschaftliche fragen, ed. Alexander Ziem and Martin Wengeler, 319–344. Berlin and Boston: de Gruyter. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. [1921] 2001. Tractatus logico-philosophicus. Translated by D. F. Pears and B. F. McGuiness. London and New York: Routledge. Ziem, Alexander, and Alexander Lasch. 2013. Konstruktionsgrammatik: Konzepte und grundlagen gebrauchsbasierter ansätze. Berlin: de Gruyter. Zifonun, Gisela, Bruno Strecker, and Ludger Hoffmann (eds.). 1997. Grammatik der deutschen sprache. Berlin: De Gruyter.

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Ingo H. Warnke  holds the Chair for German and Interdisciplinary Linguistics at the University of Bremen. His research interests include language in colonial contexts, specifically with reference to German colonialism, discourse analysis, and urban linguistics. He has published widely in those areas. He co-led the Creative Unit “Language in Colonial Contexts” at the University of Bremen, he is co-speaker of the Bremen Collaborative Research Initiative “Worlds of Contradiction,” and he also co-leads the Focus Group “Structures and Functions of Colonial Place-making” at the Hanse-Wissenschaftskolleg—Institute for Advanced Study (HWK). Daniel Schmidt-Brücken  is currently working as a transcript writer at the State Parliament of Lower Saxony, Hanover. He was a post-doctoral researcher in German Linguistics at the University of Bremen/Germany. He received his MA from the University of Göttingen in 2009 and his PhD at the University of Bremen in 2014 with a dissertation on linguistic genericity in German colonial discourses of the early 20th century. His research focussed on the syntax, semantics, and pragmatics of contradiction in language use as well as the linguistic analysis of colonial discourses.

Part II Contradiction in Interpersonal Communication and Institutions

Family Structure and Ownership Transition as “Polar Opposites”: An Emotional Embeddedness Perspective Carolin Decker-Lange Abstract

Family businesses provide a fertile ground to study emotions as a source of contradiction. The embeddedness of a business in an owner family influences strategic decisions in a way that differs from decision-making in nonfamily firms, such as ownership transition choices. I apply an emotional embeddedness perspective to explain ownership transition choices, which contradict the prevailing means–ends logic in management research. The interplay of relational and emotional embeddedness can lead to ownership transition choices that contradict an instrumental logic of action. Repeated interactions between actors with different roles in a family business shape the quality of the family’s structure and its effect on important strategic outcomes. Although family structure might be conducive to internal ownership transition, this choice is not always the preferred option because of intervening conditions and the application of alternative action principles. Researchers in the field of Contradiction Studies should probe into situations in the management context, in which circumstances may favor the application of a means–ends logic but fail to do so, in order to enhance our understanding of contingencies that foster alternative action principles in economic action and interaction. Keywords

Ownership transition · Family business · Emotion · Embeddedness · Means–ends logic C. Decker-Lange (*)  The Open University, Milton Keynes, UK e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 J. Lossau et al. (eds.), Spaces of Dissension, Contradiction Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7_5

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1 Introduction In management research, contradiction refers to “polar opposites that are interdependent, define each other, and can potentially negate one another” (Putnam et al. 2016, p. 74). Given that modern organizations face challenges resulting from a growing complexity and volatility of increasingly globalized markets, contradictions have become commonplace. For example, organizations are required “to sell high-quality products at low prices and to offer globally consistent services while responding to varied local needs (Marquis and Battilana 2009). Fast-changing business contexts create seemingly irreconcilable demands for short-term profits and long-term orientation” (Schad et al. 2016, p. 7). These contradictions have attracted many management researchers’ interest so far. However, the emotions behind them are often overlooked, although they are important sources of contradiction (Bandelj 2009; Putnam et al. 2016; Rafaeli 2013). Family firms which are a popular phenomenon of interest in management research provide a fertile ground to study emotions as a source of contradiction. They account for two-thirds of all businesses across the world and create about 70–90% of the global GDP (Family Firm Institute 2017). Approximately, 90% of all businesses in the United States are family-owned and family-controlled. In Germany, Spain, and France, they represent approximately 80% of all businesses. They account for 90–98% of all businesses in Italy, India, and Latin American countries (Poza 2010) and more than 85% of private businesses in China are family-owned (Family Firm Institute 2017). The interplay of the owner family and the firm exerts influence on strategic decisions in a way that differs from decision-making in nonfamily firms (Le Breton-Miller et al. 2011). Emotions, which can prevent rational decisions referring to ownership transition processes, are a case in point (Rau 2013). Thereby, social and cultural norms that differ across countries also affect the interplay of the family members and the firm. They have implications for the ownership transition process and the emotional charge around this issue. In this essay, I apply an emotional embeddedness perspective to explain ownership transition choices which contradict the prevailing instrumental logic in management research. Emotional embeddedness, which originates from economic sociology (Bandelj 2009), indicates that repeated interactions between actors with different roles in a family firm shape the quality of the family’s structure and functions and its effect on important outcomes. Specifically, the emotions resulting from and influenced by the interaction between the actors involved in an ownership transition process shape their decisions and the outcomes of this process (Biniari 2012).

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One of the central goals of family firms is to ensure longevity over several generations (Rau 2013). Generally, incumbent owners can opt for an internal ownership transition. Thereby, ownership of the firm is transferred from one generation to the next within the same family. However, incumbent owners can also pass on the firm to outside parties as the new owners of the firm (Wennberg et al. 2011). In many cases, this external ownership transition helps the firm to survive, albeit not as a family firm (Rau 2013). Many researchers argue that, because of the concentrated ownership of family firms, information asymmetry is reduced, interests can easily be aligned, and investments help preserve the firm as a legacy for future generations (e.g., Carney 2005; De Massis et al. 2015; Gomez-Mejia et al. 2011). Because family owners are supposed to retain control, manage their firms for the long run (Miller and Le Breton-Miller 2007), and tend to see their businesses and wealth as a legacy for future generations (Gomez-Mejia et al. 2007), one might expect that internal ownership transition is their preferred choice. However, intra-family succession between generations often fails, making external ownership transition or even dissolution likely (Rau 2013). This is illustrated by “the often-quoted statistics that at least a third of family firms do not make it to the second generation” (Poza 2010, p. 85). Considering emotions, I describe situations, which may lead to ownership transition choices that contradict an instrumental logic of action. Thereby, I expand the existing knowledge on embeddedness and economic action (and interaction) in family firms and introduce family firms as a promising phenomenon of interest in Contradiction Studies.

2 Instrumental Logic of Action and Ownership Transition Processes “Throughout the literature, succession studies deal only with situations where the predecessor anticipates, plans, and organizes the succession process. In these cases, we observe that the key actor in the family business succession is the predecessor. The succession process is a (sic!) linear, planned, and prepared, with predecessor and successors playing distinct and consecutive roles (Handler 1990). The successor has been selected, trained, and managed under the control of the predecessor” (Chalus-Sauvannet et al. 2016, p. 716).

A study by Wiklund et al. (2013) that draws on a longitudinal dataset of Swedish family firms is a case in point. Following an instrumental logic, Wiklund and his colleagues assume that the availability of many young potential heirs

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increases the likelihood of internal ownership transition. Two arguments support this hypothesis. First, the existence of young potential heirs creates incentives for the incumbent generation to keep the business under the family’s control in the long run, because there is at least the possibility that these children will be able and willing to join the firm as they grow up (Wiklund et al. 2013). Second, an incumbent generation’s long-term orientation implies affective commitment to the firm, which tends to spill over to their children and fosters their endeavor to preserve the firm as a legacy for future generations (Berrone et al. 2012; Zellweger 2007). Against their expectations, Wiklund et al. (2013) find that the availability of young potential heirs in the next generation—i.e., children who may join the family firm and take control over it in the future—does not promote internal ownership transition. This non-finding contradicts the widespread public and self-perceptions of family firms as homogeneous entities that emphasize long-term orientation, integrity, and sustainability (Krappe et al. 2011; Miller and Le Breton-Miller 2005; Zellweger 2007). It illustrates that decision-makers in family firms do not always behave rationally, although the family structure, which can be described by, for example, the number of members, branches, and generations and the number and age of potential heirs (Decker and Günther 2017; Wiklund et al. 2013), may be likely to achieve an expected outcome. The reliance on the number of potential young heirs ignores the characteristics of family member interactions (Jaskiewicz and Dyer 2017). These are important, because economic actions depend on ongoing social relations, and the analysis of the outcomes of these actions must consider social structures (Granovetter 1985). If we view internal and external ownership transition processes as strategic choices, it is often difficult to predict the outcomes of this economic action because of the emotions that family members bring into their firm. They affect a family firm’s fate (Morris et al. 2010; Putnam et al. 2016; Stanley 2010) and are a major issue in succession processes (Kansikas and Kuhmonen 2008). Emotions shape the interactions among family members. The emotions accompanying ownership transition “may motivate individuals to take action to maintain or change current structural relationships or to redress conflict” (Johnson et al. 2000, p. 108). For instance, anxiety affects the emotional equilibrium of the individuals involved in ownership transition. The incumbent and the successor are both trapped by the need to maintain an emotional equilibrium. While the incumbent plans for retirement, both the incumbent and the successor must decide on the timing of the transition of wealth and power to the successor (Dunn 1999). The successor takes on the responsibility for the firm and must prove his or her competence as the new leader. For an incumbent who is usually the head of both the

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owner family and the firm, it may be emotionally difficult to pass on control to a successor and abandon ownership, because this dual role involves high personal value and prestige, which the incumbent would lose during the ownership transition process (Brun de Pontet et al. 2007). A sense of anxiety may weigh down on both the incumbent and the successor. This scenario provides an atomistic/individualistic perspective on ownership transition. It overlooks the fact that ownership transition involves repeated interactions between actors from inside and outside the family, such as incumbent owners, potential successors, business partners, employees, top executives, consultants, and family business advisors (Jaskiewicz and Dyer 2017; Poza 2010). The ownership transition process is not linear and does not necessarily follow a predetermined pattern in a given period of time. I therefore posit that emotional embeddedness affects ownership transition choices, because interpersonal dynamics exert influence on the pattern of actions, the time needed for decisionmaking and the ultimate choice of an ownership transition type (Bandelj 2009; Biniari 2012; Rafaeli 2013).

3 Beyond Family Structure: Emotional Embeddedness 3.1 The Limitations of an Instrumental Logic of Action According to an instrumental logic of action, “actors follow a means-end approach and make decisions deductively by first determining their goals (ends), then evaluating potential strategies (means) to reach goals based on the information at hand and, finally, choosing the alternative that leads to profit maximization” (Bandelj 2009, p. 360). For ownership transition choices, this would mean that, if many young potential heirs are available, internal ownership transition will be the preferred option (Wiklund et al. 2013). This scenario often remains a dream. For example, conflicts in parent–child or other family relationships, or a lack of trust in and commitment to potential successors can impede the transfer of ownership to next-generation family members (Morris et al. 1997; Rau 2013). These factors indicate the existence of emotional embeddedness (Bandelj 2009). As the owners’ children grow up, there is an ongoing interaction within and between generations. The members of the incumbent generation cannot know in advance what the consequences of, for example, education and socialization will be. An optimal preparation of the next generation does not exist (Barbera et al. 2015). Family structures can become dysfunctional

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because of conflicts, feuds between branches or generations and unexpected family events (for example, accidents, kidnap or murder of family members, or divorce). These change the structure and functions of families and the interactions between family members (Bertrand and Schoar 2006; Jaskiewicz and Dyer 2017). The examples show that the family structure alone does not help to explain the likelihood of internal ownership transition. In some families, the availability of young potential heirs may be conducive to internal ownership transition. Other families—though possibly having the same number of young potential heirs— should rather opt for external ownership transition because of dysfunctional family member interactions. If we view ownership transition as a process, the goals of the members of both incumbent and subsequent generations may change over time with implications for the strategic direction and performance of the family firm (Decker and Günther 2017). The aforementioned examples also illustrate that ownership transition “rarely involves only an incumbent and a successor. Instead, the process requires the perspective of a multigenerational time frame and takes place in a rich stew of social, cultural, financial, legal, strategic, moral, and other dimensions that resist neat, linear thinking” (Aronoff 1998, p. 181). Therefore, there is a need to develop a perspective that allows for contradictory choices.

3.2 Alternative Principles of Action Bandelj (2009) suggests two principles of action, namely, situational adaptation and improvisation, which imply the consideration of influential contingencies. Consider, for example, a scenario in which the incumbent owner has a son and a daughter. The goal that the owner has in mind is that at least one of the children will be the successor. However, over the years the relationship between the owner and the son becomes difficult and ridden with conflicts, because they do not agree upon the firm’s future course of strategic action. The daughter, though highly qualified, is not interested in joining the family firm and prefers to pursue a different career. Consequently, the owner must revise his or her original goal and consider external ownership transition despite the existence of two potential heirs. This type of action can be described in Bandelj’s (2009) terms as situational adaptation due to contingency, i.e., the incumbent owner starts with a clear goal, but the circumstances unexpectedly change over time and lead to a change of goals and actions. Referring to the scenario, one might argue that nowadays many owner families implement mechanisms for family business governance that foster team building, collaboration, and trust (Berent-Braun and Uhlaner 2012). The need for situational

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adaptation might hence be reduced. Governance mechanisms include, for example, a family constitution or code of conduct, selection and accountability criteria for roles played by family members in the firm, the establishment of a family council, and the use of a family office, reunions, and formal communication tools (Poza 2010). At first glance, their use seems to foster internal ownership transition, because these governance mechanisms are likely to reduce the risks associated with multiple generations and the likelihood of negative emotions that may spill over into the firm. They enhance the objectivity and rationality of family members’ decisions regarding the firm (Berent-Braun and Uhlaner 2012; Goel et al. 2012; Villalonga and Amit 2006), including those referring to the transfer of ownership. In doing so, they promote the development of responsibility toward the firm (Berent-Braun and Uhlaner 2012). The latter effect can lead to an external ownership transition choice when the family members come to the conclusion that an external successor is more capable of ensuring the economic viability of the firm in the long run than the next generation, even though or precisely because many young potential heirs are available. Indeed, the availability of many potential heirs in subsequent generations need not necessarily be advantageous: “Compared to founder-run (i.e., first-generation) firms, the number of decisionmakers is higher in subsequent generations and decision-making is less centralized, because ownership becomes more dispersed (Sonfield and Lussier 2004). The increasing dispersion results from the increasing number of individual family members in each successive generation. The number of family members involved in the ownership system increases (Miller et al. 2013). The likelihood that factions emerge, that some family owners are dissatisfied with their role in the company or with strategic decisions, and that emotionally laden conflicts among factions or between generations arise is enhanced (Jaffe and Lane 2004; Miller et al. 2013). Due to these drawbacks, only a small fraction of family firms are passed to the second generation. An even smaller amount of these companies are passed to third-, fourth- or fifthgeneration family ownership” (Decker and Günter 2017, p. 201).

The older a family in terms of generations is, the more individuals are involved in the ownership and governance system of the family firm (Berent-Braun and Uhlander 2012). This can lead to coordination problems (Beckhard and Dyer 1983; Block 2012; Miller et al. 2013) and conflicting interests among individual family members, branches, and generations (Davis and Harveston 1999; Sonfield and Lussier 2004). Mechanisms for family business governance can help family members to discover alternative means and ends as they act and interact. In such cases, they act according to a principle that Bandelj (2009) terms improvisation. The family members allow for questionable goals and implement mechanisms and

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processes that help them to agree upon their goals. They implement appropriate means, which may also be subject to change over time. Put differently, the family members discover means and ends and cope with possibly emotionally charged situations that occur while they are acting and interacting as owners of a firm. Based on the above discussion, I propose that Wiklund et al.’s (2013) idea of a positive relation between family structure on the one hand and the choice of internal over external ownership transition on the other hand overlooks important contingencies that have been pointed to by Bandelj (2009). First, the incumbent owners’ original goals can change over time because of evolving contingencies within the family, such as conflicts, emerging career options, or family events (Bertrand and Schoar 2006; Jaskiewicz and Dyer 2017). Second, the selected means to implement internal ownership transition may prove ineffective or be in conflict with the next generation’s goals. Third, the involvement of various actors, their interaction patterns, and the potential use of governance mechanisms affect the process and the outcomes of ownership transition. Fourth, ownership transition is a time-consuming process, possibly requiring the investment of personal efforts and financial resources. For instance, the family members have to discuss and negotiate their individual and collective goals, assess the economic viability of their business, and possibly hire consultants and family business advisors to accompany the ownership transition process (Poza 2010). Finally and in addition to the factors rooted within the family, uncertainty emanates from the environment in which the firm operates. Ideally, the environment bears the promise of enduring prosperity and growth. However, changes in the economic, technological, institutional, and legal conditions are important contingencies that affect interpersonal dynamics and the owner family’s decision-making process regarding internal or external ownership transition (Colli 2013).

4 Implications and Future Directions In this essay, I have reconsidered the prevailing instrumental logic in ownership transition processes in family business research (e.g., Chalus-Sauvannet et al. 2016). Because of intervening conditions, ownership transition processes often do not follow prespecified patterns and can lead to contradictory choices. Social and cultural norms may create additional contingencies that shape ownership transition processes in family firms. Their consideration could enrich the emotional embeddedness-concept originally suggested by Bandelj (2009) and its application to ownership transition processes in family firms. For instance, Mehrotra et al. (2013) show that Japanese families use adult adoption and arranged marriages

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to keep the firm in the family across generations, when family heirs are not available or potentially available family successors lack the necessary talent and/or education to run the firm successfully in the future. Those socially accepted succession rules alter management and family structures and the subsequent strategic course of action of the firm severely, for example, because of the adopted successor’s implementation of strategies which non-adopted family owner–managers would possibly never have chosen. The comparison of ownership transition processes across countries could reveal the influence of social and cultural norms on owner families and the outcomes of the family members’ actions and interactions under these circumstances. It could also shed new light on the issue of whether and under what circumstances family structure and ownership transition are “polar opposites” (Putnam et al. 2016, p. 74). The perception of contradiction may depend on the socioeconomic and cultural context in which a decision is made. The ideas outlined in this essay have implications for Contradiction Studies. Researchers should probe into situations in the management context, in which circumstances may favor the application of an instrumental logic but actually lead to unexpected choices and outcomes. For example, they could examine emotions in family member interactions and family events to explain seemingly contradictory outcomes. There may be circumstances that turn family structure and internal ownership transition in “polar opposites” (Putnam et al. 2016, p. 74), leading to the abandonment of the family firm or family members’ unexpected choices regarding succession (Rau 2013). The study of these circumstances would enhance our understanding of contingencies that foster alternative principles of action in family firms, such as family events and alterations in family structure (e.g., birth, marriage, divorce, death) and family member interactions (e.g., family member roles in the business, conflict resolution, governance mechanisms) (Jaskiewicz and Dyer 2017; Poza 2010). The ideas outlined in this essay also have consequences for future, potentially interdisciplinary research on management decisions more generally. First, management researchers should benefit from concepts from different fields, such as sociology or psychology, in which the reliance on instrumental logics is less pertinent (Jaskiewicz and Dyer 2017). Second, management researchers should reconsider the theoretical concepts that they use and the translation of these concepts into empirical measures. As outlined above, measures used in family business research that reflect family structure do not reveal the interpersonal dynamics and emotions affecting an owner family’s decisions. Although family structure might appear conducive to internal ownership transition, this choice is not always the preferred option because of intervening conditions and the application of alternative principles of action (Bandelj 2009).

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Measures reflecting family structure which do not consider emotional embeddedness do not fully explain possibly contradictory choices. A suggestion is to include insights from family science in studies on family firms (Jaskiewicz and Dyer 2017). Finally, if we view ownership transition as a time-consuming process, we should use methods that allow for the observation of family interactions, structures, functions, and events over time. The mechanisms in use to govern the family and/ or the firm are altered. Emotions also evolve dynamically (Biniari 2012). In order to capture the dynamics of family structure and emotional embeddedness and to clarify the direction of causality, researchers might adopt longitudinal designs that allow for a fine-grained investigation of the impact of emotional embeddedness on ownership transition choices. Moreover, there are opportunities for studies that span management and historical research (e.g., Lipartito 2015). Longitudinal case studies, including the observation of cases—either in real-time or in retrospective based on historical data, such as chronicles, annual reports, media coverage, biographies, and correspondence—and considering the perspectives of various actors involved, would enhance our knowledge on the contingencies affecting the process and outcomes of ownership transition.

References Aronoff, Craig E. 1998. Megatrends in family business. Family Business Review 11: 181–185. Bandelj, Nina. 2009. Emotions in economic action and interaction. Theory and Society 38: 347–366. Barbera, Francesco, Fabian Bernhard, Joshua Nacht, and Greg McCann. 2015. The relevance of a whole-person learning approach to family business education: Concepts, evidence, and implications. Academy of Management Learning and Education 14 (3): 322–346. Beckhard, Richard, and W. Gibb Dyer. 1983. Managing continuity in the family-owned business. Organizational Dynamics 12: 5–12. Berent-Braun, Marta M., and Lorraine M. Uhlaner. 2012. Family governance practices and teambuilding: Paradox for the enterprising family. Small Business Economics 38: 103–119. Berrone, Pascual, Cristina Cruz, and Luis R. Gomez-Mejia. 2012. Socioemotional wealth in family firms: Theoretical dimensions, assessment approaches, and agenda for future research. Family Business Review 25: 258–279. Bertrand, Marianne, and Antoinette Schoar. 2006. The role of family in family firms. Journal of Economic Perspectives 20: 73–96. Biniari, Marina G. 2012. The emotional embeddedness of corporate entrepreneurship: The case of envy. Entrepreneurship Theory and Practice 36: 141–170. Block, Jörn H. 2012. R&D investments in family and founder firms: An agency perspective. Journal of Business Venturing 27: 248–265. Carney, Michael. 2005. Corporate governance and competitive advantage in family-controlled firms. Entrepreneurship Theory and Practice 29: 249–265.

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Chalus-Sauvannet, Marie-Christine, Bérangère Deschamps, and Luis Cisneros. 2016. Unexpected succession: When children return to take over the family business. Journal of Small Business Management 54: 714–731. Colli, Andrea. 2013. Family firms between risks and opportunities: A literature review. Socio-Economic Review 11: 577–599. Davis, Peter S., and Paula D. Harveston. 1999. In the founder’s shadow: Conflict in the family firm. Family Business Review 12: 311–323. De Massis, Alfredo, Federico Frattini, Emanuele Pizzurno, and Lucio Cassia. 2015. Product innovation in family versus nonfamily firms: An exploratory analysis. Journal of Small Business Management 53: 1–36. de Pontet, Brun, Carsten Wrosch Stéphanie, and Marylene Gagne. 2007. An exploration of the generational differences in levels of control held among family businesses approaching succession. Family Business Review 20: 337–354. Decker, Carolin, and Christina Günther. 2017. Family ownership and innovation: Evidence from the german machine tool industry. Small Business Economics 48 (1): 199–212. Dunn, Barbara. 1999. The family factor: The impact of family relationship dynamics on business-owning families during transitions. Family Business Review 12: 41–60. Family Firm Institute. 2017. “Global data points.” http://www.ffi.org/page/globaldatapoints. Accessed 26 Aug 2017. Goel, Sanjay, Pietro Mazzola, Phillip Phan, Torsten M. Pieper, and Ramona K. Zachary. 2012. Strategy, ownership, governance, and socio-psychological perspectives on family businesses from around the world. Journal of Family Business Strategy 3: 54–65. Gomez-Mejía, Luis R., Katalin T. Haynes, Manuel Núñez-Nickel, Kathryn J. Jacobson, and José Moyano-Fuentes. 2007. Socioemotional wealth and business risks in family-controlled firms: Evidence from Spanish olive oil mills. Administrative Science Quarterly 52: 106–137. Gomez-Mejia, Luis R., Cristina Cruz, Pascual Berrone, and Julio De Castro. 2011. The bind that ties: Socioemotional wealth preservation in family firms. Academy of Management Annals 5: 653–707. Granovetter, Mark. 1985. Economic action and social structure: The problem of embeddedness. American Journal of Sociology 91: 481–510. Handler, Wendy C. 1990. Succession in family firms: a mutual role adjustment between entrepreneur and next generation family members. Entrepreneurship Theory and ­Practice 15: 37–51. Jaffe, Dennis T., and Sam H. Lane. 2004. Sustaining a family dynasty: Key issues facing complex multigenerational business- and investment-owning families. Family Business Review 17: 81–98. Jaskiewicz, Peter, and W. Gibb Dyer. 2017. Addressing the elephant in the room: Disentangling family heterogeneity to advance family business research. Family Business Review 30: 111–118. Johnson, Cathryn, Joanne Ford, and Rebecca Kaufman. 2000. Emotional reactions to conflict: Do dependence and legitimacy matter? Social Forces 79: 107–137. Kansikas, Juha, and Tuomas Kuhmonen. 2008. Family business succession: Evolutionary economics approach. Journal of Enterprising Culture 16: 279–298. Krappe, Alexander, Lazaros Goutas, and Arist von Schlippe. 2011. The “Family Business Brand”: An enquiry into the construction of the image of family businesses. Journal of Family Business Management 1: 37–46.

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Le Breton-Miller, Isabelle, Danny Miller, and Richard H. Lester. 2011. Steward or agency? A social embeddedness reconciliation of conduct and performance in public family businesses. Organization Science 22: 704–721. Lipartito, Kenneth. 2015. “Historical sources and data.” In Organizations in Time. History, Theory, Methods, edited by Marcelo Bucheli and R. Daniel Wadhwani, 284–304. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Marquis, Christopher, and Julie Battilana. 2009. Acting globally but thinking locally? The enduring influence of local communities on organizations. Research in Organizational Behavior 29: 283–302. Mehrotra, Vikas, Randall Morck, Jungwook Shim, and Yupana Wiwattanakantang. 2013. Adoptive expectations: Rising sons in Japanese family firms. Journal of Financial Economics 108: 840–854. Miller, Danny, and Isabelle Le Breton-Miller. 2005. Managing for the Long Run. Lessons in Competitive Advantage from Great Family Businesses. Boston: Harvard Business School Press. Miller, Danny, and Isabelle Le Breton-Miller. 2007. Kicking the habit. Broadening our horizons by studying family businesses. Journal of Management Inquiry 16: 27–30. Miller, Danny, Alessandro Minichilli, and Guido Corbetta. 2013. Is family leadership always beneficial? Strategic Management Journal 34: 553–571. Morris, Michael H., Roy O. Williams, Jeffrey A. Allen, and Ramon A. Avila. 1997. Correlates of success in family business transitions. Journal of Business Venturing 12: 385–401. Morris, Michael H., Jeffrey A. Allen, Donald F. Kuratko, and David Brannon. 2010. Experiencing family business creation: Differences between founders, nonfamily managers, and founders of nonfamily firms. Entrepreneurship Theory and Practice 34: 1057–1083. Poza, Ernesto J. 2010. Family business, 3rd ed. Mason: South-Western Cengage Learning. Putnam, Linda L., Gail T. Fairhurst, and Scott Banghart. 2016. Contradictions, dialectics, and paradoxes in organizations: A constitutive approach. Academy of Management Annals 10: 65–171. Rafaeli, Anat. 2013. Emotion in organizations: Considerations for family firms. Entrepreneurship Research Journal 3: 295–300. Rau, Sabine B. 2013. Emotions preventing survival of family firms: Comments on exploring the emotional nexus in cogent family business archetypes: Towards a predominant business model inclusive of the emotional dimension. Entrepreneurship Research Journal 3: 425–432. Schad, Jonathan, Marianne W. Lewis, Sebastian Raisch, and Wendy K. Smith. 2016. Paradox research in management science: Looking back to move forward. Academy of Management Annals 10: 5–64. Sonfield, Matthew C., and Robert N. Lussier. 2004. First-, second-, and third-generation family firms: A comparison. Family Business Review 17: 189–202. Stanley, Laura J. 2010. Emotions and family business creation: An extension and implications. Entrepreneurship Theory and Practice 34: 1085–1091. Villalonga, Belen, and Raphael Amit. 2006. How Do family ownership, control and management affect firm value? Journal of Financial Economics 80: 385–417. Wennberg, Karl, Johan Wiklund, Karin Hellerstedt, and Mattias Nordqvist. 2011. Implications of intra-family and external ownership transfer of family firms: Short-Term and long-term performance differences. Strategic Entrepreneurship Journal 5: 352–372.

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Wiklund, Johan, Mattias Nordqvist, Karin Hellerstedt, and Miriam Bird. 2013. Internal versus external ownership transition in family firms: An embeddedness perspective. Entrepreneurship Theory and Practice 37: 1319–1340. Zellweger, Thomas. 2007. Time horizon, cost of equity capital, and generic investment strategies of firms. Family Business Review 20: 1–15.

Carolin Decker-Lange  is a Senior Lecturer in Management at the Open University, Milton Keynes, United Kingdom. Her research interests include family businesses and family offices, the governance of interorganizational relationships (for example, strategic alliances and buyer–supplier relationships), and organizational change, decline, and recovery (for example, divestiture and turnaround strategies). Carolin mainly conducts quantitative research. She has published her research in journals including Academy of Management Perspectives, British Journal of Management, Journal of Retailing, Industry and Innovation, European Management Journal, Organizational Dynamics, and Small Business Economics.

Negotiated Contradictions— Contradictory Negotiations: Tensions and Requirements in Education Reform from the Perspective of Educational Sciences Sabine Doff and Till-Sebastian Idel Abstract

In this paper, we highlight the transformation processes towards reformed teaching from the perspective of reflexive educational sciences. On the one hand, the reflexive moment of educational research can be seen in the interweaving of educational and specialised didactic approaches. On the other hand, we notice this moment within a contradictory theoretical perspective which fundamentally analyses the reform of teaching and asks about the associated ambivalences and tensions. In the light of research findings described in this paper, it becomes clear that the challenge for teachers is to create diversity-sensitive classrooms. Dealing with contradictions in this reform of teaching is increasing: Teachers, as well as pupils, must learn to deal creatively with the uncertainty, insecurity and moments of crisis resulting from contradictions. Keywords

Contradictions in the School System · Change of learning and teaching ·  Heterogeneity in school · Diversity in School · Personalised learning

S. Doff (*) · T.-S. Idel  University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany e-mail: [email protected] T.-S. Idel e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 J. Lossau et al. (eds.), Spaces of Dissension, Contradiction Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7_6

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1 Introduction Since the 2000s, German education (policy) has increasingly been compared on an international level. Against the backdrop of the findings of international largescale assessments such as PISA, the German school system has been measured on a global scale and faced criticism. The main problem is the effectiveness and efficiency of the system and the great impact of social disparities on school success (Deutsches PISA-Konsortium 2001). As a result of this problematic diagnosis, far-reaching reforms have been launched over the last decade. They cover different areas and levels of the education system. Improving educational performance and justice can be seen as a constructive approach to the social and performance-related diversity of learners. In order to cope with this diversity, new and inclusive secondary schools of extended common learning have been established on the school structure level over the last decade. Besides this, the German Gymnasium remains mostly untouched. In these newly established schools, pupils with different social and cultural backgrounds and heterogeneous performance requirements are taught in joint learning groups until the end of compulsory schooling. For operational teaching and professionally designed instruction, the educational sciences, including subject-specific didactics, as well as education policy are now oriented towards a methodologically and didactically differentiated, individualised and cooperative teaching as a guiding principle (Rabenstein and Wischer 2016; Klieme and Warwas 2011; Kunze and Solzbacher 2008; Bräu 2005). It demands to step away from the established form of the culturally traditional teaching script which still prevails at most schools in Germany, i.e. a guided lesson in which teachers address the entire class as a collective subject, control the dialogue about the subjects of teaching from a central point and thus also determine the ways in which subject-related problems are addressed and solved. Instead, teachers find themselves in a transformed teaching role allowing the pupils independent learning processes, providing individually tailored tasks for each learner and also promoting cooperative learning processes on the basis of an exact diagnosis of learning requirements (Bohl 2013; Hertel et al. 2016). Such adaptiveness intends to support the potential development of all pupils who work independently as well as cooperatively (Deci and Ryan 1993). In this paper, we would like to highlight the transformation processes towards reformed teaching from the perspective of reflexive educational sciences. On the one hand, the reflexive moment of educational research can be seen in the interweaving of educational and specialised didactic approaches. On the other hand, we notice this moment within a contradictory theoretical perspective which fundamentally analyses the reform of teaching and asks about the associated

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ambivalences and tensions. First, we will look from an educational sciences point of view and, from a theoretical perspective, illuminate contradictions in the reformed classroom. Second, we will switch to the level of research in the field of subject didactics. Here, instructional developments are conceptualised in terms of subject teaching which regards the diversity of the learners as a constructive challenge towards a more differentiated style of teaching. In the light of recent research findings, it becomes clear that the challenge for teachers is to create diversity-sensitive classrooms. This leads us to the conclusion that dealing with contradictions in this reform of teaching is not getting less important but is increasing in complexity and thus the tensions in schools are rising. Teachers, as well as pupils, should not only learn to cope with these contradictions but also to work with them productively. They should learn to deal creatively with the uncertainty, insecurity and moments of crisis resulting from contradictions.

2 Antinomies of Teaching in Reformed Instruction The structural theory of pedagogical professional research can be used to shed light upon the structural influences on the professional behaviour of teachers and the extent to which particular contradictory constellations arise from changes in the style of teaching (Helsper 1996). The central point of this theorem is the thesis that pedagogical professionalism is traversed by contradictory conditions called antinomies. These apply to any form of institutionalised school teaching. Antinomies are such contradictions, in which both sides are simultaneously valid. Transferred in the space of school and teaching, Helsper understands antinomies as mutually exclusive, but simultaneously valid, non-resolvable and non-responsive demands of action. Antinomies describe the pedagogical work alliance teachers have with individual pupils, the class as a learning group as well with the parents. This alliance has to be continually negotiated and maintained. In his approach, Helsper combines sociological and paedagogical theories about the genesis of the antinomies on different levels. He regards modern school teaching from an outside perspective as part of antinomies of social modernisation (van der Loo and Reijen 1992) which becomes concrete within certain contradictions in the societal school organisation. However, he also sees teaching as a form of practice from an inside perspective in which diffuse and specific patterns of action are needed. The action of teaching involves—theoretically seen from a sociological view—role-specific as well as non-role-specific aspects. The requirement for teachers is to deal wisely with the antinomic tensions in teaching.

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In his contributions to the structural theory of pedagogic professionalism, Helsper distinguishes a total of eleven pedagogical antinomies, which are empirically saturated to varying degrees (Helsper 2002). In the following, we would like to highlight three antinomies which are particularly prominent in the educational reform towards a stronger differentiation and individualisation of teaching and which stimulate the dynamics in teaching. In the first place, the individualisation of teaching fundamentally touches the organisational antinomy. This refers to the ‘tension between formal, universalistic procedural rules and the necessity of openness, emergence and creativity of teaching’ (Helsper 2002, p. 84). Within individualised teaching, the teacher is bound to external organisational conditions, even if they are loosened (as is the case of a change in the time structure). If pupils do not work the same way but in different rhythms of time on individualised tasks in individualised teaching situations/arrangements, teachers will be challenged to adjust the pupils’ individual learning paths and times in such a way that the remaining superordinate time and content frames are preserved without greatly restricting the individual learning activities. Second, as another contradictory constellation which is particularly prevalent under the conditions of a renewed teaching organisation, the topical antinomy individualised teaching: pupils’ individual access to a topic should specifically take their biographical and learning requirements as well as their base of knowledge into account. This also means to work on the topic independently. At the same time, however, the objective, scientific and curricular contents still need to be fulfilled, also taking into account the curricular minimum standards. Third, the closeness antinomy, as a further fundamental contradiction, is addressed in personalised teaching. This means the teacher’s need to balance the individual addressing of the student as a distinctive person and thus the resulting intense relationship on the one hand and the addressing of the whole learning group on the other. With regard to the teaching reform, Helsper states: ‘Only by teachers being diffusely related to the emotional and individual needs of their pupils and not evading these needs, do they enable the students to refer back to the topic. Thus, the antinomies are shifted more towards an orientation towards emotional closeness and trust, a diffuse role relationship, an interactive openness and uncertainty as well as towards individualised differentiated references’ (Helsper 2016, 231; translation, S.D./T.-S.I.). In traditional classroom teaching, ‘the universalistic-oriented classwork alliance is (centrally) dominant and on this basis, re-specifications of individual workflows’ are rather weakly outlined (Helsper 2016, p. 233). It is precisely the reverse situation in reformed teaching: ‘Here, the individualised, dyadic alliances with individual pupils are brought to the fore’, and these would have to be led back to a universal class alliance, so to say they would have to be ‘reuniversalised’. This would lead to a rise in the ‘specification and differentiation

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work’ and it would also be ‘more challenging and difficult to reconnect these heterogeneous and differentiated dyadic alliances to a universalistic classwork agreement, valid for all pupils and which meets principles of equal treatment or legitimation and justification of unequal treatment’ (Helsper 2016). The above-described theoretical view is based on structural antinomies in which teachers’ behaviour is involved. Referring to Wischer (2013, 2016), two central problems of professional behaviour can be emphasised from the point of view of theory of education; they must be answered by didactic and conceptual decisions in teaching development processes. On the one hand, Wischer draws attention to the fact that by the individualisation of learning paths, contents, periods and objectives, the already existing complexity of the teaching process would be further increased: teachers would have to pay more attention to parallel processes in the classroom; there would be a higher amount of decision-making processes due to a need for action teachers, would be expected to acquire higher diagnostic abilities and teachers would be involved in the dilemma situation to categorise learners in their peculiarities and thus to label them. From a contradictory theoretical point of view, this seems to be particularly important. The increased complexity leads to an intensification of the conflicts within individualised teaching and its aims regarding the complex target structure and the diverse functions of school (qualification, selection, enculturation, legitimation): Should the deficits be compensated or strengths be promoted in individualising teaching? Should all learners benefit from individual support or should only remedial support be given to weaker students? How can the frame of reference be balanced between individualisation and standardisation, so to say, are individual or collective references more important? Wischer’s comments (see also Trautmann and Wischer 2011) mark the complexity and tensions which ultimately have to be processed to the level of concrete teaching and have to be negotiated by all parties involved and decided on by teachers in the framework of professional teaching.

3 Subject-Specific Perspectives on the Development of Diversity-Sensitive Teaching The tense framework of a scientific perspective of reformed teaching is mainly focused on a distanced analysis. With this, it is possible to reconstruct structural inconsistencies, fundamental problems of behaviour and requirements for professional action empirically as well as school and teaching theory. Yet, the limitations or the blind spot of such analyses is to be seen in the lack of consideration of teaching as a subject-specific lesson. It is possible to derive reflections from

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the analysis of the behaviour of teachers. However, this alone does not carry any implications for the professional and specialised didactic competences that teachers need in a lesson which responds constructively to diversity. Such a design perspective is at the centre of a specialist research project which is illustrated below as an example of a teaching development project in English secondary level I. The focus was on cultural learning at lower secondary level as this is an integral part of English teaching for all pupils. In addition, it is particularly important to assume that challenges arising from topical and close antinomies in the field of subject-specific teaching design in this area can be met particularly well: for pupils in the globalised age, negotiation processes with regard to multilingual and transcultural phenomena are part of everyday life. An up-to-date subject-specialist design gives learners the opportunity to bring this expertise productively into the (English) classroom. First, subject-specific-teaching fundamentals for the design are explained, as well as information on the research context in which it was developed (Sect. 3.1). Second, the teaching design is presented (Sect. 3.2), before the preliminary study as well as the first results of the main study are discussed (Sect. 3.3).

3.1 Overview: Cultural Learning in Lower Secondary I English Teaching The educational principle of ‘internal differentiation’ discussed with a choice of its varying contradictions in part 2 of this paper is supposed to provide individual support and consideration of different learning starting points within a school class. This has enormous consequences for subject teaching which, until now, have not been given sufficient consideration: Only the use of varying methods, materials and social forms, as well as the chance to ‘open, independent learning with self-selected content and problems’ can provide a ‘better connection between the many individual learners and the teaching’ (Trautmann 2010, p. 7). Accordingly, we need exercise formats that are aimed at the individualisation of learning, especially at secondary I level. For an appropriate design in teaching culture in the EFL (‘English as a foreign language’) secondary I classroom, three conclusions emerge from a meaning-oriented, nonessential and multidimensional approach to culture: First, that (trans-)cultural texts should be included in the teaching of English which are not only concerned with one English language cultural space but are available worldwide and are distinguished by their hybridity. Second, texts (including the visual sign system) are no longer merely ‘objects’ in the classroom which represent a

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‘foreign’ culture but are ‘textualised cultural expressions’ (Hallet 2002, p. 34) from which learners can approach ‘reading’ as a meaningful process. Third, the teaching of English can be a hybrid discourse and action space (see Hallet 2002) in which learners are ‘cultural actants’ (Hallet 2002, p. 34). Besides these didactic considerations, the framework conditions in which the design was conceptualised and tested have been established by the interdisciplinary didactic research group FaBiT (‘Subject-related educational processes in transformation’; see Doff et al. 2014; Doff and Komoss 2016; Peters and Roviró 2016). The research group has been financed as a Creative Unit by the Excellence-Initiative (Line: ‘Zukunftskonzept’) at Bremen University (2014–2017). The main aim of the research group was the establishment of an interdisciplinary didactic research programme to study and design change in heterogeneous learning groups in subject teaching. It generated a substantial contribution to the theory of subject-based teaching and learning processes in heterogeneous groups and beyond that, for example, research-based prototypes for teaching designs in various subjects (English, French, Spanish, Maths, Arts, Music) were developed. All sub-projects are methodologically structured by Design-Based Research (DBR; see Doff et al. 2014).

3.2 Design: Targets—Object—Principles—Learning Route There were two subject-specific aims for the design which had been derived from various theoretical backgrounds (Schäfer 2016a, b): First, it is necessary to initiate processes in a classroom in which learners have to interpret and interact with visual texts and learn to ‘read’ their cultural utterances meaningfully. Second, negotiation processes by the learners should be promoted in which they share and reflect on their own ‘readings’ of an image. In addition, learners should be given access to the cultural context of visual learning objects. Derived from the stated design targets, cultural–visual competences should be a design object. In foreign language teaching, they are seen as part of a foreign language multimodal discourse capability that enables the learners ‘to participate in visually dominated actions and discourses in cultural communication’ (Hallet 2010, p. 32). An example of these visually dominated actions and discourses is street art. It is an artistic, visual culture that has spread globally and focuses on interaction with passers-by in a public space. It consists of a hybrid mix of images and concepts and has a large cultural network of meanings which are combined and re-combined. The ‘decoding’ of the provocative, usually socially critical statements of street art images, depends on the viewer. With the

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acquisition of cultural–visual competences, learners are empowered to open the ‘communicative content’ (Hallet 2010, p. 32) of the images and train their ‘conscious cultural vision’ (Hallet 2010, p. 46). This means that students learn through experiential methods of image description and analysis, interpret visual texts initially by relating them to their subjective experience and individual knowledge and then communicate this in a foreign language and reflect on their different cultural ways of seeing. Furthermore, among learners cultural–visual competences are the ability and skill to develop foreign language information from the cultural context of the images, to use these results to reflect on their own interpretations and to add any changes if necessary (cf. Hecke 2012, pp. 189 f.). On the basis of the image interpretations, learners should then reflect on different approaches to interpret and position them. The design addresses these target dimensions of cultural– visual competences and explores how they can be promoted in English teaching. The concept follows the design principles of action and process orientation. The former includes the methodical process of task-based learning through interaction in which the students communicate in ‘authentic’ situations or tasks and communicate orally or in writing (‘negotiate’). Tasks are designed in a step-bystep way pursuing a specific goal and a specific outcome, for example, in the form of a student product or student action. A teaching–learning arrangement was developed consisting of four tasks that serve the teacher and the class being studied as ‘scaffolding’ of teaching (task-as-work plan: Breen 1987, p. 24). The design principle of process orientation means that the teaching design does justice to the complexity and processing of understanding images. Of key importance is that learners take an active role in the construction of meaning and in its reception process which can be supported through a three-phase model (pre-, while and post-viewing). The different phases of text comprehension are ‘filled’ by specific types of tasks that are oriented to the target dimensions of cultural–visual competences. They are action-oriented analysis and reflection tasks, negotiation and participation tasks and contextualisation and transfer tasks. The anticipated design learning route follows Sections SEE-GET-USE (see Dausend 2014; Schäfer 2016a, b). In interior portion, SEE students are faced with the central text of the lesson and describe it in terms of its design characteristics and can articulate and negotiate subjective (cultural) interpretations of the content with each other. In reception conversations, these interpretations are then compared in a plenary. GET is focused primarily on text analytical and interpretative tasks and cultural negotiation tasks. Referring to other (foreign language) texts that complement the central text and which the students can choose, further sociocultural knowledge of street art and the underlying discourse topics will be developed and based on existing experiences. Small groups then negotiate interpretations of

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the cultural texts together. Subsequently, the interpretation approaches are presented in class in different formats (for example, posters, written texts or audio recordings). In the phase USE, learners are the focal point as cultural actors with their participation in cultural discourses. They stage an exhibition together and make their results accessible to a wider public, the school community. The resulting learning texts can be considered as new cultural texts in the study. Young people can pick up on the conventions of the street art genre, create their own pieces of art, take pictures of street art in their own district or collect them on the Internet. The exhibits should then be commented on in foreign language audio or journal articles. In all phases, the students receive scaffolding support.

3.3 (Preliminary) Results The aim of the preliminary study (Schäfer 2016a, b) was to bring the individual learning starting points of two students with regard to the preformulated objective dimensions of cultural learning into practice and to try out and evaluate the learning content object formats and support resources. It was a laboratory situation (researcher as teacher). The results are not representative but show a direction for the further development and testing of designs. The street art image ‘Modern Love’ by the artist Banksy served as the cultural source text. The task design was developed along the extended SEE-GET-USE (see above) model; however, it was adapted due to the short time available for the preliminary study. The main findings of the preliminary study are now summarised: The students’ description of the street art image was quite detailed. Both took advantage from the outset of the scaffolding offer when writing and used their notes in their evaluation session. Creativity, image building and atmosphere created by choice of colour played no role in their observations. The street art image sparked very individual meanings among the students. But it turned out that they were not accustomed to the form of negotiating with partners in English and were always looking for a quick ‘solution’ to process the task. On the one hand, it seems that the foreign language resources for negotiation talks of this type are still missing at lower secondary level. On the other, English teaching can only be a discursive exchange space when the students’ negotiation of (cultural) meaning is an intentional process that also embraces and gives room for contradictory positions, i.e. the possibility for a large group of learners to participate. Scaffolding for the proposed pair phases should include interaction strategies that enable learners to articulate their individual, maybe contrastive positions in the foreign language and create an autonomous organisation of their conversations.

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This was also confirmed by the editing of the final tasks. The learners briefly exchanged views about the title and its connection to the depicted situation, but then both worked separately and were very focused on writing their answers. An interactive negotiation of their perspectives only took place in the evaluation session with the researcher. The central role of the teacher in the design of the negotiation processes should therefore be taken into account in English teaching, and it should also be asked how the teacher can still exercise restraint during these phases. In the subjective experience of teaching students, street art forms a highly motivating learning content. Both students in the study made positive comments about the world close to art in the meta-reflection of the preliminary study: ‘It is not as boring as the regular classes, because we finally have actual pictures!’ (study participant, 14 years old). Also, the benefit of the scaffolding worksheets was rated very positively by learners. An analysis of the observation notes and student products, however, shows that the student participants used the means of support not as a ‘pool’ of possibilities, but more like a ‘road map’. A conscious selection and reflection of structures actually needed from the scaffolding offer is unfamiliar to the students and consequently must be addressed and tested in the classroom of the investigation group. The recently completed design testing in the main study consists of two cycles in the class setting (A and B, years 9 and 10). The teaching–learning arrangement has been revised based on the results and tested in a second cycle of teacher B in class B. Data collection and documenta­ tion was carried out as in cycle A. The collected data will be re-analysed and compared. In addition, the two English language teachers of the two classes in the main study were given an approximately one-hour interview separately for each subproject also containing questions by the research group from a cross-sectional perspective. One of the results of the English sub-project is that alongside the already explained findings of the preliminary study, street art offers very suitable, previously neglected visually based cultural learning in the English classroom. Moreover, it seems as if it were not enough to make learners apparently attractive offers to introduce their cultural diversity into the English classroom. In order for this contemporary cultural learning to succeed in teaching English, we must obviously be thinking about what support students require to gain adequate access to it. With regard to the teachers, it has become apparent across the disciplines of the FaBiT-group that a very early and continuous involvement of the teacher is greatly favoured in the goal-oriented design and development of a design. Furthermore, a genuine need for change on the side of the teachers seems to be an indispensable prerequisite for making innovations in teaching–learning situations’ work. Many

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teachers react to the often contradictory challenges they face in conceptualising and implementing innovative teaching designs with insecurity. Depending on the individual professional and their context, this insecurity can turn out to be a panacea for negotiating contradictory challenges for subject teaching as well as a pipe dream.

4 Conclusion: Dealing with Contradictions in Teaching Negotiation Processes In the first step of this paper, we presented the specific contradictory contexts associated with reformed teaching from an educational and/or perspective of school theory. In the second step, we reported on a subject-specific teaching design that opens up new ways of teaching English in an inclusive German school system (Bremen secondary school (Oberschule)) which was tested in two learning groups in year 9 and 10. In this teaching development project, which was based on the method of design-based research, the antinomical constellations outlined above are exemplified. The following contradiction can be observed on the subject level: Students are given the opportunity to deal with the cultural phenomena they are familiar with in their everyday life in a multimodal and multilingual way. By dealing therewith, they gain the freedom of independently developing the content and identifying aspects of own relevance. The ways in which the teaching material and the way it is thematised made a subject of discussion within the students’ autonomous actions regarding street art can hardly be anticipated in advance. This shows how the tension between the open processes of the pupils’ and the professional and specialised didactic version of cultural learning is stimulated at school. At the same time, the aim of this teaching project is to precisely gain a new momentum from this tension which provides the student with a subjective meaning and promotes learning. On the level of the teacher the emphasis of his/ her own activity is shifted in this constellation: the teacher has to step back from the immediate process in order to open up the space that the pupils need to deal creatively with the material. However, the teacher is required more in the context of the learning processes, namely, in the preparation of the learning arrangement. A meaningful and demanding nature is essential for the pupils to get access to their own way of dealing with the material which can be an independent and unpredictable process afterwards. Teachers are thus confronted with a degree of uncertainty and contingency, which has not been encountered in teacher-centred styles of teaching. Looking at the responses of teachers, a contradictory picture

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emerges: We encounter teachers who resist this approach. This change in teaching is then labelled as unrealistic or reference is made to tradition, so to say to the normative force of the ‘always been this way’, whereby every change is bound to fail. From an educational science point of view, we can only find our way out of this dead end if school protagonists—teachers as well as learners—learn to understand themselves as participants of a ‘negotiated order’ (Strauss 1978). Teaching is based on a ‘negotiation of meanings’ (Combe and Kolbe 2008, 858). Teachers as well as pupils are participants in a practice of negotiation in which contradictions are taken up and transformed and at the same time, participants have to act innovatively in order to make transformation succeed. We also encounter those who are confident in the reform of teaching and who are willing to leave the welltrodden paths of schooling. They show us two strategies to deal professionally with these increased contradictory dynamics: for one thing, they face the requirement to keep themselves open for the indeterminateness of instruction in the mode of ‘situated creativity’ (Combe 2015; Combe and Paseka 2012). Then again, they join together and try to work in forms of collaborative professionalism—i.e. in cooperation with one another but also in cooperation with researchers as indicated in the above-mentioned project of teaching development. One of their main aims is to renew their teaching and to collectively cope with and reflect upon the contradictory requirements of professionally ambitious teaching which acknowledges heterogeneity and different learning pathways as resources for classrooms with increasingly diverse members.

References Bohl, Thorsten. 2013. Umgang mit Heterogenität im Unterricht. In Expertise Gemeinschaftsschule. Forschungsergebnisse und Handlungsempfehlungen für Baden-Württemberg, ed. Thorsten Bohl and Sybille Meissner, 243–260. Weinheim: Beltz. Bräu, Karin. 2005. Individualisierung des Lernens. In Heterogenität als Chance. Vom produktiven Umgang mit Gleichheit und Differenz in der Schule, ed. Karin Bräu and Ulrich Schwerdt, 129–149. Münster: LIT. Breen, Michael P. 1987. Learner Contributions to Task Design. In Language learning tasks, ed. Christopher Candlin and Demot Murphy, 23–46. Englewood Cliffs : Prentice-Hall. Combe, Arno. 2015. Schulkultur und Professionstheorie. Kontingenz als Handlungsproblem des Unterrichts. In Schulkultur, ed. Jeanette Böhme, Werle Hummrich, and RolfTorsten Kramer, 117–135. Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Combe, Arno, and Fritz-Ulrich Kolbe. 2008. Lehrerprofessionalität: Wissen, Können, Handeln. In Handbuch der Schulforschung, ed. Werner Helsper and Jeanette Böhme, 857– 875. Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Combe, Arno, and Angelika Paseka. 2012. Und sie bewegt sich doch. Gedanken zu Brücken­schlägen in der aktuellen Professions- und Kompetenzdebatte. Zeitschrift für Bildungsforschung 2: 91–107.

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Dausend, Henriette. 2014. Transcultural Art: Mit Street Art transkulturelle Lernprozesse initiieren. In Transkulturelles Lernen im Fremdsprachenunterricht. Theorie und Praxis, ed. Reauke Matz, Michael Rogge, and Philipp Siepmann, 89–101. Frankfurt a. M: Peter Lang. Deci, Edward L., and Richard M. Ryan. 1993. Die Selbstbestimmungstheorie der Motivation und ihre Bedeutung für die Pädagogik. Zeitschrift für Pädagogik 39 (2): 224–238. Deutsches PISA-Konsortium. 2001. PISA 2000: Basiskompetenzen von Schülerinnen und Schüler im internationalen Vergleich. Opladen: Leske + Budrich. Doff, Sabine (ed.). 2016. Heterogenität im Fremdsprachenunterricht. Tübingen: Narr. Doff, Sabine, and Regine Komoss (eds.). 2016. Making Change Happen: Wandel im Fachunterricht analysieren und gestalten. Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Doff, Sabine et al. 2014. Change and continuity in subject-specific educational contexts. Research report of an interdisciplinary project group at the University of Bremen. Zeitschrift für Fremdsprachenforschung 25(1):73–88. Hallet, Wolfgang. 2002. Fremdsprachenunterricht als Spiel der Texte und Kulturen. Intertextualität als Paradigma einer kulturwissenschaftlichen Didaktik. Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag. Hallet, Wolfgang. 2010. Viewing Cultures: Kulturelles Sehen und Bildverstehen im Fremdsprachenunterricht. In Bilder im Fremdsprachenunterricht. Neue Ansätze, Kompetenzen und Methoden, ed. Carola Hecke and Carola Surkamp, 26–54. Tübingen: Narr. Hecke, Carola. 2012. Visuelle Kompetenz im Fremdsprachenunterricht: Die Bildwissenschaft als Schlüssel für einen kompetenzorientierten Bildeinsatz. Göttingen: Universität (Online: https://ediss.uni-goettingen.de/handle/11858/00-1735-0000-000D-EF96-D). Helsper, Werner. 2002. Lehrerprofessionalität als antinomische Handlungsstruktur. In Bio­ graphie und Profession, ed. Margret Kraul, Winfried Marotzki, and Cornelia Schweppe, 64–102. Bad Heilbrunn: Klinkhardt Verlag. Helsper, Werner. 2016. Pädagogische Lehrerprofessionalität in der Transformation der Schulstruktur – ein Strukturwandel der Lehrerprofessionalität? In Professionsentwicklung und Schulstrukturreform, ed. Till-Sebastian Idel, Fabian Dietrich, Katharina Kunze, Kerstin Rabenstein, and Anna Schütz, 245–271. Bad Heilbrunn: Verlag Julius Klinkhardt. Helsper, Werner. 1996. Pädagogisches Handeln in den Antinomien der Moderne. In Einführung in Grundbegriffe und Grundfragen der Erziehung, ed. Werner Helsper and HeinzHerrmann Krüger, 15–34. utb: Leske + Budrich. Hertel, Silke, Michael Fingerle, and Carsten Rohlfs. 2016. Gestaltung adaptiver Lerngelegenheiten in der Schule. In Individualisierung schulischen Lernens: Mythos oder Königs­weg?, ed. Kerstin Rabenstein and Beate Wischer, 64–75. Seelze: Klett-Kallmeyer. Idel, Till-Sebastian 2016. Zusammenarbeit als Aufgabe von Lehrkräften. Professionstheoretische Überlegungen zu Erfordernissen, Zumutungen und Grenzen von Kooperation. In Professionelle Kooperation in und mit der Schule – Erkenntnisse aus der Praxisforschung. Tagungsband der 20. Jahrestagung Nordverbund Schulbegleitforschung, Schriftenreihe Forschungspraxis Praxisforschung, ed. Christiane Lähnemann, Anca Leuthold-Wergin, Heike Hagelgans, and Laura Ritschel, 23–43. Münster: Wissenschaft. Klieme, Eckart, and Jasmin Warwas. 2011. Konzepte der individuellen Förderung. Zeitschrift für Pädagogik 57 (6): 805–818. Kunze, Ingrid, and Claudia Solzbacher (eds.). 2008. Individuelle Förderung in der Sekun­ darstufe I und II. Baltmannsweiler: Schneider Verlag Hohengehren. Peters, Maria, and Barbará Ròviro. 2016. Fachdidaktischer Forschungsverbund FaBiT: Erforschung von Wandel im Fachunterricht mit dem Bremer Modell des Design-Based

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Research. In Making Change Happen: Wandel im Fachunterricht analysieren und gestalten, ed. Sabine Doff and Regine Komoss, 19–32. Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Rabenstein, Kerstin, and Beate Wischer (eds.). 2016. Individualisierung schulischen Lernens: Mythos oder Königsweg?. Seelze: Klett-Kallmeyer. Schäfer, Larena. 2016a. Wie kann kulturelles Lernen im Englischunterricht der Sekundar­ stufe I in heterogenen Lerngruppen angebahnt werden? In Heterogenität im Fremdsprachenunterricht, ed. Sabine Doff, 91–106. Tübingen: Narr. Schäfer, Larena. 2016b. Förderung kultureller-visueller Kompetenzen durch Street Art im Englischuntericht. In Making Change Happen: Wandel im Fachunterricht analysieren und gestalten, ed. Sabine Doff and Regine Komoss, 67–72. Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Strauss, Anselm L. 1978. Negotiations. Varieties, contexts, processes, and social order. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass. Trautmann, Matthias. 2010. Heterogenität – (k)ein Thema der Fremdsprachendidaktik. In Individualisierung und Differenzierung im kommunikativen Englischunterricht. Grundlagen und Beispiele, ed. Otfried Börner, Christoph Edelhoff, and Christa Lohmann, 6–16. Braunschweig: Diesterweg. Trautmann, Matthias, and Beate Wischer. 2011. Heterogenität in der Schule. Eine kritische Einführung. Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Van der Loo, Hans and Reijen, Willem. 1992. Modernisierung. Projekt und Paradox. München: dtv. Wischer, Beate. 2013. Konstruktionsbedingungen von Heterogenität im Kontext organi­ sierter Lernprozesse. Eine schul- und organisationstheoretische Problemskizze. In Unscharfe Einsätze. (Re-)Produktion von Heterogenität im schulischen Feld, ed. Jürgen Budde and Beate Wicher, 99–126. Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Wischer, Beate. 2016. „… denn die Schüler erscheinen massenhaft in gewissen Stunden“. Individualisierung im Kontext organisierter Bildungsprozesse. In Individualisierung schulischen Lernens: Mythos oder Königsweg?, ed. Kerstin Rabenstein and Beate Wicher, 125–141. Seelze: Klett-Kallmeyer.

Sabine Doff  holds a Chair of English Language Education and serves as the Director of the Centre for Teacher Education at Bremen University. Her research interests include the history and theory of foreign language education and English language teaching in Europe (eighteenth–twentieth century), method(olog)ical questions of teaching English as a foreign language (for example, Content and Language Integrated Learning, CLIL) as well as interand transcultural learning in the EFL-classroom (with a focus on Canada). Till-Sebastian Idel  is Professor at the University of Bremen, Germany. His research interests are Theories of School as a System and its Change, Theory of Pedagogical Professionalism and Teacher Training. He is editor of Till-Sebastian Idel, Fabian Dietrich, Katharina Kunze, Kerstin Rabenstein and Anna Schütz (2016). Professionsentwicklung und Schulstrukturreform. Bad Heilbrunn: Verlag Julius Klinkhardt; Till-Sebastian Idel/Heiner Ullrich (2017). Handbuch Reformpädagogik. Weinheim: Beltz.

Religion Beyond Secularisation Theories: Contradictional Findings of the Study of Religion in a (Post-) Modern World Gritt Klinkhammer, Petra Klug and Anna Neumaier Abstract

How to analyse the changing significance of religion in (post-) modern societies is one of the most prominent subjects of the Study of Religion in the last decades. The article points out that this theoretical discussion on secularisation and pluralisation is coined by antipodes and mutually exclusive diagnoses— each of which declares a general trend and marks divergent developments as deviant. Based on empirical findings from projects about Interreligious Dialogue Groups in Germany, Anti-Atheism in the United States, and Salafism in Europe, the authors show that these contradictions are not just the result of the focus on different regions or religions, but stem from contradicting developments within religion itself. We argue that these developments, frictions and counter-reactions of religious behaviour are indeed inherent to the field of religion. Drawing on Cultural Studies approaches which consider frictions as key to understanding the hybridity of postmodern subjects and fields helps to understand and theorise contemporary trends of religion and religiosity. At the same time, the empirical results from the presented research show that hybrid and subversive identities are not to be equated with a liberation from power structures, but create new power structures. G. Klinkhammer (*) · P. Klug · A. Neumaier  University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany e-mail: [email protected] P. Klug e-mail: [email protected] A. Neumaier e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 J. Lossau et al. (eds.), Spaces of Dissension, Contradiction Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7_7

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Keywords

Secularisation · Pluralisation · Interreligious dialogue · Non-religion · Salafism

1 Contradicting Theories of Religion and Secularisation Within the Study of Religion, and specifically the recent decades, the changing significance of religion is a prominent topic. This so-called ‘secularisation debate’ has its roots also in diagnoses related to modernity, industrialisation, differentiation and rationalisation as they can be found in the work of Max Weber or Emile Durkheim (Weber 1988; Durkheim 1981). However, it gained renewed attention in post-war decades, particularly due to Peter Berger’s deliberations on the dialectics of religion and society (see Berger 1988). Stimulated by the observation of falling ratios of religious practice and/or membership, especially these early contributions postulated a distinct decline of religion and religiosity.1 But soon enough, antitheses were raised. Many of them argued that religion would not decline but rather change its appearance (see Luckmann 1991; Knoblauch 2009). Others also pointed to a renewed visibility and therefore importance of religion in public discourses, religious institutions or communities (see, e.g. Casanova 1994). Hence, the field of theory-related disputes within the study of religion is marked by antipodes and contradictive approaches and diagnoses. In parts, those contradictions can be explained with reference to the different fields of research which lie behind these diagnoses: There seem to be crucial differences between Europe and the US, between Western and Eastern countries, between the North and the South.2 Another explanation for diverging diagnoses lies in the use of different definitions of religion, which have crucial consequences for the effects they postulate: If a functional understanding of religion lies at the heart of an approach (i.e. religion is understood as means of creating sense or keeping a society together), religion can be found in one form or another as long as its tasks are still achieved. If diagnosis is based on a substantial definition of religion, the observation of religion’s decline is closer at hand (e.g. if

1For

recent advocates of secularisation theory, see, e.g. Bruce (2003), Pollack (2006). focus on differences between eastern and western countries can be found in Casanova (1994), Pollack (2006), on differences between the North and the South, see Martin (2006), on Europe as an exceptional case Davie (2006).

2A

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religion is replaced by the nation as key source of cohesion, the latter may not fulfil the criteria of the given substantial definition, e.g. the belief in supernatural being). And finally, it is important to take into account the different levels on which secularisation can or cannot be observed: Is secularisation mainly about the separation of church and state, respectively, the emancipation of worldly spheres from the influence of churches? Is it about the decline of religious beliefs and practices? Or is it about a shift of religion from public to private spheres?3 However, even these more detailed approaches only rarely dissolve the antagonism between the different diagnoses since most of them still predicate one general trend and declare divergent developments as deviant. Altogether, this shows that the field of research on contemporary religion is marked by theories which, although they concede some more complex processes of transformation and build on different premises, each postulate a consistent development of religion and its significance. In doing so, they strongly contradict each other, and it is this inconsistence the study of religion has been struggling with for several decades. We think that the situation is more complex, though. This is to some degree in line with some approaches which argue that secularisation and re-fundamentalisation might not be contradictory developments at all, and instead might both be symptoms of a modern world. Modernity here is said to cause a rising control over nature and the lessening of existential threats, which can make religion dispensable. On the other hand, modernity also causes new insecurities, which then lead to an increased need of religious assertion (Hervieu-Legér 2000; Riesebrodt 2000). In this article, we understand ‘contradictions’ as mutually exclusive positions or arguments—be it scientifically or with regard to (other) worldviews. In this regard, we will argue that unless the contradictions inherent to religion itself are taken into consideration, the search for one consistent theory or interpretation is a futile attempt. On an empirical level, religion in a modern society always bears contradictions. This becomes evident if we change our perspective from a focus on the development within single religious traditions to the plurality of religions and worldviews as is characteristic for many—and without a doubt for Western—contemporary societies under the influences of globalisation, migration and

3See

for an elaboration of different aspects of secularisation Casanova (1994). He also shows that religion in modernity not always legitimates and stabilises traditional rules of society but at times has been a critical force in society (e.g. Solidarność in Poland 1980 till 1989).

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mediatisation. With regard to the religious landscape of these societies as well as to the single believer within these constellations, we will ask for the consequences of contradictions: What challenges do they bring about for members of religious traditions within modern societies and for those societies as a whole? What formative power do they have for religious identities and norms? And how do they impact the diversity that was their precondition? In the following, we will argue that in this perspective, competition and interdependent influences become crucial dynamics for the recent religious landscape, and lead to power struggles between diverse religious and non-religious entities, be they institutions, belief systems or the like. Altogether, a diverse and heterogeneous field emerges, not so much with clear-cut borders and trends, but rather a complex composition of fissures, imbrications and contradictions. In the following, we want to develop this thought based on empirical examples. For this purpose, we will draw on three—most diverse—fields of research within the study of religion: (a) Interreligious dialogue, (b) the relation of religion and non-religion and (c) Salafism. These spotlights focus on (a) the dynamics and borders of negotiation of religion within a plural religious field, (b) the contradictoriness of worldviews that can emerge within a plural society and (c) the dynamics of counter-pluralism. Thereby, the examples serve to illustrate the complex and multilayered contradictions, which criss-cross the above-mentioned fields of religion and the subjects within. Subsequently, we will consider some theoretical approaches which understand dialectics, ambivalences and also contradictions to be at the heart of society as well as identity in order to contextualise and interpret the empirical observations in depth. Based on this, we can finally pick up the current debates within the study of religion and develop suggestions for a better understanding and appraisal of contradictions in religious studies theory and empirical research.

2 Tracing Contradictions in Fields of Religion 2.1 Interreligious Dialogue Activities in Germany In general, interreligious dialogue between Christians and Muslims has a tradition which is centuries old. However, within the last decades, the participants, motives and structures of interreligious dialogue in Germany have changed. These more recent formats, which aim at an open dialogue between believers of equally valued religious traditions, had their beginnings with dialogue activities between Christians and Jews at the instigation of the US government in the

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years after World War II. With the increasing immigration of workers from other European countries in the 1960s and 1970s, among them many Turkish workers, also Muslims became subject of interest regarding interreligious dialogue. This development accelerated when Islam became a topic of national and global interest in the course of political incidents, among them and maybe most incisive, 9/11 (Klinkhammer et al. 2011). Within the second half of the twentieth century, interreligious dialogue was often initiated on a local level, triggered by an interest in the beliefs of one’s neighbour. But especially since 9/11, policymakers have discovered Christian–Muslim interreligious dialogue as an instrument to provide security and peace, resulting in ministries supporting dialogue initiatives and projecting heightened expectations on their outcomes (Klinkhammer 2014). Today, the formats, members and topics of interreligious dialogue groups are as different as their initiators: They can reach from experts of the Abrahamitic religions organising public lectures about selected theological topics to more familiar gatherings among laymen from a broad range of religious traditions which have known each other for decades to Muslim–Christian girl groups planning theatre projects or joint excursions. The following data originates from a research project on the formation of identity in a situation of religious plurality.4 In this context, we conducted interviews with about 30 Christians and Muslims of all ages and from all parts of Germany, who are active in interreligious dialogue, assuming that these activities expose them to a particular intense experience of religious plurality that is not given in daily life. Regarding the focus of this article, in the following some insights specifically focussing on ambivalences and contradictions arising in the narrations will be presented. The interviews aimed at eliciting biographical narrations, especially with regard to religion and the experience of religious plurality as well as the development of the interviewees’ beliefs and attitudes towards religious pluralisation, other religions and interreligious dialogue. All of these interviews were collected and analysed within the framework of Grounded Theory Methodology (see introductory Strauss and Corbin 1996), at the same time integrating perspectives from narration and discourse analysis. The interviews are originally in German, but for the purpose of this article translated as verbatim as reasonably possible. All names and other hints on the interviewees’ identity are anonymised.

4For

an elaboration on the project, its concept, hypotheses and empirical approach see Neumaier, Klinkhammer (Forthcoming).

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One of the interview partners was Namika, a Muslim girl in her early 20s, coming from a large city in West Germany. When asked to what extent her beliefs changed during her interreligious activities, she answered: N Of course there are times in which one’s belief is a bit stronger or a bit weaker. Eh, for example, if one, eh, for example suffers a blow of fate, one thinks ‘okay, why is this happening to me?’ Well, this one is not supposed to say so. Yeah, but not really that something basically has changed. But sometimes one is stronger, sometimes weaker. You know, in implementing it. I And does it have any influence that one… you know, if you are in close contact to Christians, and you see—well, let’s put it that wayN That you get swept away? What can be drawn from this short excerpt? First and foremost, several spots hint at contradictive expectations and demands Namika is used to experiencing and refers to in advance. This becomes most obvious when she refers to a typical phrase of theodicy she might have picked up in the interreligious girl group she attends and which is run by an employee of a Protestant church: One’s faith might weaken if hit by a blow of fate. But instantly, she explicitly reminds herself that one is not supposed to say so, a standard which probably derives from theological guidelines from within her Muslim faith. Here, Namika’s exposure to two conflicting interpretations of the world and her struggle to handle them both become obvious. However, going along with this constellation typical for a plural religious surrounding is the anticipation of external expectations of how to position herself: While she might—for whatever reason—be inclined to the idea that a faith may weaken in the face of personal crisis, she is also aware that there are rules that interdict such an attitude (or at least to speak openly about it). This explicit reminder is also a key to the latent narrative of the whole episode. Asked whether her belief has changed within the last years, she falls into elaboration on how faith usually develops, expressed in remarkably impersonal words. We can only guess that she might refer to herself, since, e.g. the question she formulates (‘okay, why is this happening to me?’) is put rather colloquially, as if this would be something she might have asked herself before. This avoidance of any kind of self-revelation in this regard turns out to be quite common among the interviewees, and is largely independent of their religion, age or gender. Besides Namika’s solution, other interviewees choose to refer to supra-individual laws of belief transformation, e.g. increasing age going along with increasing faith, and, in turn, others change the topic altogether.

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One reason for this is also implied in the last sentence of Namika’s quote, where she refers to a common fear uttered in the religious communities when their members engage in interreligious dialogue: That they might get ‘swept away’ by the other religion or that they might begin combining different elements to create an unorthodox personal faith—or convert altogether. A strikingly similar episode can be found in the narration of Renate, a Protestant woman and pastor’s wife in her 70s, who organises interreligious prayers: R […] we have always argued […] that the joint discussion of, eh, approaches and the like of one’s own faith OF COURSE sharpens where the differences are instead of resulting in one big mixture. I And would you verify that based on your own experiences or do there occur also moments one says, eh, no I may be a little insecure, orR Am I maybe a Muslim after all? [laughs] Here again, the interviewee implicitly refers to reservations she meets in other contexts, which made her develop a justification of why her faith is not lessened, but rather strengthened by her interreligious engagement. Namika and Renate deliberately search for interreligious exchange, but at the same time have to meet objections and fears regarding the stability of their religious identity, meandering around the crucial question whether her belief has or has not changed. Their cases can therefore be considered as vivid examples of many narrations marked by the attempt to handle differing—and contradictive— demands on their religiosity. As examples on the micro-level, their narrations— and the experiences mediated within—hint at pre-existing contradictions on a meso- and macro-level: As in Namika’s and Renate’s case, in many interviews, the cause of fears and objections is not explicitly named. However, it becomes obvious that it is the religious communities that constantly utter the fear that partaking members might drift away from their religious community of origin. The interviewees therefore find themselves in a situation of contradictive social surroundings—the interreligious group on the one hand, the religious community of origin on the other. But there’s more to it: Further ambivalences arise from religious communities which at the same time expect their members generally to be open towards other religious traditions, in some cases, even build strategic alliances via participation in interreligious activities. These contradictory constellations again can be related to the demands of contemporary plural societies on the macro-level, which expect religious subjects to be open and tolerant towards other and nonbelievers, while at the same time advance an image of religious identity to be selfconsciously governed, but stable and not subject to any externally induced change.

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As the examples of Namika and Renate show, this constellation is not without difficulties. The expectations are experienced as diverging or contradictive, and hard to reconcile. Our interviewees meet this ambivalent constellation of demands they are confronted with within a religious plurality in different ways: Namika reminds herself to stay in line with certain standards; the far older and theologically versed Renate anticipates them with an elaborated counter-argumentation and also a bit of humour. Again another interviewee, Andrea, has worked her way to a certain independence from her religious community, a Protestant church, where she has also worked as full-time employee for over 20 years: A I became more open again regarding church, because I told myself […] I don’t HAVE to believe everything, or impose every ritual there is on me, I don’t HAVE to go to church every Sunday to believe in God, put very simply… Eh, well, I don’t have to believe that Mary was a virgin to believe in Jesus, see? So obviously, the different interviewees have developed different strategies of handling contradictory expectations and demands regarding their position in a religiously plural society, depending on their religious expertise and assertiveness in questions of religion. Also, age, formal education, and religious and social background seem to be crucial factors behind this. But in either case, such ambivalences and contradictions are experienced and frame the interviewees’ narrations and actions. As the interviews mirror, these contradictions can rarely be dissolved, but only juggled with, sewed up provisionally or eluded from to some extent.

2.2 Religion and Non-religion in the United States The second example stems from an empirical research project on the relationship between the religious and the non-religious in the United States, particularly on the way atheists are perceived. Over 140 qualitative (group or individual) interviews of different lengths were conducted in Texas and California, about 70 with atheists and about 70 with believers, who are either of different religious affiliations or nonaffiliated. The project takes an exploratory research design approach; it is based on qualitative data analysis influenced by the Grounded Theory of Barney Glaser and Anselm Strauss (Glaser et al. 2006; Strauss 1987, for further methodological information on the project, see Klug 2017). Despite the interreligious conflicts throughout its history, the US is a religiously pluralistic country and claims freedom of religion. However, the concept of god has always played

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an important role in American politics and citizenship, which has led to a long history of exclusion of atheists from political and public life, or even to condemnation and scapegoating (Klug 2016). Until today, atheists are the least accepted minority in the United States, even less accepted than Muslims, who are under constant attack since 9/11 (Edgell et al. 2016; McCarthy 2016). While religious symbolism is common even in official national symbols like the Pledge of Allegiance and on the currency, many atheists do not feel comfortable about ‘coming out’ as atheists because they fear repercussions from their surroundings. Although the number of explicit atheists and agnostics in the US ranks about only seven percent, the number of people who do not identify with a specific religion is on a steady rise (Lipka 2016). It is in front of this background that debates about religion and old or New Atheism often lead to conflicts. As observed in the research project (Klug 2018), atheists are described with a number of attributes, which reflect both the historical discourse as well as more recent imaginations, ranging from immoral, cold, egocentric and bitter, to communist or anarchist. They are often depicted as lacking empathy and love, or as being ignorant though sometimes overly intellectual and argumentative. Another form is to deny that atheists even exist, thereby questioning either their honesty or sanity. Negative perceptions do not necessarily result in actions, and even direct encounters are not necessarily conflicting. Often religious people say, ‘We love them anyway’ because it is a religious norm to love even your enemies. Others pray for their conversion. Those views can also lead to pity for the atheists because not only will they spend eternity in hell but they also miss much on earth. And this often results in missionary activities and invitations to join the respective religious group. Besides that, there are forms of tolerance, for example, if people claim that they leave the judgement over atheists to god. Hence, not all interactions between the religious and the non-religious are directly opposed to one another. Nevertheless, also those non-conflicting forms are based on a distinction or delineation between ‘us’ and ‘them’. If one examines the cases that are actually directly antagonistic, one can reconstruct a number of basic lines along which conflicts evolve: (1) the base of truth and the legitimate sources of knowledge, (2) justifications of morality, (3) appropriate modes of human interaction, (4) rules of conduct, (5) ideas about the formation and organisation of the world and (6) the meaning of life. Those lines of conflict indicate that secular and religious worldviews differ on the most fundamental aspects of society. In the following, two conflicting views regarding the base of truth and legitimate sources of knowledge will be reconstructed: The first illustration for that stems from a group interview in a very small Baptist church in a town in

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the greater Dallas area. The interview took place after the evening service with a group of five people. Asked what they think or feel about atheists, the interviewees focused predominantly on the believers’ responsibility to proselytise the non-religious, which was felt so sincerely by the group that they perceived it as a ‘burden’. It also was characterised by a Manichean worldview in which you either ‘witness for Christ’ or follow the devil’s lead. One member of the congregation described his attempts to get people ‘saved’ in the following words: I’m not one to cram it down their throat. There’s a lot of people that are considered zealots or whatever, that are the kind: ‘Well, you either accept, dadadada…’, and get right in the face about it. And a lot of that can scare someone off from accepting Christ. And so what I do is: I say ‘This, this is what the Bible says,’ and I show them what the Bible says. And no matter what they say, I tell them ‘I may not know the answers. He [the pastor, PK] doesn’t always know the answers, but it’s in the Bible, you just have to find it and to find it, you have to read it’.5

The interviewee emphasises that he does not want to impose his beliefs on others, because that in consequence might keep them from finding Christ—a view that displays rather practical considerations in the achievement of his goal instead of respect for the view of others. He then describes a procedure, which seems to represent his usual course of action. It is not apparent to which question this relates, as he does not specify this before or after this sequence. The interviewee describes how he shows passages from the Bible and continues to insist on its truth without regard for the reaction of the person he is talking to, and also without thinking about the question himself. Here, the speaker devalues human knowledge. He also diminishes the importance of perspectivity and discussion because for him the complete truth is revealed in the Bible. The order in which he considers sources of knowledge suggests a hierarchy, which places those who still need to be taught the truth of the Bible at the lowest end. They are followed by the devout but ordinary laymen, the role in which the speaker sees himself. After this category follow the religious specialists—here represented through the pastor. At the top of this hierarchy, he places the Bible, which always has the answer. Of course, not all religious people engage in missionary attempts and only some of them are so insisting, but in the interviews, similar stories were told quite frequently by believers who described their attempts as well as by atheists who felt disturbed by that kind of proselytisation.

5Word-repetitions

and fill words have been deleted from the transcript.

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The second sequence is from an interview with a long-term member of a Freethought Group and former science teacher in Austin, Texas. The interview was conducted at his home after the interviewer had contacted the group and attended some of the meetings. The interview focused on how he personally lost his faith and went through a phase of outspoken atheism in an environment where most were believers, but now avoids discussing about religion with religious people: And then I also realised that these [religious, PK] people, that they have this perceived need. And I wasn’t convinced that they actually had this as a true need. They felt they needed something there. And thereby telling them there was no god and telling ‘Well, ok, you don’t have that anymore…,’ what did I have to replace their perceived need for this god? And I said, ‘Me? No, I don’t really have anything other than just a scientific understanding in how the world works.’ And sometimes that gives you the answer: ‘I don’t know.’ And if you can’t accept ‘I don’t know’ as an answer, huh, then I’m sorry, I can’t help you, and so, I just, I would really confine my critiques of religion to people that seemed sincerely questioning or who are obnoxious, trying to push their religion on me in which case I would just give it to, and tell them what a bunch of crap it was.

In that interview segment, we can observe a number of traits that are typical for a secular approach to the question of truth. In his reflection upon earlier discussions with believers, he shows a functionalist perspective upon religion, which indicates that he has shifted to a meta-level of theories about religion. However, he does not just question the existence of god but also the universal need for such a god figure. Asking himself what he could offer believers as a replacement when challenging their belief, he realises that he has nothing to propose except a scientific worldview. But this scientific worldview cannot function as an exact replacement of faith in god, because it requires a certain tolerance for uncertainty. Although for him only science can explain the world, he admits that science does not always know the answer. About those who want absolute truths he says that he cannot help them, apparently still holding on to the idea that they need help in the first place. His thinking also reveals a hierarchy of knowledge, as he accepts only scientific explanations of the world as valid, and does not accept answers that do not match scientific criteria. But realising that he wouldn’t succeed in convincing religious people of such a view, he stopped engaging them in discussions about religion altogether. Exceptions he makes with people who sincerely question their faith and—what might have more potential for conflict—with those who want to impose their religion upon him. If confronted with someone like this, he lets them know that he thinks unfavourably of their religion relatively bluntly.

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So, focusing on the question of truth, we can observe not just differences, but contradictions and conflicts between the religious and the secular approaches, which were presented here: While the religious side starts with the assumption of an absolute truth, the other side insisted on the validity of human knowledge— even although it is incomplete. Moreover, these different logics also correspond with different forms of interactions: At the point of actual contact with the other side, the religious person describes his approach as attempts to convince others of the truth of the Bible, regardless of the other person’s perspective. However, where confronted with someone’s missionary attempts, even an atheist who has long given up convincing others and does not deliberately seek discussions with believers feels entitled to criticise religion harshly. So, secular and religious views can differ on the most fundamental aspects of life and society. But they are not just different, they can directly contradict each other, and—driven by their own logic—might directly apply their order of truth to the other side, therefore revealing the potential for fundamental conflict in the field of religion in modern society.

2.3 Salafism in Europe The third example from our research fields is a qualitative study on a Salafi community. It is mainly based on a 1-year fieldwork in a German Salafi mosque community as well as on narrative interviews with four young male Salafis conducted in Gritt Klinkhammer’s working group.6 Currently, Salafis in Europe seem to be the fastest growing radical religious groups of recent years, at least according to the German security agencies. In general, these groups do not differ from Islam, but are very rigid in their understanding of it. The Salafis’ emphasis on the oneness of god leads them to avoid all behaviour which is not mentioned in the Quran or sunna,7 because it could be shirk which means: contrary to the subordination to and worship of god. Therefore, many forms of secular behaviour, which people do just for fun like music or dance, as well as any innovation in religion are generally prohibited or declared as bida (sin). Furthermore, the separation of the sexes is also very strict and oriented towards the superiority of men. Women have to wear not only a headscarf, as is common in several Muslim groups, but

6My

thanks go especially to Till Peters for providing the data as well as to Habiba Rode for supporting the research. 7The prophet Muhammad’s traditional behaviour and statements.

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the niqab, which means disguising the whole body with the sole exception of the eyes. Ideologically, all the Salafis’ behaviour is based on the ‘perfect model’ of the al-salaf as-salih, those Muslim ancestors who lived together with the generation that followed Islam’s prophet Muhammad. Not all of these Muslims call themselves Salafis, but most of these groups refer theologically to the Wahabiyya of Saudi Arabia, which is based on the most conservative Muslim madhab (legal school) of Ibn Hanbal (died 855). Since it avoids other methods of finding fiq in Islam than the literal reading of Quran and sunna—even if within these Salafi groups there are, in history as well as in the present, also many discussions of the right interpretation (e.g. Meijer 2009). Especially those readings are highly discussed which refer to questions of the limits of being a Muslim and becoming a kafir (unbeliever), e.g. to what extent a Muslim should be loyal to a sinful Muslim ruler rather than fight against him. Some members of these as Salafi identified Muslim groups were recruited to fight for the IS. Quite a few of them are converts from Europe and especially from Germany. Regarding the question of contradictions in modern society, these Salafis obviously oppose almost everything European states strive and stand for: enlightenment and rationality, the free will of each person and equality of the sexes, religious freedom and the secularity of politics. Reading their pamphlets and listening to their statements about the non-Muslim West, e.g. on YouTube channels, there is no doubt that they are strictly opposed to all these norm convictions for a peaceful coexistence. This is also confirmed when listening to the young men’s stories of conversion—be they told by former mainstream Muslims or by former non-Muslims. Understanding these stories solely as ideas from a strange world which opposes us does not fully grasp their significance. In fact, if we take a more serious view on the young men’s perspectives, we get a more entangled structure of the development of young Salafi conversions in Europe. Therefore, we look at the interview with Faris, a 19-year-old man without any migration background, who just obtained his university-entrance diploma and converted to Salafi Islam 2 years beforehand.8 As opposed to the Christian conversion narratives, which often point out a crisis of meaning and existence as the pre-phase of change, the interviewed young male Salafis rather emphasise the normality of their life. However, it appears to be sinful and bad. Faris told us: ‘I have tried all possible things, and I must concede I have undergone so much when I was young…’. But he doesn’t think that he would have been in danger of gliding off, even if he had taken drugs and partied a lot. Just today, he understands

8All

interviewees are anonymised.

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how ridiculous this was. ‘What I want to say is, I was a quite normal teenager, who went through life just like many others’. Faris described the phase of interest in Islam as follows: F I was in search of knowledge … I was a hater of Islam, … I wanted to know more about because of my curiosity and anger towards Muslims. I wanted to know what people supposed to think when they radicalise themselves. As if people would be so stupid to get brainwashed. Here it becomes clear that he does not describe a crisis but takes an investigative approach that asks for causal relationships. He always searched for proof in the Quran before accepting anything. F If I can check the proof, than I accept. Otherwise I don’t take it as I like. It’s totally nuts, that you will be simply fascinated, that’s ridiculous for me. Brainwashing and also religion could have to do with emotional bonding, but he wants to tell us that he rationally checked the rightness of Islamic faith by its resources via Internet on his own. So he emphasises that he is able to assess by knowledge that it is right to oppose mainstream society through converting to Salafi Islam. Faris and the others demonstrate in their conversion stories a strong determination to autonomisation and rationalisation—approaches which at first and generally are also defended by the non-Muslim, non-religious Western world. Of course, there are friends, neighbours or classmates who were transmitters of Salafi Islam for the young men. But the motive of finding the truth on their own is nevertheless the most important one, which can also be found in each of the interviews. The decision for Islam and especially for Salafi Islam sets the converts apart from their former friends, and often also from their families. They know, and likely aimed at that: ‘I want to do this, I want to do this, what people do not understand, in no way’. At least, it seems to be unavoidable as well as a testing by god for the strength of belief. Next to rationality, strength proven by a high level of self-discipline seems to be a second important characteristic the male Salafi converts want to demonstrate: F For me this religion was not a question of cherry picking … I didn’t want to only take the things I like, and drop the difficult parts. I wanted to know, does this religion have a clear position?

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The interviewees refuse to single out special ideas of Islam which they find fascinating, and rather insist that a serious and true religion should not be constructed along the affinities or needs of people but by its fixed divine rules. And Islam would have these fixed and unchanging rules. As the 21-year-old former Shii convert Navid put it: N If I am convinced that the Quran has no faults, and that it is the word of God, the word of Allah, … I rather accept this than the laws of people, which have faults. As an example, Navid told us about the changing law on homosexuality: What has been forbidden and bad in former times should now be permitted and good. In his eyes, this could not be right. It needs a high grade of self-discipline to practice Salafi Islam regularly and continuously. There is always the risk of failing and especially of ‘making Islam too soft’. Many of them seem to feel like the defenders of the ‘Heavy Metal’ of Islam—as the publicly well-known Abu Hamza Pierre Vogel put it. They want to be the heroes who are strong and rational enough to defend the real Islam. Looking at the basic features of contradictions within the Salafi Islam, there is not only a contradiction by opposing to the way of living in non-Muslim Western societies. Rather, there appeared a sort of contradiction by the contrariness of the orientation to rational methodology and self-discipline and the ideal of an absolute transcendently and separated, not culturally infected pure religion. So, it seems that refusing modernity while applying some of its principles creates the appearance of this absolute, inhuman and apocalyptic religion.

3 Theorising Contradictions in the Study of Religion Those different empirical examples reveal central ways in which contradictions play a role for theorising the decline, the transformation, as well as dynamisation of religion in modern societies. The first example has demonstrated the individual experiences of contradiction between the requirements of a fixed faith by religious communities and the expectations of dialogue groups—and a plural society in general—to be open-minded and tolerant as well as an independent subject in terms of religion. The example showed that the friction between positions of

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strong belief and possible alteration of religious convictions is not absolute but may proceed within one person. This has implications for the above-mentioned theories of secularisation or transformation, as they need to integrate this complex and at times contradictory meaning of religion for an individual. The second example about believers and non-believers in the United States showed that modern societies host fundamentally different orders of knowledge and ideas of truth. Those orders are not just different, but can directly contradict each other. Furthermore, they can affect people’s lives, no matter whether they adhere to them or not. These frictions are not transitional but seem to be an inherent part of modernity. Theories of development of religion in the present therefore need to include them. The third example pointed out the dynamics of contradiction between fundamental believers and the rest of society, be they different believers or non-believers. Going deeper into this kind of friction, it becomes manifest that the Salafis adopt forms of rationality and self-control that are typically modern, while keeping the strict distinction between their religion and the secular—consequently their religion transformed into a totalitarian and ruthless weapon against all other cultural and traditional forms of living together. The above-mentioned theories of secularisation and re-fundamentalisation haven’t sufficiently described these dialectics between enlightenment and its flash back with its own methods. Reviewing those different empirical cases shows that theories of secularisation or of the recurrence of religion cannot explain religion in all of its various dynamics, relations and demarcations. As Peter Berger stated recently, modernity can neither be thought of without secularity nor without the sacred. Instead of secularisation, the plurality of the secular as well as of the sacred discourses is the signum of modernity (Berger 2014).9 There are some approaches, which put the concept of pluralisation to the fore, arguing—or implying—that the emphasis on pluralisation instead of secularisation may solve the contradictions mentioned at the beginning. This idea can also be found in Stark and Bainbridge’s market model of religion (1985), which is based on the assumption of a religious pluralisation: the latter leads to competition among the providers and stimulates the activities of religious organisations and other suppliers. So for them, too, plurali-

9As

we mentioned above, Berger nevertheless holds on to the idea that secularity will inscribe itself into religion time by time. However, e.g. Charles Taylor (2007) has shown that religion in a Secular Age will neither be less defended nor less prevailed as absolute, since the believers’ convictions were proven and apologetically secured on their own subjectively felt authenticity.

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sation marks the leading dynamic for the modern development of religion rather than enlightenment or secularisation. In their view, different economic cycles dominate the religious market, which may point to multilayered developments of the back and forth of religion. But this assumption of a common economic rationality of religion (and of all sectors of human life) and the focus on the suppliers’ efforts remains at the surface of the entangled dynamics we have shown by the examples. However, even if we take the plurality of religious and secular options into account, we do not get to the core of the contradictions of religion in the present. Rather, pluralism seems to be only a further code for a pretended empirical description of a normative concept, since it implicates the assumption of a multiplicity of offers, which are equal in terms of their accessibility and acknowledgement. Or as Pamela E. Klassen and Courtney Bender briefly put it: Pluralism ‘has come to represent a powerful ideal meant to resolve the question of how to get along in a conflict-ridden world’ (2010, p. 1). In fact, neither the accessibility of religious offers nor their identitary qualities are all equal or free from pre-structurisation of power, traditional hierarchies, social acknowledgement, evaluation and contradictions. The participants in interreligious dialogue are confronted with divergent images of how their religiosity has to be and feel under constraint to live up to these expectations—a clear indicator for the power structures which are at work in different religious fields and the related discourses, which produce contradictive expectations on the individual believers. The relationship between the religious and the non-religious shows that these groups do not just exist next to each other but that the claims they have can translate into power structures that have a direct impact upon people’s lives. And Salafism can serve as a form of empowerment for young men in environments where they felt a lack of power before, but, in turn, it creates new power structures. Therefore, approaches which are aware of those relations between identity formation, conflicting discourses of truth or rationality and common power structures as well as special structures of social acknowledgement are rather dealing with concepts of cultural diversity or differences than with the concept of pluralism (e.g. Bhabha 2012). In the field of religion, differences are created by traditional religious semantics of confessional or denominational borders as well as by interreligious encounters and exchanges, which are the normal case in a globalised and pluralised society. What is more, the religious subject formation itself seems to be a product of overlapping hybrid as well as contradicting and scissured religious and secular semantics and convictions, as we have seen in the interreligious participant Namika or the rational Salafi Faris.

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Instead, a deconstructivistic approach, which gains from including the manifest and latent hybridities, frictions and contradictions of the subject’s formation and its discourses (Reckwitz 2008a), seems to be an appropriate base for the study of religion’s investigation on the development of contemporary religion. However, the affirmative notion that deconstructivistic approaches explicitly or implicitly take towards the fissures of modernity (Reckwitz 2008b) must be reconsidered in the light of our empirical examples. While contradictory expectations, claims and logics might cause alternative and subversive forms of identities, this does not necessarily mean a liberation from power structures. On the contrary, those fissures can also lead to a re-fundamentalisation and to forms of religion, which reinstall, foster or newly create power structures. So, while the study of religion can certainly profit from the inclusion of theoretical approaches from poststructuralism, poststructuralist approaches also could profit from the empirical—and sometimes contradicting—findings of the study of religion.

4 Conclusion As the empirical examples showed, contradictions—as the existence of mutually exclusive developments in the same time—can be found in the same society throughout the different fields of research on religion. Those contradictions mark individual religiosity, interreligious communities as well as common society by the clash of different world views. By far not all recent theories on contemporary developments of religion acknowledge that (cf. Chap. 1), but rather postulate overall trends in the field of religion, maybe accompanied by some exceptions to the rule. Here, drawing on more general theories from the field of cultural studies, which integrate or even focus on the inherent frictions resulting in the hybridity of postmodern subjects and fields, proves to be productive in order to better understand, interpret and theorise contemporary trends of religion and religiosity. Contradictions in this regard are understood as divergent claims—be it on the image of religiosity, on diverging world views or on facing the plurality in modern societies—which cannot be reconciled, but strongly conflict with each other or can be sewed together only insufficiently and temporarily, depending on the situation and the individual’s competencies. For the field of religion, they may have a specific significance, since religion distinguishes itself by operating with absolute truth claims—about norms and values, about transcendent authorities and revelations, or the meaning of life. Obviously, this happens at the level of religiously marked narratives. But our elaborations have hinted that we should not fall for similar narrations within the field of religion-related theories. Rather,

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since contradictory dynamics are of such significance for the empirical study of religion, they might as well reproduce in theoretical explanations, which is not only in contradictory theories but also by the integration of a concept of contradiction within theory development.

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Klug, Petra. 2017. Varieties of nonreligion. Why some people criticise religion, while others just don’t care. In Religious indifferences. Between and beyond religion and nonreligion, ed. Johannes Quack and Cora Schuh. Berlin: Springer. Klug, Petra. 2018. Anti-Atheism in the United States, Dissertation at University of Bremen, Department for the Study of Religion and Religion Education, Supervisors: Gritt Klinkhammer and Phil Zuckerman, Pitzer College, Claremont, CA. Knoblauch, Hubert. 2009. Populäre Religion. Auf dem Weg in eine spirituelle Gesellschaft. Frankfurt a. M.: Campus. Lipka, Michael. 2016. 10 Facts about atheists. http://www.pewresearch.org/facttank/2016/06/01/10-facts-about-atheists/. Accessed 16 Feb 2017. Luckmann, Thomas. 1991. Die unsichtbare Religion. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp. Martin, David. 2006. Comparative secularisation north and south. In Religiosität in der säkularisierten Welt. Theoretische und empirische Beiträge zur Säkularisierungsdebatte in der Religionssoziologie, ed. Manuel Franzmann, Christel Gärtner, and Nicole Köck, 105–122. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag. (Veröffentlichungen der Sektion Religionssoziologie der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Soziologie, 11). Meijer, Roel (ed.). 2009. Global Salafism. Islam’s new religious movement. Hurst: Columbia. Neumaier, Anna, and Gritt Klinkhammer. Forthcoming. Narrating stability within interreligious dialogue. First results of a qualitative inquiry on consequences of plurality experiences for religious identity. In Religious pluralisation. A Challenge for modern societies, ed. Anna Körs, et al. Münster: Waxmann. Pollack, Detlef. 2006. Explaining religious vitality. Theoretical considerations and empirical findings in Western and Eastern Europe. In Religiosität in der säkularisierten Welt. Theoretische und empirische Beiträge zur Säkularisierungs-debatte in der Religionssoziologie, ed. Manuel Franzmann, Christel Gärtner, and Nicole Köck, 83–103. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag. (Veröffentlichungen der Sektion Religionssoziologie der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Soziologie, 11). Reckwitz, Andreas. 2008a. Generalisierte Hybridität und Diskursanalyse: Zur Dekonstruktion von ‚Hybriditäten‘ in spätmodernen populären Subjektdiskursen. In Kulturelle Differenzen begreifen. Das Konzept der Transdifferenz aus interdisziplinärer Sicht, ed. Britta Kallscheuer and Lars Allolio-Näcke, 17–39. Frankfurt a. M.: Campus. Reckwitz, Andreas. 2008b. Kritische Gesellschaftstheorie heute. Zum Verhältnis von Poststrukturalismus und Kritischer Theorie. In Unscharfe Grenzen. Perspektiven der Kultursoziologie, ed. Andreas Reckwitz, 283–299. Bielefeld: transcript. Riesebrodt, Martin. 2000. Die Rückkehr der Religionen. Fundamentalismus und der „Kampf der Kulturen“. München: Beck. Stark, Rodney, and William S. Bainbridge. 1985. The future of religion. Secularisation, revival and cult formation. Berkley: University of California Press. Strauss, Anselm L., and Juliet Corbin. 1996. Grounded Theory. Grundlagen Qualitativer Sozialforschung. Weinheim: Beltz. Taylor, Charles. 2007. A secular age. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Weber, Max. 1988. Die Wirtschaftsethik der Weltreligionen (GARS I), 9th ed. Tübingen: Mohr. (First publication 1920).

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Gritt Klinkhammer  is Professor for the Study of Religion at the University of Bremen. Her research interests are Islam and Muslim life in European societies, conflicts and modes of coexistence of contemporary religions, spiritualization and somatization of religion, theories of religion and qualitative-empirical research on religions. She is author of Klinkhammer, Gritt & Karakasoglu, Yasemin (2016): Religionsverhältnisse, in: Handbuch Migrationspädagogik, ed. by Paul Mecheril. Munich: Beltz, 294–310; Klinkhammer, Gritt (2013): Islamic Style—die Sichtbarkeit „unsichtbaren“ Islams, in: Dorothea Lüddeckens, Christoph Uehlinger, Rafael Walthert (Ed.): Die Sichtbarkeit religiöser Identität. Repräsentation—Differenz—Konflikt. Zürich: Pano, 111–136. Klinkhammer, Gritt (2012): Costs of Religious Pluralism in Liberal Societies, in: Dagmar Borchers, Annamari Vitikainen (Ed.): On Exit. Interdisciplinary Perspectives on the Right of Exit in Liberal Multicultural Societies. Berlin: deGruyter 157–173. Petra Klug  is Guest Professor for Critical Theory at Justus-Liebig-University in Gießen. She obtained a Master’s Degree in Sociology and Cultural Studies, as well as a Master’s Degree in Religious Studies, from the University of Leipzig. In 2018, she finished her dissertation about Anti-Atheism in the United States at the University of Bremen, before starting her postdoctoral project on the intersecrions of religion, gender, and the state in the case of Early and Forced Marriages. She is author of Klug, Petra. 2017. ‘Varieties of Nonreligion: Why some people criticize religion, while others just don’t care’ In: Quack, Johannes/Schuh, Cora (Ed.) Religious Indifference: New perspectives from studies on secularization and nonreligion, Springer; Klug, Petra. 2013. ‘Der neue Streit um Differenz? (Queer-) Feministische Perspektiven auf Islam und Geschlechterordnung [The New Feminist Contention? (Queer-) Feminist Perspectives on Islam and Gender]’, In Femina Politica. Zeitschrift für feministische Politik-Wissenschaft 2/2013: 114–123, http://www.ssoar.info/ ssoar/handle/document/44735. Klug, Petra. 2010. Feindbild Islam? Der parlamentarische Diskurs über Muslime in Bundestagsdebatten vor und nach dem 11. September [Islam as the enemy? Or Anti-Immigration policy? The Discourse on Muslims in the German Parliament before and after September 11]. Marburg: tectum. Anna Neumaier head of the competence center “Digital Religious Communication” at Ruhr-University Bochum, Germany. Her research interests are contemporary religion and religiosity, religion and new media, religious pluralisation and qualitative research on religion. She is author of Neumaier, Anna. 2016. religion@home? Religionsbezogene Online-Plattformen und ihre Nutzung. Eine Untersuchung zu neuen Formen gegenwärtiger Religiosität. Würzburg: Ergon; Neumaier, Anna. 2016. ‘“Because Faith is a Personal Matter!” Aspects of Public and Private in Religious Internet Use’. In Journal of Religion in Europe 9 4: 441–462; Neumaier, Anna. 2015. ‘Handling Deficiencies. Conditions, Modes, and Consequences of Using Online Christian Discussion Boards’. In Religion and Internet. Annual Review of the Sociology of Religion, edited by Daniel Enstedt, Göran Larsson and Enzo Pace, 131–146. Leiden/Boston: Brill.

Part III Contradiction, Power and Governmentality

Beyond a Binary Approach: Contradictions and Strict Antinomies Stefan Müller

Abstract

Contradictions are annoying. They make statements unreliable and arbitrary and can even suspend notions of right and wrong. This is why they are a primary concern of Aristotelian logic, especially in the law of noncontradiction which to this day has proven to be a reliable determinant of valid statements. Nonetheless, concrete and reliable concepts of contradictions do exist. These concepts seem to somehow circumvent the law of noncontradiction and a binary frame. But is it feasible or even logically possible to reach beyond a binary approach? Introducing and discussing contradictions in the form of strict antinomies, the paper analyzes how such circumvention can(not) be possible, and why it might provide an important tool for reflexive perspectives in a social scientific frame. Altogether, the paper explores strict antinomies as an approach to contradictions which are (a) neither arbitrary nor binary and (b) simultaneously situated within and beyond the frame of the Aristotelian law of noncontradiction. Dealing with contradictions in a nonbinary way provides one ingredient for a reflexive social scientific analysis of power, oppression, and inequality. Keywords

Critical theory · Nonbinary approach · Dialectics · Domination · Liberation · Strict antinomy

S. Müller (*)  Gießen University, Gießen, Germany e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 J. Lossau et al. (eds.), Spaces of Dissension, Contradiction Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7_8

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1 Introduction Contradictions are annoying. They make statements unreliable and arbitrary and can even suspend notions of right and wrong. This is why they are a primary concern of Aristotelian logic, especially in the law of noncontradiction which to this day has proven to be a reliable determinant of valid statements. Nonetheless, concrete and reliable concepts of contradictions do exist. These concepts seem to somehow circumvent the law of noncontradiction and a binary frame. But is it feasible or even logically possible to reach beyond a binary approach? Introducing and discussing contradictions in the form of strict antinomies, the paper analyzes how such circumvention can(not) be possible, and why it might provide an important tool for reflexive perspectives in a social scientific frame. The paper begins by illustrating that every form of contradiction is forced to deal with Aristotelian logic (Chap. 1). An overview of different constellations of contradictions is followed by an analysis of a strict antinomy. It represents a contradictory relation that allows a nonbinary perspective to function without simply suspending Aristotelian law. For demonstrative evidence, the strict antinomy is explored and discussed with regard to the liar paradox (Chap. 2) and the negative dialectical relation between individuals and society (Chap. 3). On this basis, nine characteristics of the strict antinomical constellation are identified, building the analytical and the normative framework for a nonbinary theory of contradictions (Chap. 4). Altogether, the paper explores strict antinomies as an approach to contradictions which are (a) neither arbitrary nor binary and (b) simultaneously situated within and beyond the frame of the Aristotelian law of noncontradiction. Dealing with contradictions in a nonbinary way provides one ingredient for a reflexive social scientific analysis of power, oppression, and inequality.

2 What Is a Contradiction? Oppositions come with a variety of faces, forms, and names. An opposition can be a difference, a dichotomy, a binary, an antinomy, a paradox, an aporia, an antagonism, an interrelation, an interdependence, a contrary, or a correlation. All of these as well as other kinds of opposition are often assumed to be contradictions. They entail contradictions indeed, yet in different forms. Hence, for clarification, a discussion of their specific characteristics is crucial. However, as the daily and academic use of each term is too widespread and too pluralistic to

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be captured by homogeneous definitions, I do not try to define every single term. Rather, I discuss the different forms by focusing on the logical structure of the relation. A number of oppositional classifications qualify as differences between (at least) two moments, circumstances, or definitions. Some call this an antagonism, others prefer the term opposition or dichotomy. Yet, if the focus is shifted away from terms and labels, toward their structure, it becomes apparent that an antagonism or opposition can be organized as a simple difference between A and B. Although such oppositions (seem to) differ in crucial aspects, they represent harmless logical determinations. They are two (or more) differing aspects that can be discussed apart from (or in relation to) each other. Conversely, an antagonism or opposition can take on the structure of a difference between A and not-A. A logical contradiction comes into play when we are structurally forced to take a position in favor of either one or the other side. This structure of opposition is established in the Aristotelian law of noncontradiction: “[T]he most certain principle of all is that about which one cannot be mistaken […]. Clearly, then, it is a principle of this kind that is the most certain of all principles. Let us next state what this principle is. ‘It is impossible for the same attribute at once to belong and not to belong to the same thing and in the same relation’ […]. This is the most certain of all principles.” (Metaphysics 1005b) “That the most certain of all beliefs is that opposite statements are not both true at the same time […]. And since the contradiction of a statement cannot be true at the same time of the same thing, it is obvious that contraries cannot apply at the same time to the same thing.” (Metaphysics 1011b)

Aristotle emphasizes that differences can be accentuated so sharply that they constitute a logical contradiction. A sharpening of differences occurs when two mutually exclusive assertions are ascribed to one object at the same time and in same respect. The Aristotelian law of noncontradiction is ineluctable, when it comes to rational statements with a claim to truth or to validity. In effect, it has acquired the status of an axiom. Consequently, this first axiom is followed by a second one which forces us to take sides. Either the statement applies or it does not apply. This axiom is also known as the law of the excluded middle, it is the axiom of either-or. Either an assertion is true, or it is not true; either right or wrong; either positive or negative. As a result, every theory of contradiction in the social sciences is confronted with the challenge of dealing with the Aristotelian law of noncontradiction. Breaching the axioms constitutes a direct violation of the own argumentation. It

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undermines common premises so fundamentally that the validity of an argument cannot be maintained. Up to this day, the Aristotelian law of noncontradiction is the fundamental basis for truth, rationality, replicability, and discursive regularity. Hence, I argue that in order to discuss the structure or even a theory of contradictions in a rational (that is, reasonable and accountable) manner, it is necessary to deal with the Aristotelian law of noncontradiction. Nonetheless, every theory, claim, and axiom can be discussed with regard to its scope and limits. Are there limits to the Aristotelian axioms? And are there limits to binary approaches that are based on the Aristotelian axioms? These questions will be discussed in the following section, introducing the constellation of a strict antinomy. On this basis, the limits of a binary approach can come into view, yet without simply discarding the law of noncontradiction.

3 The Liar Paradox as Strict Antinomy A binary logic reaches its limits when it comes to a contradictory constellation that is most prominently and most visibly represented in the liar paradox. The liar paradox is a controversial and non-resolvable contradiction that fundamentally collides with the Aristotelian law of noncontradiction. In its most popular version, it reads like this: “This sentence is false.”

It is not possible to simply refer to the form of a difference in order to resolve this statement. Rather, it entails a peculiar structure of contradiction. This becomes apparent if we try to get around this sentence with the help of Aristotelian logic as the basis for dealing with logical contradictions. Aristotelian logic always and ineluctably provides two possible options. The first option, then, assumes that the sentence is a lie (in the sense of being false)—in which case it turns out to be true in terms of content. The second option assumes the opposite: The sentence is true. However, it then turns out to be false as far as its content is concerned. The liar paradox confronts us with a complex structure of contradiction, constituting a constellation that is considered to be unresolvable. Another approach to the liar paradox, then, strives to separate the statement’s different levels. By introducing meta-levels, the linguistic levels can be grasped as different layers and be discussed individually. Thus, the opposing (contradictory) assertions (if true, then false; and if false, then true) are supposed to be set apart, in order to circumvent their collision. This approach aims at doing justice to the

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self-contradictory and conflicting assumptions between true and false in terms of clearing up the linguistic levels. However, Knoll and Ritsert (2006, pp. 41–63) have shown that while the introduction of meta-levels contributes to understanding the problem inherent to the entangling of structure (syntax) and content (semantics)—it does not help to resolve the problem. This is because the introduction of meta-levels discusses the liar paradox from an extended perspective as a second-order language. It still refers to a contradiction, when the overall structure comes into view again. If, by contrast, the overall structure is being neglected, an exit from the liar paradox succeeds by making a one-dimensional decision for one side: true or false. In that case, the problem is settled—but with it all its difficulties and its enriching possibilities. If we want to make use of the possibilities coming with the problem, we have to acknowledge the overall structure, even though it proves to be ineluctably contradictory. The problem remains unresolved. If A is assumed, it follows directly and logically that not-A is the case. If not-A is assumed, it follows directly and logically that A is the case. Is this problem only a logical gimmick for formal logicians, mathematicians, and those who are interested in the borderlands of Aristotelian logic? Is it limited to a peripheral area of logic (and should remain so)? In the following, I aim to prove the opposite. I argue that the contradiction inherent to strict antinomies is of utmost importance for social scientific perspectives beyond a binary approach. As a preliminary result, I suggest differentiating discussions about the structure of oppositional relations in the following ideal-typical way (see Table 1). First, relations that are considered to be a difference or opposition are marked by the structure “A and B” or “A or B”. They represent non-challenging constellations in terms of the effects of their relation. Second, relations that are referred to as contradictions are marked by the structure “A or not-A”. This structure is

Table 1   Structures of relations Type

Structure

Example

Difference, opposition

A and B A or B

Society and individual Society or individual

Contradiction

A or not-A (= law of noncontradiction) Not (A and not-A) (= law of the excluded middle)

Society or not-society Individual or not-individual

Strict antinomy

[(A → Not-A) and (Not-A → A)]

Liar paradox

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based on the Aristotelian law of noncontradiction and is supplemented by the law of the excluded middle (tertium non datur), which insists that either A or not-A is the case. Finally, the liar paradox represents a third ideal type. Not only does it relate A to not-A, but their very relation cannot be resolved in favor of one of the two sides or in favor of a synthesis. In this relation, both poles are inextricably linked and, more importantly, they are linked contradictorily. It is not the aim of this differentiation to define the very labels of difference, opposition, or contradiction, but the effects and implications of their structure are important. This is highlighted by a prominent example from social sciences: the relation between society and individuals. With the first type of oppositional relation, their relation can be described in the structure of “A and B”. Here, they are two different things that might be related. This would mean that individuals and society are perhaps related but separated. If the structure of the relation between society and individuals is considered to be “A or B”, the focal point is their difference and the decision, if either A or B is the focus of analysis. The structure of “A and not-A” represents the sharpest version of a contradiction. In this perspective, an assertion (A) and its opposite (not-A) cannot both be true at the same time and in the same respect: either A or not-A. All of these approaches provide rather limited possibilities to discuss the complex constellations, entanglements, and differences between society and individuals. Hence, the most promising and enriching studies of the relation between individuals and society are based on structures very similar to the liar paradox. This is most apparent in the relation between individuals and society in the negative dialectical approach of Adorno’s critical theory, as discussed in the following chapter.

4 The Negative Dialectical Approach Adorno’s negative dialectics can be reconstructed as a leading approach to discuss the limitations of binary logic. Central to this is the very concept of contradictions (cf. Ritsert 2011; Müller 2011; Ritsert 2017). This is emphasized by both critics and proponents of dialectics (cf. Popper 1940, p. 266; Adorno 1966, p. 23). The concept of contradictions inherent to the negative dialectical approach exhibits major parallels to the structure of strict antinomies. In the following, I explore this type of contradiction and its usefulness in a social scientific frame by introducing the relation between individuals and society from a negative dialectical perspective.

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Adorno explains his negative dialectical approach to the relation between individuals and society as follows: “The isolated individual, the pure subject of self-preservation, embodies in absolute opposition to the society its innermost principle. The jarring elements that make up the individual, his ‘properties’, are invariably also moments of the social totality.” (Adorno 1967, p. 77)

In a first step, Adorno embraces the evident external difference between individuals and society. This difference, however, is not only defined as difference but as an “absolute opposition” in the sense of a contradiction. Confronted with an opposition or contradiction, trained in Aristotelian logic, we typically reach out for a solution or rather a resolution, assuming that only one can be true. Adorno, however, refuses such a (re)solution. Therefore, he requires a concept of contradiction that is able to go beyond a binary logic of either-or. In addition to the external contradiction between individuals and society, Adorno introduces a difference within the individual, and within society, respectively. He points out an internal relation, meaning that each side or pole of the relation contains its opposite. This second step of the argumentation, Adorno owes to Hegel (Hegel 1977). There is not only an external (extrinsic) contradiction between individuals and society but also an internal (intrinsic) relation. For this reason, Adorno claims that the “absolute opposition” (i.e., the external contradiction) between individuals and society simultaneously is the “innermost principle” (the internal relation) of society and of individuals, respectively. While both sides are externally separated, they are simultaneously characterized by an internal mediation, an intrinsic contradiction (see also Mende 2016, pp. 50–53). In a third step, Adorno integrates all parts of the relation into the analysis. He does not simply focus on the external or internal relation, but on both. This is typical of his negative dialectical approach. It focuses on concepts and phenomena that are often described and discussed separately, but belong together in a peculiar manner. Adorno connects these pieces in a nonadditive way, or—in his words—in the form of a constellation. It is of utmost importance not to conceptualize the simultaneity of two related but separated poles in an additive manner in which, for example, societal conditions would equally add up to and be joined with individual aspects. Rather, the challenge lies in analyzing characteristics of the individual as already being societal, as already having social characteristics, without being fully determined by society (and vice versa). The individual is constituted by and through societal conditions, yet it cannot be analyzed solely as a product or effect of society. Quite

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the contrary is the case: it is genuinely individual—not in spite of its societal constitution but due to it. The same applies to the other side of the constellation. Society in “its innermost principle” is constituted by and through individuals. Societal structures, institutions, and processes are built by individuals. Yet, they take on forms of reification that cannot be controlled individually. Social conditions are constituted and (re-)produced by individuals, although and because society stands in contradiction to them. This logically sharp contradictory relation resembles the necessary and uncircumventable oscillation in the liar paradox, that is, the necessity to perpetually swing back and forth between true and false, or, in the present case, between individual and society. Each pole is constituted through its opposite without thereby dissolving the initial moment. In this mediated relation between individuals and society, an interruption of the oscillation would mean to destruct the constellation in its entirety, thereby one-dimensionally focusing on either individuals or society. While an analysis can surely focus on only one side, it cannot do so by subtracting out the other. If their mediation is ignored, none of the two distinct but connected moments can be studied, captured, or analyzed adequately. It is impossible to discern characteristics of the individual that could not also be discussed as societal ones. These simultaneities cannot be captured by a binary or an additive argumentation that either holds individuals responsible for social conditions or denies individual contribution to constructing society. “Indeed, the social nature of the process is itself an object of enquiry. The Hegelian and Marxian theory behind this is the insight that concepts always describe a social relationship: to see them as representing either one of the poles would be inaccurate.” (Steinert 2003, p. 72, original emphasis)

This kind of social relationship characterizes the concept of negative dialectics and informs the constellation between individuals and society. What is more, it is closely connected to a critical view on power and domination. While there are different meanings and dimensions to the term “negative” in the concept of negative dialectics (see Müller 2013a, b, pp. 197–199; Ritsert 2017, pp. 182–187), they can all be related to discussing moments that support (+) or undermine (−) individuality, autonomy, and liberation. Modern societies create dominating (−) and simultaneously liberating (+) effects in different ways, on different levels and with different effects on different (groups of) people. Accordingly, critical theory aims at discussing the production of domination, liberation, and their entanglement. It is crucial to this perspective not to discuss these moments in a binary

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frame which divides aspects, objects, agency, individuals, etc. into two different possibilities: right or wrong, good or bad, domination or liberation. While such a verdict may be appropriate in a few cases, more often than not social relations operate beyond these binaries. Individuals and society, structure and agency, liberating and dominating dimensions as well as their internal and external mediation are entangled with each other. The negative dialectical approach strives to reveal these entanglements, their effects, and their implications. Negative dialectics thus represent an attempt to analytically grasp nonbinary topics in and through internal and external contradictions and to normatively reveal liberating and dominating dimensions within them. Freedom, autonomy, and liberty are dependent on both the possibilities and restrictions by societal conditions as well as by individual agency—the term agency including both acting and thinking. In their most repressive form, societal conditions can appear to be overwhelming vis-à-vis the powerless and disenabled individual. Yet, this is only one side of the negative dialectical perspective. While Adorno strives to identify forms of social domination, even those that individuals agree with, he is also in search of potentially deliberating forms which support and promote individuals’ possibilities for autonomy and agency. Traces of liberation exist (almost) everywhere, even within societal limitations and domination. This stems from the insight that individuals are dependent on the existence of social structures and processes that generate and support possibilities for autonomy and agency in the first place. “If the individual mind is not, as it would please the vulgar separation of individual and universal, ‘influenced’ by the universal, if it is selfmediated by objectivity, the objectivity is not always bound to be hostile to the subject; the constellation changes in the dynamics of history.” (Adorno 1973, p. 306, emphasis StM)

As a consequence, individual autonomy is not to be understood as non-societal autonomy, as freedom from society. Neither do individuals dissolve into society. Such dissolution would entail the destruction of individuality. While individuals and society are both threatened by the limitations of the opposite pole, individuals and society both enable each other’s existence at the same time. Accordingly, individual autonomy is only possible in and through the antinomical contradiction between individuals and society. Yet, there is no determination or automatism that the antinomical constellation actually secures autonomy. Rather, the constellation can (and does) take on different forms. Adorno perceives societal constraints and damages as predominant in current forms of modern society, yet they, too, are not uncircumventable. “An emancipated society […] would not be a unitary state, but

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{ I+/ - [S+/ -]  c+/ -  S/ - [I+/ -]} Fig. 1   Antinomic constellation between individuals and society. Key: I  = Individual, + = productive moments (enabling autonomy), − = repressive moments (restricting autonomy), S = Society, c = contradiction, […] = internal implication, {…} = overall structure

the realization of universality in the reconciliation of differences.” (Adorno 1951, p. 103) This involves the dissolution of domination-shaped asymmetries within the constellation of individuals and society—but not the constellation itself. Individuals and society would not merge, but maintain their interrelated independence. In conclusion, the antinomic constellation between individuals and society requires taking into account all of its dimensions: the negative dialectical mediation between individuals and society, their internal and external contradictions, and their normative dimensions. Formally, this constellation can be outlined (cf. Fig. 1). The individual (I) and society (S) are antinomically opposed to each other (← c →). This contradiction reappears on both sides of the opposition: the individual is constituted through society (I[S]), and society is constituted through individuals (S[I]). The overall constellation is characterized by each side being constituted through its opposite. This internal contradiction is accompanied by an external contradiction between individuals and society. Both sides and all their respective internal relations exhibit a decisive normative element that can be discussed with respect to at least two aspects: emancipatory/productive/liberating (+) and repressive/dominating (−) aspects which again are interrelated with each other. All in all, the mediation of internal and external contradictions presents serious analytical and normative challenges.

5 Within and Beyond the Law of Noncontradiction: Strict Antinomies and the Negative Dialectical Approach Every theory of contradiction in social sciences is based on the Aristotelian law of noncontradiction. However, there are different approaches to Aristotelian logic. Strict antinomies and negative dialectics go beyond binary approaches and they do so in a very specific way. In this chapter, I point out nine characteristics that mark—to varying degrees—strict antinomies and the negative dialectical mediation of individuals and society (cf. Knoll and Ritsert 2006, pp. 25–40;

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Müller 2011, pp. 35–46; Müller 2013b; Ritsert 2013; Ritsert 2014, pp. 82–95). This way, I aim to specify their meaning for a nonbinary theory of contradiction.

5.1 Internal Mediation as Internal Contradiction The liar paradox and the negative dialectical constellation of individuals and society exhibit a certain kind of internal mediation, respectively. The strict antinomical structure of the liar paradox is characterized by an internal contradiction which oscillates back and forth from A to not-A. In effect, it is difficult, if not impossible, to separate the two moments. This kind of internal mediation is not structured in terms of influence. Rather, each moment contains its opposite as an internal contradiction. The negative dialectical approach deals with a similar kind of internal mediation. Society is within the individual, and vice versa. It diverts from the liar paradox by transcending the very strict form of A and not-A. The internal contradiction between individuals and society manifests within each part of the whole constellation, within the individual as well as within society. This kind of internal contradiction is necessary for both. Individuals are individuals, but inherently constituted by society. Society is society, but inherently constituted by individuals. Both sides are necessary for a nonbinary approach.

5.2 Internal Mediation as Transition into the Opposite Certain kinds of internal mediation may also appear as part of a binary approach. Relations of A and B, A or B, A and not-A can constitute a third term, i.e., a synthesis which contains both opposite terms. A nonbinary approach to internal mediations differs from this significantly. Instead of composing a synthesis, the liar paradox and negative dialectics are marked by the constant necessity to transition into the opposite, appearing on both sides. The constant transition into the opposite neither takes place outside of the two poles or in a middle ground between them, nor does it constitute a synthesis.1 Rather, it appears within the very poles. Each side blends into and constitutes its opposite in itself. This is vis1Sometimes

a dialectical approach is described in terms of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. A thesis and its antithesis are brought together in a synthesis. As discussed above, it helps to get a closer look at the structure of this model. Are thesis and antithesis structured as A and B, A or B, A or not-A, A and not-A or in terms of a strict antinomy? Is the Aristotelian

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ible in the negative dialectical constellation of individuals and society. It helps to clear up the common misunderstanding that an already “complete”, “formed” individual on the one side and an already existing social formation on the other side enter into a process of mediation at some point in time. Rather, the mediation is already taking place within each moment and by means of the other moment. It constitutes the coming-into-being of both sides in the first place. Both sides constitute themselves as independent of the other only in and through the transition into their opposite.

5.3 Internal and External Contradictions The strict antinomical and the negative dialectical constellation exhibit a specific relation between their internal and external contradictions. While the internal and external contradictions are intrinsically connected, they are also separated at the same time. In contrast, an opposition in a binary frame pinpoints either external or internal contradictions. Antinomical constellations differ from this in entailing both internal and external forms of contradictions. The liar paradox presents a particularly strong example of their relation. In the liar paradox, the initial moment A does not only immediately lead to not-A (internal contradiction as transition into the opposite), but at the same time remains separated from not-A (external contradiction). A binary perspective, in contrast, requires the connectedness or the separation of A and not-A (or it asks for either A or not-A in the first place). Similarly to the liar paradox, the negative dialectical perspective captures how individual autonomy is intrinsically based on and mediated by society, that is, how the individual is inherently constituted by society, while at the same time (and as a result) she is able to think and act autonomously. On the other side of the constellation, society exhibits more autonomy and independence from its initiators, the individuals, than they would probably prefer—even though and because it is constituted by them. A binary approach, in contrast, searches for an unambiguous solution: Either individuals are autonomous, or they are not. Either society is constituted by individuals, or it is not.

law of noncontradiction being acknowledged? It turns out that, often, the concept of synthesis is used as a phrase or placeholder, covering up incorrect or inconsistent assumptions or conclusions.

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The overall constellation is characterized by internal contradictions on each side (each containing its opposite) as well as by an external contradiction between the sides (each gaining its independence from the other). Thereby, the internal and external contradictions connect the sides with each other, explaining why a strict antinomical relation cannot be resolved.

5.4 Self-reference Both the liar paradox and the negative dialectical mediation of individuals and society are marked by the feature of self-reference which yields significant effects (and sometimes problems). Self-reference occurs when an initial moment enters into a process (of thinking, acting, theory, praxis, etc.) just to result in that very initial moment. The liar paradox initially assumes A, immediately proceeding to not-A, just to promptly proceed to A again, and so forth. The negative dialectical mediation of individuals and society assumes an initial moment that, on closer examination, turns out to contain its own opposite in that very initial moment itself. The individual refers to herself as an individual. She reflects on the constitutive social circumstances and recognizes herself in this reflection: as an individual.

5.5 The Negation of Self-reference Self-reference alone does not necessarily pose a challenge to a binary frame. However, in strict antinomies, it is accompanied by its negation. It is the negation of self-reference that constitutes the logical indissolubility of the liar paradox. Concurrently, it is a certain form of negation of self-reference that enables the overall constellation in the first place. The negation of self-reference explains how returning to the initial moment simultaneously negates that very initial moment. The liar paradox suggests truth, and it is exactly this “truth” that turns out to be negated by its meaning. Yet, if it is not true, it negates its suggestion, thus becoming true. The negation of self-reference transcends a binary frame because the latter longs for a one-dimensional answer: either true or false. This is not applicable to the liar paradox, because the “other” answer is always possible and reasonable. The negation of self-reference also comes into view in the negative dialectical constellation of individuals and society. The individual (the initial moment) enters

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into a process of reflection on society which leads back to herself. However, in and by this reflexive process, she does not remain “the same”. Rather, by going through the process of reflection on social constitution and recognizing her own opposite (society) in herself, she understands herself as being mediated. Therefore, in the process of self-reference, the initial moment returns to itself not identical in level or quality. Rather, through the process of mediation, A becomes A’.

5.6 Oscillation Between Self-reference and Its Negation as Feedback Loop One conclusion of the nonbinary approach is that there is no conclusion, at least not in the sense of a concluding, terminating result. Self-reference, and the negation of self-reference is an ever ongoing oscillation. This process can be captured as a feedback loop, taking on two possible forms. First, in the form of constant self-referencing, it refers back to the same assumptions, conclusions, and conditions that it started from. If A, then not-A, then A, then not-A, and so on. The second kind of feedback loop includes the negation of self-reference. Here, every loop of the feedback process gets incorporated in the initial moment, thereby affecting it. Society constitutes individuals which constitute society’ which constitutes individuals’, and so on. Both sides are constantly affecting each other, in an ongoing feedback loop, while gaining their independence from each other, while impacting the scope and content of autonomy and heteronomy on each side. Each side can be transformed, broadened, or restricted during the process, yet this never happens in an additive, but in a mediated manner.2

5.7 The Simultaneity of Domination and Liberation Within the Concept The liar paradox does not care about domination, power, and liberation. Negative dialectics, in contrast, do so. It is the explicit aim of Adorno’s critical theory to provide for a critique of social relations of domination, power, and oppression.

2Another

term for the oscillation between self-reference and the negation of self-reference as feedback process is the concept of reflexivity (cf. Müller 2011, p. 84).

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“In this tradition, ‘criticism’ does not mean that there are things that the thinker does not like or agree with. In this context, ‘criticism’ means reflexivity […]. ‘Criticism’ is always about the circularity that arises from the fact that we always have to work with the (conceptual) tools of domination and that we always have to be wary of concepts due to their abstractness and their link to ideology.” (Steinert 2003, p. 164)

This critical reflexivity is based on an acknowledgment of the simultaneity of domination and liberation within each concept or phenomenon. Consequently, in terms of the relation between individuals and society, it is neither feasible nor desirable to locate liberation only on the side of the individual or on the side of society. The same applies to domination. The negative dialectical approach strives to reveal moments of liberation and domination (and, more often than not, their entanglement) on each side. Critical theory deals with the simultaneity of domination and liberation within each concept—even within the concept of critical theory itself.

5.8 Normativity Within the Concept A possible approach to dealing with the liar paradox is to ask for its context and for the speaker’s location. Is the speaker, for example, known to be a liar and storyteller, or does the speaker have a reputation of being honest? The logically strongest version of the liar paradox as introduced above is devoid of any context or speaker’s location. In contrast to that, in a less strong version of the liar paradox as formulated by Epimenides, a speaker’s location becomes visible: “A Cretan says: ‘All Cretans are liars.’”

From the perspective of social scientists, statements, constellations, and theories are always embedded in and dependent on context. The mediation of individuals and society, too, cannot be analyzed without taking their historically, temporally, and spatially diverging contexts into consideration. Thus, the mediation between individuals and society can take on manifold different forms. While these forms are structurally based on the same logical constellation of strict antinomies, they differ in scope and in content as well as with regard to their normative effects and implications. So does their analysis. Notions of autonomy and heteronomy, liberation and domination, as used above, can contain different dimensions and meanings, depending on their normative implications and assumptions. Normative and ethical assumptions need to be addressed not only with regard to the mediation between individuals and society but also with regard to the

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speaker’s location and normative assumptions. With this in mind, it becomes clear whether individuals are judged, e.g., by their usefulness and efficiency for society, or whether society is judged by its ability to provide for the autonomy and liberty of individuals. Adorno provides a very clear normative stance on the mediation between individuals and society: “The most important conclusion to be drawn from the mediation between individuals and society […] is that a person is capable of realizing herself as an individual only within a just and humane society.” (Adorno 1991, p. 48, translation StM)

The normative yardstick in critical theory is characterized by the possibilities that society provides to support the autonomy and human dignity of all individuals, and by identifying its limits—while remaining open for critical inquiry of this very yardstick.

5.9 Conceptual Openness The liar paradox and the negative dialectical approach exhibit a further central element for a nonbinary theory of contradiction. A nonbinary approach requires the possibility of an open argumentation, namely, a dynamical perspective. This openness is uncircumventable for strict antinomical constellations. Without it, the constellation would dissolve into a one-dimensional perspective, making the ten­ sion between the contradictory elements and the oscillation disappear, thereby destroying the (liar) paradox. Additionally, the negative dialectical mediation between individuals and society reveals the normative importance of conceptual openness. It prevents closed and static perspectives on the meanings of liberation and domination, and it forestalls one-dimensional (re-) solutions that would end the process of reflexivity.

6 Conclusion A nonbinary approach to contradictions is not applicable to every case. Neither does it represent a more sophisticated mode of thinking. Rather, a nonbinary approach is a particular method of dealing with certain types of contradictions. These contradictions can be so sharp that there is no appropriate either-or solution. Then, they may take on the form of a strict antinomy.

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The sharpest version of a strict antinomy is the liar paradox. For its oscillation between self-reference and the negation of self-reference, it is regarded as unresolvable. This does not only illustrate its difficulties but also builds the basis for dealing with strict antinomies. A similar constellation is the relation between individuals and society. Adorno’s negative dialectical approach characterizes the mediation of individuals and society as a constellation with external and internal contradictions. It includes the reflexive critique of social domination and power as well as the discussion of possibilities for liberation. Both domination and liberation can be undermined or strengthened by the internal and external contradictions between individuals and society. In both constellations, the contradictions provide a stimulating potential for reflexive approaches. In order to make use of this potential, it helps to take a closer look at the conditions for their nonbinary structure. It shows that a nonbinary structure differs from other structures of relation. Even if the latter come under the label of contradictions or oppositions, their structures reveal their differing characteristics. Only certain cases of contradictory constellations allow the application of a nonbinary approach. The main challenge of a nonbinary approach is to reconcile contradictoriness and internal oppositions with the Aristotelian law of noncontradiction. Simply avoiding, ignoring, or prohibiting the paradox in strict antinomies neither provides a productive way of dealing with contradictions nor does it actually work. I argue to resist either-or solutions, and also not to resign the Aristotelian law of noncontradiction. Rather, I suggest taking one step back and one step forward. There is no appropriate binary solution for strict antinomies, on the one hand, and the law of noncontradiction is not obsolete, on the other hand. Putting these steps together opens up ways of dealing with nonbinary contradictions. Here, a binary application of the law of noncontradiction only builds a (small) part of the overall constellation. This leads to the (antinomical) conclusion that the Aristotelian law of noncontradiction is not only part of a binary approach, but part of a nonbinary approach as well.

References Adorno, Theodor W. 1967. Sociology and psychology. New Left Review 47: 79–97. Trans. N. Irving, First publication: 1955. Adorno, Theodor W. 1973. Negative dialectics. London: Routledge. Trans. E.B. Ashton; First publication: 1966. Adorno, Theodor W. 1974. Minima moralia: Reflections on a damaged life. London: Verso. Trans. E.F.N. Jephcott; First publication: 1951.

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Adorno, Theodor W. 1991. Soziologische Exkurse: Nach Vorträgen und Diskussionen. Hamburg: Europäische Verlags-Anstalt. (First publication: 1956). Aristotle. 1933. Metaphysics: Books I-IX. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Trans. Hugh Tredennick. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich. 1977. Phenomenology of spirit. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Trans. Arnold Vincent Miller and John N. Findlay, First publication: 1807. Knoll, Heiko, and Jürgen Ritsert. 2006. Das Prinzip der Dialektik: Studien über strikte Antinomie und kritische Theorie. Münster: Westfälisches Dampfboot. Mende, Janne. 2016. A human right to culture and identity: The ambivalence of group rights. London: Rowman & Littlefield. Müller, Stefan. 2011. Logik, Widerspruch und Vermittlung: Aspekte der Dialektik in den Sozialwissenschaften. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag. Müller, Stefan. 2013a. Halbierte oder negative Dialektik. Vermittlung als Schlüsselkategorie. In Jenseits der Dichotomie: Elemente einer sozialwissenschaftlichen Theorie des Widerspruchs, ed. Stefan Müller, 181–202. Wiesbaden: Springer VS. (Frankfurter Beiträge zur Soziologie und Sozialpsychologie). Müller, Stefan (ed.). 2013b. Jenseits der Dichotomie: Elemente einer sozialwissenschaftlichen Theorie des Widerspruchs. Frankfurter Beiträge zur Soziologie und Sozialpsychologie. Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Popper, Karl R. 1940. What is dialectic? Mind XLIX (194): 403–426. Ritsert, Jürgen. 2011. Moderne Dialektik und die Dialektik der Moderne. Münster: Monsenstein & Vannerdat. Ritsert, Jürgen. 2013. Antinomie, Widerspruch und Begriff. Aspekte der Hegelschen Spekulation. In Jenseits der Dichotomie. Elemente einer sozialwissenschaftlichen Theorie des Widerspruchs, ed. Stefan Müller, 39–69. Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Ritsert, Jürgen. 2014. Themen und Thesen kritischer Gesellschaftstheorie: Ein Kompendium. Gesellschaftsforschung und Kritik. Weinheim: Beltz Juventa. Ritsert, Jürgen. 2017. Summa Dialectica. Ein Lehrbuch zur Dialektik. Gesellschaftsforschung und Kritik. Weinheim: Beltz Juventa. Steinert, Heinz. 2003. Culture industry. Oxford: Polity.

Stefan Müller  is currently holding a Deputy Professorship at the University of Gießen, Germany. Besides the topics of dialectics and nonbinary logic, his research focuses on civic education and didactics of the social sciences. He is author of Müller, Stefan. 2015. Soziologische Reflexivität. Negative Dialektik und die Beobachtung zweiter Ordnung. In Systemtheorie und Differenzierungstheorie als Kritik. Perspektiven in Anschluss an Niklas Luhmann, Ed. Albert Scherr, 154–173. Weinheim: Beltz Juventa. Müller, Stefan. 2018. Rechthaberei und Reflexion. Sozialwissenschaftliche Modelle und Möglichkeiten von Kritik, in: zdg. Zeitschrift für Didaktik der Gesellschaftswissenschaften: 113–131. Müller, Stefan. 2019. Mündigkeit. Zwei Argumente für eine reflexive, nicht-dichotome Perspektive. In Gesellschaft im Wandel – Neue Aufgaben für die politische Bildung und ihre Didaktik!?, Eds. Kerstin Pohl, and Matthias Lotz, 86–93. Frankfurt am Main: Wochenschau-Verlag.

Governmentality and the Autonomous Subject: Persistent Contradictions in Philosophies of (Language) Education Barbara Schmenk Abstract

This paper seeks to investigate how educational debates on the ideal of personal autonomy could benefit from Foucault’s concept of governmentality and his dictum of government as “conduct of conduct.” A view of education through the lens of governmentality allows for critical analyses of educational approaches that promote self-governance and lifelong learning. Taking as a starting point the widespread claim that the goal of education in today’s globalized world is to foster autonomy in the service of lifelong learning, I first illustrate the contradictions inherent in this and similar claims, focusing in particular on the ideal of the autonomous learner-subject as construed in discourses of language education. Furthermore, the construct of the autonomous learner-subject and its inherently contradictory nature can be traced back to the Enlightenment and finds its most prominent formulation in Kant’s assertion of the educational paradox. In the second part of the paper, I reframe the autonomy construct with reference to the notion of governmentality. I demonstrate how fostering autonomy in learner-subjects can be regarded as an act of governing others in order to improve their self-government. Instead of attempting to reconcile the contradictions inherent in the ideal of autonomy, it is more productive to view them through the lens of governmentality, which helps us conceptualize and contextualize more precisely the incommensurability inherent in the idea of an education for autonomy.

B. Schmenk (*)  University of Waterloo, Waterloo, Canada e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 J. Lossau et al. (eds.), Spaces of Dissension, Contradiction Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7_9

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Keywords

Governmentality · Language education · Learner autonomy · Lifelong learning · Self-directed learning

1 Introduction: Autonomy and Education Thinking about autonomy in the realm of education is by no means new. Ever since Immanuel Kant introduced the concept of moral autonomy and the “categorical imperative” (CI) in his Groundwork on the Metaphysics of Morals (1785), the notion of personal autonomy has been considered of particular relevance to educational theory. The categorical imperative—“Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law” (Kant 1998, p. 30)—expresses a fundamental principle of morality and is “none other than the law of an autonomous will. Thus, at the heart of Kant’s moral philosophy is a conception of reason whose reach in practical affairs goes well beyond that of a human ‘slave’ to the passions” (Johnson and Cureton 2016, n. p.). Unlike the ancient Greek concept of political and social autonomy, Kant applied the term autonomy to the individual subject and thus developed the notion of personal autonomy. As such, it has led to a plethora of (Western) educational theories and approaches that are concerned with moral responsibility and rationality, often paired with Kant’s notion of maturity (Mündigkeit) as famously outlined in his essay “Answering the question: What is enlightenment?” (1959 [1784]; for overviews, see, e.g., Dworkin 1988; Köpping et al. 2002; MeyerDrawe 1990; Rieger-Ladich 2002). At its core, autonomy denotes the capability of rational subjects to think and act independently. As an educational ideal, this notion of the autonomous, free subject has been, and continues to be, prominently featured. There is, however, a dialectic tension inherent in Kant’s concept of autonomy—namely, his insistence that the subject’s decisions and actions shall not interfere with or limit the autonomy of others, as posited in the CI. The moral principle thus poses serious limitations on individual freedom and autonomy, which can, due to its inherently contradictory nature, be termed “the autonomy paradox.” This chapter aims to investigate this paradox. It takes as a starting point contemporary educational discourses which celebrate the autonomous subject as an ideal self that is prepared to succeed in our global world. The contradictions inherent in this construct of the autonomous subject will be discussed subsequently.

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2 Current Views of Autonomy in (Language) Education Today, autonomy ranks among the most popular keywords on international educational agendas. In July 2017, a Google search for the keywords “autonomy” and “education” generated over 42 million results. A random look at some of these results reveals that autonomy is attributed to people (teachers and/or learners), as well as to institutions (e.g., schools, banks, universities). While the focus on moral autonomy and the CI seems to have largely vanished from current educational agendas, Kant’s notion of personal autonomy has survived, albeit in a different version that focuses on individual responsibility. Interestingly, the very first result of the long list generated by Google is a Wikipedia entry on learner autonomy, which provides several definitions of this notion, all of which pertain to the domain of foreign language education. One should add that none of them references Immanuel Kant. The introductory paragraph reads: Learner Autonomy has been a buzz-word in foreign language education in the past decades, especially in relation to lifelong learning skills. It has transformed old practices in the language classroom and has given origin to self-access language learning centers around the world […]. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Learner_ autonomy)

This entry—despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that it is taken from Wikipedia and not a “proper” academic source—highlights several aspects that can be considered central to my focus in this chapter. First, it seems that today, it is the field of foreign language education that yields more publications and debates on autonomy than other educational fields. Second, the entry explicitly labels learner autonomy a “buzz-word,” thus indicating its popularity in language education. Third, autonomy is directly related to another buzz-word, “lifelong learning.” Fourth, the practical implication or impact of the focus on learner autonomy as depicted here is the development of self-access learning centers as a means to overcome “old practices.” Finally, the fact that this Wikipedia entry is the first result of a Google search of “autonomy” and “education” suggests that it is frequently clicked on—and perhaps read—by people who wish to learn something about autonomy and education. As such, it may be very influential in shaping users’ impressions of what autonomy actually is. All of these points warrant further explanation and shall be discussed in the following paragraphs.

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2.1 Autonomy and Foreign Language Education While autonomy could theoretically be a relevant notion in all fields of education, it has been particularly popular in discourses of foreign language education of late. This popularity is evident from the sheer number of publications on autonomous language learning and learner autonomy in the past few decades (e.g., Benson 2001, 2007, 2011). The reasons why this notion is especially popular in language education may be related to the phenomena associated with international migration and the need to quickly learn other and others’ languages, as well as with recent European language policies in particular, which aim to foster learner autonomy and advocate the need for citizens to become plurilingual (as promoted in the most influential publication by the Council of Europe, the Common European Framework of Languages in 2001 that has since been adopted by many curriculum designers around the world, not only in Europe). The notion of learner autonomy was introduced by Henry Holec (1980) in a seminal paper written for the Council of Europe. At the time, Holec, the director of the language center (Centre de Recherches et d’Applications en Langues) at the University of Nancy was chiefly concerned with self-directed learning (see also Gremmo and Riley 1995). In his paper, Holec coined the term “learner autonomy” as a necessary prerequisite for successful self-directed language learning, and defined it as follows: To say of a learner that he [sic] is autonomous is […] to say that he is capable of taking charge of his own learning […]. To take charge of one’s own learning is to have, and to hold, the responsibility for all the decisions concerning all aspects of this learning, i.e.: – – – –

determining the objectives; defining the contents and progressions; selecting methods and techniques to be used; monitoring the procedure of acquisition properly speaking (rhythm, time, place, etc.); – evaluating what has been acquired. The autonomous learner is himself capable of making all these decisions concerning the learning with which he is or wishes to be involved. (Holec 1980, p. 4)

Holec’s definition of autonomy focuses on the responsibility of the individual learner. Unlike “traditional” foreign language learning environments, in which others (usually teachers, curriculum designers, administrators, and policy-makers) would be in charge of determining learning objectives, contents, progression, methods, and evaluations, Holec envisions a scenario in which the learners take charge and make all the decisions regarding their language learning themselves.

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Despite the fact that Holec explicitly rules out the possibility of practicing autonomous learning in an institutionalized context (such as a foreign language classroom), his notion of learner autonomy was subsequently referred to in many attempts to foster autonomy in the language classroom (for an in-depth discussion of this misunderstanding see Schmelter 2004). Besides, Holec’s definition of learner autonomy places a tremendous—unrealistic—burden on the learner, who is to make decisions in areas learners are most likely not familiar with. Making decisions regarding methods, assessments, learning goals, contents, and progression of learning a foreign language would require at least a basic knowledge of curriculum design, assessment and testing, language learning strategies, and language teaching methodology. Autonomy, in this vein, appears to be a highly demanding capacity. Thus, it seems surprising that Holec’s definition became the most frequently cited in foreign language education. However, one seldom finds the quote in full as cited above. What has been cited in most publications on learner autonomy to date is the very first sentence of the definition, namely, the statement that learner autonomy is the capability of “taking charge of one’s own learning,” while the actual—demanding—decisions involved are often overlooked or remain unaccounted for. “Taking charge of one’s own learning” has become a very popular phrase in foreign language education. This somewhat vague formulation may have contributed in part to the fact that “learner autonomy” soon became a buzz-word (Little 1991, p. 2), as does the fact that autonomy is largely viewed as particularly desirable, in education and beyond. As Pennycook (1997, p. 39) put it, “[i]t is not an easy task to write critically about learner autonomy in language learning, principally because autonomy seems such an unquestionably desirable goal.” An idealized notion such as autonomy is thus prone to become a buzz-word, especially when its definition remains vague and can in principle be applied to all sorts of learning arrangements that somehow allow learners to make decisions about their learning themselves. Pennycook (1997, p. 40) emphasizes that the “mainstreaming of autonomy” in foreign language education discourse has resulted in “its reduction” to “an issue principally of individual development, learner strategies or ‘self access’.” Arguably, the reductionist conception Pennnycook criticizes is in sync with common sense notions of autonomy as independence, often paired with the assumption that being autonomous means “doing one’s own thing.” The rise of learner autonomy as a buzz-word coincided with the rise of digital media. One could, in fact, argue that it was the advancement of the personal computer and computer-assisted language learning in particular that provided fertile ground for promoting “autonomous language learning” and further enhancing the “buzz”. The equation linking computers and autonomy is simple: If learners

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engage in language learning activities using the computer, they take charge of their learning, and are thus autonomous. The pervasive logic that underlies this equation is that working by oneself is a sufficient indicator of learner autonomy. This “technical” interpretation of autonomy has been criticized by many, as it is arguably blind toward what students actually do when they use digital media, the kind of activities they pursue and how, and the kind of learning that emerges in their respective self-access activities (for some of these critiques see, e.g., Benson 2001; Little 2004; Rösler 2007). Nonetheless, the straightforward association of autonomy with self-access continues to be promoted widely. The association is often reinforced when related to yet another buzz-word: “lifelong learning.”

2.2 Autonomy and Lifelong Learning As suggested in the Wikipedia entry, fostering learner autonomy in language education is often linked to “lifelong learning.” Originally phrased “lifelong education” in the 1970s (Field 2006, p. 11), the more recent term lifelong learning indicates a significant shift from education to learning. While educating people throughout their lives involves public or private institutions that are in charge of offering continuing education, learning throughout one’s life evidently shifts the educational responsibility and the activity focus toward the individual. Learning can take place at home or in any kind of institutional setting; what is important to proponents of lifelong learning is that individuals take charge of their own learning. This focus on individual responsibility for learning can easily be linked to the notion of autonomy as outlined above. However, since lifelong learning has become one of the cornerstones of the discourse on the “global knowledge economy,” as most widely promoted by the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD), it has turned into a strongly economized phrase. In his monograph entitled Lifelong learning and the new educational order, Field (2006, p. 3) explains: “[I]n Britain and most other advanced [sic] nations, lifelong learning policies are mostly driven by a desire to raise the nation’s economic competitiveness and improve its standard of living, defined in largely material terms.” In this vein, education is chiefly geared toward preparing people for global markets. This is most clearly spelled out in the mission statement of the OECD: The mission of the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) is to promote policies that will improve the economic and social well-being of people around the world. The OECD provides a forum in which governments can

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work together to share experiences and seek solutions to common problems. We work with governments to understand what drives economic, social and environmental change […]. We also look at issues that directly affect everyone’s daily life […]. We compare how different countries’ school systems are readying their young people for modern life […]. (https://www.oecd.org/about/)

The task the OECD assigns to education is “readying” (formerly: educating) young people for modern life. Viewing education and schooling solely through instrumental and economic lenses, many OECD publications take issue with current educational practices that are deemed to be outdated because they are not suited to preparing young people for the global knowledge economy. What is advocated instead is a shift toward lifelong learning, which requires the kind of education that equips students with “useful” knowledge and learner autonomy. In this light, lifelong learning resembles a kind of continual “self-readying,” which is considered vital for today’s young people in order to fit into, and function in, the knowledge economy: In the knowledge economy, memorization of facts and procedures is not enough for success. Educated workers need a conceptual understanding of complex concepts, and the ability to work with them creatively to generate new ideas, new theories, new products, and new knowledge. They need to be able critically to evaluate what they read, be able to express themselves clearly both verbally and in writing, and understand scientific and mathematical thinking. They need to learn integrated and usable knowledge, rather than the sets of compartmentalised and de-contextualised facts. They need to be able to take responsibility for their own continuing, life-long learning. (OECD 2008, p. 1; emphasis, BS)

The above quote reiterates what proponents of learner autonomy have discussed for the field of language education. It declares the ability to take charge of one’s own learning (the most widely used definition of learner autonomy) a necessary precondition for lifelong learning, thus confirming that “the lifelong learning discourse identifies a broad need to teach individuals to become autonomous learners” (Tuschling and Engemann 2006, p. 458). Besides, the quote merges educational and economic arguments, which illustrates that “the notion of lifelong learning has moved to embrace the market orientation that places the learner not so much within a strong civil society as within an economic environment in which he or she must take responsibility” (Axford and Seddon 2006, p. 167). As a result, the notion of autonomy in discourses of lifelong learning has firmly been established as an individual capacity and indeed resembles the commonsense notion of “doing one’s own thing;” yet, by insisting that any such learning is to be “useful” for the individual so as to succeed in the knowledge

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economy, it adds an instrumentalist twist to autonomy. Once aligned with economic interests, autonomy is invested with additional meanings. This clearly confirms Benson’s (2001, p. 19) early observation that “[s]ocio-economic and ideological changes are rapidly bringing the notion of the autonomous learner into harmony with dominant ideologies of what it means to be a fully functioning member of a modern society” (for a more in-depth critique of this point, see also McGarry and Schmenk 2013). The autonomous subjects construed here are indeed required to “do their own thing,” take charge of their learning, and make all the decisions involved. Due to the “responsibilization” (Simons and Masschelein 2008, p. 51; Peters 2001, p. 59) of the educational subject in lifelong learning, autonomy turns into an obligation. It has become a new categorical imperative, the prerequisite for survival and success in the global knowledge economy. Today’s autonomy imperative, with its economic focus, bears only scant traces of Kantian thought. The longevity of the term “autonomy” itself, however, makes it one of the most successful and most frequently used words in education.

3 Contradictions and Complexities On the surface, there may not be much in the previous sections that strikes readers as particularly contradictory. On the contrary, many people today are so familiar with the neoliberal narrative of the knowledge economy and its call for more individual responsibility that descriptions of the autonomous lifelong learner-subject seem perfectly sensible. A closer look at the points outlined above, however, reveals that they are contradictory throughout.

3.1 Contradictory Conceptualizations of Autonomy To begin with, researchers have conceptualized learner autonomy in different ways. The resulting spectrum of meanings assigned to autonomy varies considerably and leads to a plethora of inconsistencies (for detailed discussions, see Schmenk 2005, 2008, 2012). The contradictory views of autonomy emerge with regard to the question of whether autonomy is something learners naturally have (autonomy as a means, i.e., a characteristic feature of learning) or whether it is a capacity they have to learn first (autonomy as an end, i.e., gradual development of autonomy that requires guidance and/or pedagogical intervention).

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The focus on individualization has meanwhile been repeatedly criticized in the field (e.g., Benson 2001, 2007, 2011, 2013; Little 1991, 1997, 2004; Palfreyman 2003; Schmelter 2004, 2006; Schmenk 2008, 2014; Toohey 2007). In fact, a growing body of research on learner autonomy has moved on to include social dimensions as well: “Learner autonomy is now understood to be a social capacity that develops through ‘interdependence’ rather than ‘independence’” (Benson and Cooker 2013, p. 8). Interestingly, this line of argument breaks away from Holec’s original definition and explanations, as it implicitly highlights the importance of institutional settings in fostering learner autonomy. Maintaining that learner autonomy is a social capacity conceptualizes autonomy as an outcome of social learning environments: “In much of the work on classroom autonomy, therefore, there is a sense of learner autonomy emerging out of collaborative processes” (Benson 2013, p. 78). In other words, although the notion of learner autonomy itself remains inherently individualized, the path or process of “autonomization” is believed to include social learning and interdependence (see also Feick 2016; Jiménez Raya 2014). Such approaches to conceptualizing autonomy arguably attempt to overcome the earlier “mainstreamed” and reductionist versions of autonomy, even though the focus on social learning and interdependence as prerequisites for autonomy may render social dimensions of learning inherently instrumental (Schmenk 2014). Clearly, the debates about the social versus the individual nature of autonomy reveal contradictory views and conceptualizations. This is true as well for the debate on autonomy and self-access learning. Scholars have long complained that “self-access learning centres have proliferated to the point where ‘self-access language learning’ is often treated as a synonym for self-directed or autonomous learning” (Benson 2001, p. 9), arguing that “there is no necessary relationship between self-instruction and the development of autonomy and that, under certain conditions, self-instructional modes of learning may even inhibit autonomy” (Benson 2001). The belief that self-access centers are ideal places to exercise autonomy continues to flourish (and has led many administrators to reduce teaching staff—and budgets), despite many critical voices that caution against technical interpretations of learner autonomy and maintain that “[a] great deal depends on the nature of the technology and the use that is made of it” (Benson 2001, p. 10). One of the more recent developments resulting from this critique is a focus on learner support, which seeks to explore ways of helping learners to make informed choices and adequate use of self-access learning opportunities. Given the myriad products and suggestions for computer-mediated communication and computer-enhanced language learning, learners need help in manoeuvering their way through what is “out there” (e.g., Gardner 2007; Hobbs and Jones-Parry 2007; Little 1991, 1997,

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2004; Schmenk 2006; Tassinari 2010). As a result, autonomy is viewed as a goal that is achieved non-autonomously, through guidance and support from others, which stands in stark contrast to the belief that self-access learning equals autonomous learning. Besides these conceptual variations and their contradictory practical implications, there are two more general points I wish to discuss in more detail in the remainder of this article, as they pertain to contradictions associated with the concept of personal autonomy in educational philosophy. First, the very notion of the autonomous subject is inherently contradictory and can even be viewed as paradoxical. Second, the claim that subjects can become autonomous by means of education further complicates the first paradox. Both points will be addressed below.

3.2 The Autonomy Paradox The fundamental paradox inherent in the notion of personal autonomy becomes more tangible only when taking into consideration its opposite, heteronomy. This paradox was already present in Kant’s thoughts on moral autonomy and the categorical imperative. Claiming that the categorical imperative requires subjects to adhere to a universal ethical principle, i.e., acknowledging the autonomy of the Other, implies that the autonomy of the subject lies in her/his choice to agree with this principle and thus to limit one’s own autonomy. In this light, the CI spells out the impossibility of empirical autonomy in moral subjects (for an in-depth discussion of this point, see Schmenk 2008; Zirfas 2004). This paradox remains present in current notions of autonomy and is reinforced when used in conjunction with learning and education. Claiming that an individual is autonomous when s/he makes all the decisions regarding their learning ignores the many heteronomous moments that are involved in decision-making processes. Recalling Henri Holec’s definition of learner autonomy, quoted above, it is evident that each of the decision clusters mentioned involve many heteronomous moments that undermine the potential for autonomy in self-directed learning. Determining the objectives of one’s learning, defining the contents and progressions, selecting methods, monitoring and evaluating one’s learning pose a great challenge to individual learners. In order to take charge of all these decisions, they will certainly have to adhere to a great many ideas, principles, suggestions, and knowledge derived from sources other than themselves, all of which make the decision-making process heteronomous as well as autonomous. Even if students do decide what and how to study on their own, the very act of fol-

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lowing their own study plans requires compliance with a set of rules and guidelines—which act as limitations on autonomy, regardless of whether they are self-imposed or set by others. This becomes yet more obvious when considering the heteronomous conditions in which self-access learning takes place. Sitting in front of a computer screen and completing exercises or tasks, clicking and choosing options from a learning program or surfing websites may strike some as an exercise in autonomy, yet our activities in cyberspace and in the contexts of online learning and computer-assisted learning programs are more appropriately considered heteronomous. The readiness to characterize such learning scenarios as autonomous strikes me as overly naïve. Since it ignores the many heteronomous—other determined—influences and decisions that are open to the presumably autonomous learner, labeling self-access learning as an act of autonomy appears conceptually and politically problematic. It is for these reasons that educational philosopher Käte Meyer-Drawe warns against mistaking heteronomy for autonomy, pointing out that what people believe to be autonomy often turns out to be pseudo-autonomy, or “illusions of autonomy” (Meyer-Drawe 1990). She argues that the heteronomous conditions under which we live have become increasingly disguised and invisible. As a result, distinguishing between self- and other determination today is difficult and often impossible (Meyer-Drawe 1990, p. 8). Illusions of autonomy, she argues (Meyer-Drawe 1990, pp. 11–12), need to be identified as such, in order for us to be able to understand and assess the degree to which our seemingly autonomous decision-making is subject to heteronomy.1 Similarly, and with regard to widespread narratives of responsibility and independence in legal and political discourse, Martha Fineman (2004) problematizes what she terms a simplistic ideology underlying illusions of autonomy: The very language of our politics and politicians is mired in a simplistic rhetoric of individual responsibility and an ideology of individual autonomy. Taking responsibility is understood narrowly, as being accountable for oneself and one’s dependents only. This sense of responsibility is also primarily economic in nature. (Fineman 2004, pp. 8–9) 1The

entanglement of autonomy and heteronomy can of course be observed in many contexts, not only with regard to language learning. In general, homo sociologicus and homo economicus are by definition not autonomous as they are always positioned and position themselves in a complex network of multiple dependencies that grants them agency, but also imposes restrictions on them. However, further discussion of these observations would exceed the scope of the present article.

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Meyer-Drawe’s and Fineman’s observations tie in with what is currently promoted in the context of autonomous lifelong learning. Here we encounter depictions of responsible individuals who take charge of their lives and their learning, who no longer rely on outside help or institutional support, and who may thus appear to be sentenced to lifelong autonomy. The economic outlook of this scenario is obvious in the descriptions of lifelong learning as discussed above.

3.3 The Educational Paradox Apart from the impossibility of pure autonomy, the idea of educating autonomous subjects is paradoxical as well. And again, it was Kant who made this observation: One of the greatest problems of education is how to unite submission to the necessary restraint with the child’s capability of exercising his [sic] freewill—for restraint is necessary. How am I to develop the sense of freedom in spite of the restraint? I am to accustom my pupil to endure a restraint of his freedom, and at the same time I am to guide him to use his freedom aright. (Kant 1900, p. 29)

The thorny question of how to “develop the sense of freedom in spite of the restraint” introduces the educational paradox inherent in any attempt to educate autonomous individuals. “Be autonomous!” is, after all, an absurd pedagogical imperative; regardless of what kind of response it triggers—damned if you do, damned if you don’t. The kind of contradiction inherent in this imperative is that it demands the impossible; autonomy can by definition not be demanded. Yet it is precisely this paradoxical demand that is nowadays required of individuals if they are to succeed in the “knowledge economy;” the promotion of lifelong learning and the concomitant call to “ready” people for it are just as paradoxical as Kant’s famous question on education. The contradictory nature of this task lies in the simultaneous demand for self-governance and compliance, a demand that blends autonomy and heteronomy, and ultimately promotes illusions of autonomy. The following quote on fostering learner autonomy in the language classroom illustrates this observation and its implications in the realm of language education: “[C]learly, the exercise of responsibility for one’s own learning […] and as members of a group […] implies that the acceptance of responsibility is constantly renewed […]. From this it should be clear that the first task of the teacher intent on fostering learner autonomy is to introduce her [sic] learners to their responsibilities as

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individuals. In due course, the aims and objectives of the official curriculum must become the learner’s personal aims, but to begin with it is enough that they should discover a compelling reason for learning.” (Little 1997, p. 237)

Autonomy, according to this explanation, is primarily the result of internalizing what others have determined and laid out. Accepting responsibility and making decisions that are in sync with the school curriculum can be considered autonomous only if one completely ignores the heteronomous sources of the “learner’s personal aims.” The basic contradiction of such calls for fostering autonomy lies in the simultaneous promotion of autonomy and the expectation that the individual comply with what is “useful” and (heteronomously) determined by someone else. Educating autonomous subjects therefore appears to be a contradictory endeavor throughout. So how are we to deal with these contradictions? At this point, one could argue that since an education for autonomy appears to be impossible, autonomy should reasonably be removed from educational agendas. Or one could ask how educators and educational theory can deal with the paradoxes and contradictions of an education for autonomy, so as to avoid promoting an illusion. In what follows, I would, however, like to forego both the pessimistic surrender and the optimistic attempt to reconceptualize autonomy for education, and instead take a closer look at the contradictions identified in the previous sections. The contradictions themselves can be scrutinized further, as well as the reasons for their persistence, when we theorize them in light of the notion of “governmentality.” Reframing the autonomy and the educational paradox with reference to governmentality helps to analyze and understand the contradictory dimensions inherent in discourses of autonomy and lifelong learning.

4 Governmentality, Autonomy, and Education: Reframing Contradictions in Educational Discourse 4.1 Governmentality Coined by Michel Foucault (1991), the compound word “governmentality” has inspired many scholars in the Humanities to investigate issues related to governance and government. Mitchell Dean (2010), in his seminal monograph on

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governmentality, approaches Foucault’s compound notion in several steps, starting off with the concept of government as “conduct of conduct” (Dean 2010, p. 17; Gordon 1991, p. 2; Foucault 1982, pp. 220–221). “Government” in this sense does not refer to institutionalized or specific political governments, but is used in a more open sense as an activity (governing, governance). Expanding on this view, Dean elaborates: Government is any more or less calculated and rational activity, undertaken by a multiplicity of authorities and agencies, employing a variety of techniques and forms of knowledge, that seeks to shape conduct by working through our desires, aspirations, interests and beliefs, for definite but shifting ends and with a diverse set of relatively unpredictable consequences, effects and outcomes. (Dean 2010, p. 18)

According to this understanding, government is an “activity that shapes the field of action” (Dean 2010) of the governed; for whom, as a result of government, “it is possible […] to act and to think in a variety of ways, and sometimes in ways not foreseen” (Dean 2010, p. 21). Government in this sense includes both governing others and governing oneself. The term governmentality combines the notion of government as depicted here and “mentality,” which in the broadest sense refers to how people think about government. Governmentality can either be considered a collective activity, in which case the “idea of mentalities of government […] emphasizes the way in which the thinking involved in practices of government is explicit and embedded in language and other technical instruments but is also relatively taken for granted, i.e., not usually open to questioning by its practitioners” (Dean 2010, p. 25). In addition to this generic concept of governmentality, Foucault also uses the term with respect to a specific form of governing that emerged at a particular time in history, characterized by specific forms of exercising power and authority that differ from previous ones. It is “an ensemble formed by the institutions, procedures, analyses and reflection, the calculations and tactics, that allow the exercise of this very specific albeit complex form of power” (Foucault 1991, p. 20). This form of power brings about a particular set of beliefs—i.e., a particular mentality—as well. Dean (2010, p. 29) illustrates this “historically delimited meaning” of governmentality by contrasting it with earlier forms of governance— namely, sovereign power and discipline: While governmentality retains and utilizes the techniques, rationalities and institutions characteristic of both sovereignty and discipline, it departs from them and seeks to reinscribe and recode them. The object of sovereign power is the exercise of authority over the subjects of the state within a definite territory […]. The object

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of disciplinary power is the regulation and ordering of the numbers of people within that territory […]. The new object of government, by contrast, regards these subjects, and the forces and capacities of living individuals, as members of a population, as resources to be fostered, to be used and to be optimized […]. Rather than replacing discipline or sovereignty, the modern art of government recasts them within this concern for the population and its optimization (in terms of wealth, health, happiness, prosperity, efficiency), and the forms of knowledge and technical means appropriate to it. (Dean 2010, pp. 29–30)

Governmentality, in this particular “modern” form, entails the alleged self-governing of individuals, which can be understood as an internalized form of governance. People no longer need to be disciplined by others or by a sovereign; they have internalized the rules of the Other and govern themselves accordingly.

4.2 Governmentality and Education The concept of governmentality has been enormously influential in the Humanities (see, e.g., Bröckling 2016 and the contributions in Peters et al. 2009; Nicoll and Fejes 2008; Bröckling 2011). In educational contexts, governmentality can be considered of central importance when we take education as a process of governing. Looking at educational theory and praxis in terms of governance aims to identify governmental rationalities that bring about specific kinds of subjects or subjectivities. A governmentality-lens therefore allows us to reframe the analysis of educational theory and practices. The autonomous learner-subject as construed in educational discourses that promote lifelong learning, for instance, can be analyzed as a particular kind of subjectivity that emerges as a result of specific ways of governing, in the context of a specific governmental rationality. At the same time, the focus on education as governance (governing others as well as governing the self) makes visible the complex network of power that is involved in educational processes, in general, and in the case of an education for autonomy in particular. Similar to the shift from sovereign power and discipline to governmentality in modern societies as outlined above, the idea of educating autonomous learner-subjects implies a shift in governance, i.e., from direct and authoritative intervention and discipline toward a mode of self-governing. In this light, the call for “readying” young people for the global knowledge economy appears itself to be an act of governance (on the part of the OECD, in this case) of others (e.g., national and regional institutions, educators, employers, policy-makers in all the member states), who are in turn asked to govern

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citizens in a specific way—namely, to transform them into lifelong learners who govern themselves. In other words, there are manifold layers of government as “conduct of conduct” involved in this governmental regime. Untangling them and making them accessible to analysis requires us “to try and map out and to make visible the discursive conditions which make possible the emergence of specific subjectivities, the techniques which operate to shape such subjectivities and the practices in which we turn ourselves into what is deemed desirable—to govern ourselves—the conduct of conduct” (Nicoll and Fejes 2008, pp. 14–15). Each of the governing levels involved employs a similar governmental rationality, namely, the arguments put forward promote change in a way as to make the governed “understand” that it is in their best interest to do as they are told. The OECD publications suggest that there is no alternative to the knowledge economy and its demand for human capital; therefore, all the educational institutions and bodies in its member states are to foster what is deemed essential and necessary for human capital to increase. There are myriad examples of changes in the educational landscape of OECD member states that have not been authored or guided by the OECD but were triggered by their publications. PISA is merely one example. The kind of government that has brought about these changes is therefore indirect, governing in a way as to create consensus, disguising the very act of governing and foregrounding decision-making on the part of the governed. It is this governmental principle that we find at work in discourses of lifelong learning and autonomy as well. A view of education through the lens of governmentality allows for critical analyses of educational approaches that promote self-governance and lifelong learning (see also Miller 2016). While advocates of lifelong learning maintain that “[b]ecoming educated is more at the disposal of the individual,” critical voices have pointed out that this “development […] is two-edged, providing simultaneously more freedom and more risks” (Tuschling & Engemann 2006, p. 458). Shifting responsibility to learner-citizens may indeed grant them more freedom in making choices regarding their lives and education; however, they are “strongly encouraged” (and often simply forced) to take responsibility, and upon doing so they are alone in bearing this responsibility—and its successes or failures. But because they are considered autonomous, their decisions and actions are attributed and attributable only to themselves—there is nobody else left to blame. They too are governed in a way that disguises the very acts of governing: Lifelong learning represents ‘internalized educational aspiration’, where the individual is not only responsible for the content of the knowledge, but also for the levels and structures and process and organization. Essentially the learner becomes

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the entrepreneur of their own development. What states provide are the tools that facilitate the process. Not only must individuals learn, but they must learn to recognize what to learn, and what they want to forget […] when circumstances demand it (Olssen 2006, p. 224).

As argued above, what renders the scenarios of the autonomous lifelong learnerentrepreneur so contradictory is the fact that the sole focus on freedom and choice ignores all the heteronomous aspects involved in these scenarios—the fact that people or students are governed in such a way as to turn them into lifelong learner-entrepreneurs. Disguising or ignoring heteronomy in this way is implied in the underlying governmental rationality. According to advocates of lifelong learning, autonomy is a necessity and the prerequisite to successful functioning in life and society and to contributing to the overall human capital in knowledge economies. The focus on individual freedom and choice is thus instrumentalized from the outset. Despite their explicit idealization of autonomous self-direction and individual decision-making, lifelong learning is geared toward the accumulation of useful knowledge and skill sets—i.e., knowledge and skills that are considered useful to the knowledge economy, not necessarily to the learners themselves. Ideally, the individual will eventually turn societal demands and “useful” learning goals into personal aims in a process of governmentalization. As such, the construct of autonomous lifelong learning is much more emblematic of heteronomy than of autonomy. All the different layers of governing and the governmental rationality itself are, however, glossed over in celebratory pamphlets promoting the lifelong, self-directed learner-entrepreneur. The inherent contradictions and inconsistencies of the seemingly “autonomous” are therefore rendered invisible.

5 Concluding Remarks The notion of governmentality can contribute significantly to the analysis of educational theory and practice, especially with regard to the role of the autonomous subject. Identifying the governmental rationalities that underlie educational thinking and pedagogical practices makes it possible to analyze educational processes and to investigate them more closely. This becomes salient when we consider the contradictions and the paradoxes identified in this chapter. A governmentality lens allows us to identify the contradictory dimensions of autonomy and heteronomy, to dissect the underlying beliefs and interests and the complex networks of power involved, and to situate educational practices and theories within wider political and economic contexts.

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This kind of analysis can broaden the perspective on education as an act of “governing subjects.” Contradictions that occur at conceptual and theoretical, as well as at institutional, professional, and practical levels, can thus be identified and scrutinized more closely. The contradictions discussed in this chapter arise at all of those levels, yet many of them have largely remained unanalyzed in educational contexts. The entanglement of autonomy and heteronomy at the conceptual and theoretical level can be addressed through attempts to develop “improved,” more reflected, less contradictory educational agendas (e.g., Fejes and Nicoll 2008; Meyer-Drawe 1990, 1993, 1998; Pennycook 1997; Schaffar 2014; Schmenk 2008; Olssen 2006; Simons and Masschelein 2006; Tuschling and Engemann 2006). Yet, a focus on governmentality is less concerned with reconciling contradictions or making inconsistencies consistent; rather, it provides a theoretical framework of reference that allows us to capture more precisely the kinds of contradictions current educational philosophies entail. As an analytical framework, it allows us to look at the governmental practices that people (students, teachers, administrators, citizens, theorists, and policy-makers) employ and are subjected to in educational contexts. A governmentality lens therefore implies a dual focus on the subject both as agent and object, which allows us to capture and dissect the complex network of autonomy and heteronomy, without inflating one and glossing over the other. This may help sharpen our view of contradictions in educational thinking and practices, to understand the conditions of the emergence of contradictions, and to view them as parts of educational agendas that are—and may remain—incommensurable and irreconcilable.

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Rieger-Ladich, Markus. 2002. Mündigkeit als Pathosformel. Beobachtungen zur pädagogischen Semantik. Konstanz: UVK. Rösler, Dietmar. 2007. E-learning Fremdsprachen. Eine kritische Einführung, 2nd ed. Tübingen: Stauffenburg. Schaffar, Birgit. 2014. Changing the definition of education. On Kant’s educational paradox between freedom and restraint. Studies in Philosophy of Education 33: 5–21. Schmelter, Lars. 2004. Selbstgesteuertes oder potenziell expansives Fremdsprachenlernen im Tandem. Tübingen: Narr. Schmenk, Barbara. 2005. Globalizing autonomy? TESOL Quarterly 39 (1): 107–118. Schmenk, Barbara. 2006. CALL, self-access and learner autonomy: A linear process from heteronomy to autonomy? In The concept of progression in teaching and learning foreign languages, ed. Theo Harden and Arndt Witte, 75–90. Oxford: Lang. Schmenk, Barbara. 2008. Lernerautonomie. Karriere und Sloganisierung des Autonomiebegriffs. Tübingen: Narr. Schmenk, Barbara. 2012. Von Autonomie zu Aufgaben und zurück oder Wie muss ein Autonomiekonzept aussehen, das uns hilft didaktisch-methodische Entscheidungen für das aufgabenorientierte Lernen zu treffen? In Aufgaben 2.0, ed. Katrin Biebighäuser, Marja Zibelius, and Torben Schmidt, 57–89. Tübingen: Narr. Schmenk, Barbara. 2014. Die Quadratur des Kreises oder: Wie lassen sich Autonomie und soziales Lernen vereinbaren? Jahrbuch Deutsch als Fremdsprache/ Intercultural German Studies 40: 117–129. Simons, Maarten, and Jan Masschelein. 2006. The learning society and governmentality: An introduction. Educational Philosophy and Theory 38 (4): 417–430. Simons, Maarten, and Jan Masschelein. 2008. Our ‘will to learn’ and the assemblage of a learning apparatus. In Foucault and lifelong learning. Governing the subject, ed. Andreas Fejes and Katherine Nicoll, 48–60. London: Routledge. Tassinari, Maria Giovanna. 2010. Autonomes Fremdsprachenlernen. Komponenten, Kompetenzen, Strategien. Frankfurt a. M.: Lang. Toohey, Kelleen. 2007. Conclusion: Autonomy/agency through sociocultural lenses. In Re-interpreting autonomy in language education, ed. Andrew Barfield and Stephen H. Brown, 231–242. London: Palgrave. Tuschling, Anna, and Christoph Engemann. 2006. From education to lifelong learning: The emerging regime of learning in the European Union. Educational Philosophy and Theory 38 (4): 451–469. Zirfas, Jörg. 2004. Pädagogik und Anthropologie. Eine Einführung. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer.

Barbara Schmenk is currently a Professor of German/Applied Linguistics at the University of Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. Her research interests include Language Education, Multilingualism, Cultural Studies, and Gender Studies. Her publications include Schmenk, Barbara. 2002 (2nd ed. 2009). Geschlechtsspezifisches Fremdsprachenlernen? Zur Konstruktion geschlechtstypischer Lerner- und Lernbilder in der Fremdsprachenforschung. Tübingen: Stauffenburg; Schmenk, Barbara. 2008. Lernerautonomie. Karriere und Sloganisierung des Autonomiebegriffs. Tübingen: Narr.

Part IV Contradiction in Territorial Orders and Infrastructures

Making a Living from Everyday Contradictions Water Management and Cross-Border Trade in PostSoviet Central Asia Henryk Alff and Anna-Katharina Hornidge Abstract

Since the early 1990s, political borders and sociocultural boundaries have been increasingly (re-)negotiated across and within states and societies of post-Soviet Central Asia. The government of Kazakhstan, in the last few years, for instance, has tightened control over its border to Kyrgyzstan, while state control over water management in cotton and wheat agriculture in Uzbekistan has been reinforced, drawing a clearly distinguishing boundary between water management for state-planned cash crop agriculture and for household-level small-scale subsistence agriculture. This chapter explores the production and reproduction of inherently contradictory sets of rule and everyday practice as governance tool and mechanism by empirically assessing the practices of Uzbek water users in Khorezm Province, Uzbekistan, and of Dungan traders between Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and China by drawing conceptual inspiration from scholarly debate on border and boundary production. The production, dissolution and reproduction of political borders and sociocultural boundaries are studied as acts of defining difference and the attempt of ordering—in some cases territorially, in others socioculturally bound. These ordering attempts are at the same time conceptualised as

H. Alff () · A.-K. Hornidge  Leibniz Centre for Tropical Marine Research, Bremen, Germany e-mail: [email protected] A.-K. Hornidge e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 J. Lossau et al. (eds.), Spaces of Dissension, Contradiction Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7_10

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processes of contestation that result in amorphous, permeable and continuously renegotiated borders and boundaries, and in at first sight contradictory, but eventually beneficial, coexistence of different systems of ordering in everyday life social practice.

Keywords

Bounding and bordering · Ordering practices · Post-Soviet transition · Crossborder trade · Water management

1 Introduction Social, political and economic transformation processes associated with societal upheavals such as the break-up of the Soviet Union have resulted in the renegotiation of political borders and sociocultural boundaries demarcating fields of direct state influence and control across Central Asia. While some state borders, like the formerly hermetically closed and heavily militarised Sino-Soviet border, have become more permeable for the exchange of people and commodities, others like the Kyrgyzstan-Kazakhstan border in recent years have been gradually strengthened by state authorities. Similarly to these political borders (Paasi 2005; Popescu 2012), also sociocultural boundaries demarcating spheres of direct state influence have become subject to renegotiation. One example is Uzbekistan’s agricultural sector, which entered into a phase of state-driven restructuring of land and water governance with the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, while actor-centred everyday practices are largely ignored in the official discourse (Veldwisch and Spoor 2008; Hornidge et al. 2013; van Assche and Hornidge 2014). Despite this tendency to focus exclusively on the state-defined, official trajectory of change (i.e. restructuring as conceived and driven by the state), concerned actors continue to deploy flexible, and strategically motivated, everyday practices of boundary drawing and boundary crossing for assuring livelihood provision. Thus, water users in the irrigated lowlands of the Amudarya River in Uzbekistan’s western province of Khorezm contextually construct, cross and redraw boundaries between the ‘formal’ and ‘informal’ spheres of water management. The Dungan, or Chinese-speaking Muslim, community of Shortobe, along the border between Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, is constantly (re-)adjusting their everyday practices to new configurations of the border and societal shifts, thereby navigating socio-economic opportunities and constraints.

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In the present chapter, we examine these dynamics by putting the actual process of bounding and bordering, or what is referred to by Madeleine Reeves with a focus on power negotiations of interrelated actors as ‘border work’ (Reeves 2014), at the fore of analysis. We explore the strategic practices of Uzbek farmers and Dungan trade entrepreneurs adapting to and contesting state-enforced political borders and sociocultural boundaries defining different spheres of water management and trading networks. The purpose of the present study is to scruti­ nise in both of the cases the characteristics of seemingly contradictory, but in fact coexisting and socially contributive, interdynamics of state-imposed bordering and bounding and everyday strategies of facilitating these state-enforced borders and boundaries while at the same time challenging them through alternative ways of structuring social life. The study thus demonstrates contradictory nature of border and boundary work in the post-Soviet space. At the same time, it elaborates, how these contradictions contribute to many people’s ability to adapt to changing livelihood conditions. Conceptually, we follow the definition by Reece Jones, suggesting that boundaries ‘refer to any kind of division, whether it is a semantic divider between categories or a line-on-the-ground division’ (Jones 2009, p. 180), with the term ‘border’ used specifically for the latter case. The discussed cases illustrate everyday practices of water management and cross-border trade that contest the statedefined systems of ordering. The observed actors contest in practice, but hardly ever verbally contradict, state-defined rules of water management. It results, as shown below, in a coexistence of different systems of ordering that appears highly contradictorily from an external or macro-perspective, but very logical from an individual actor’s everyday standpoint. The seemingly contradictory coexistence of systems of ordering, and the degrees of fragmentation and loopholes that come with it, allow for immense scope of agency on the local level and thus allow for strategies to cope with environmental uncertainty and social insecurity. The research questions with which the chapter deals from an interdisciplinary (sociological and ethnographic) perspective can be formulated as (1) in which relationship stand the political borders and sociocultural boundaries in the given contexts to each other, given the contradictory everyday practices and narratives of actors contributing to their constitution? By taking on an epistemologically reflective approach, it is furthermore explored (2) how negotiations of borders and boundaries can be conceptually related to one another in a meaningful way, pointing to the paradox between the authoritarian character of ‘the state’ and its weak governance in providing for the people in post-Soviet state formation (Reeves 2014).

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With regard to the first research question, we argue that the materiality of political borders and sociocultural boundaries, while often exclusively represented and narrated through the lens of state-endorsed legibility and mapping, is enacted or contested (and often enough both at the same time) by the agency of people in everyday life. Sociocultural boundaries and political borders are thus understood not as pre-given lines or as fixed structures in space, but, as Gabriel Popescu has stated, ‘as social phenomena, made (and unmade) by humans to organize their life’ (Popescu 2012, p. 7). This moment of continuous change in the production of borders and boundaries, shaped by and at the same time shaping social practice and the set of relationships used by actors, is therefore deeply contextual. We assume that even increasingly enforced state borders are contextually permeable for and indeed penetrated by social relations between people, with the outcome, as will be shown later, of surprisingly stable set-ups of sociocultural boundaries emerging alongside—but often more importantly across—state borders. This assumption leads to the second question regarding the interlinkage between borders/boundaries in de-territorialized socio-spatial realms, inscribed in the two cases examined. As an analytical approach to tackling this issue, it is suggested herein to deal with borders/boundaries from a relational perspective. Border scholars such as Popescu highlight the networked character of borders and boundaries as being dispersed through society and not concentrated at its edges (Popescu 2012; van Houtum and van Naerssen 2002; Salter 2008; Mountz 2013). As borders and boundaries are not explored here as strict lines delimiting states and societies, we wish to overcome the ideas of compartmentalisation or containerisation, often seen as products of bounding and bordering processes, and rather concentrate on borders and boundary’s dynamic role in the relational, powerdriven and ongoing constitution of social space (Mountz 2013). This aim of the chapter goes along with the attempt to de-centre the monolithic or container concept of ‘the state’, already referred to above. In fact, as Donnan and Wilson have outlined, nations and states are composed of people and should not be reduced to images, which are constructed about them ‘from above’ (Donnan and Wilson 1999, p. 4). Yet, one has to keep in mind that bounding and bordering processes manifest as everyday actor-centred power practices of social and spatial differentiation. Bounding and bordering are about negotiating difference and therefore about asserting ‘power to determine whose rules rule’ (Reeves 2014, p. 9), who defines ‘truth’ and when. In order to be sensible in this regard, we explore whether and how ‘the state’ and societal actors manage to embody their authority (Reeves 2014, pp. 13–14) on the ground of everyday practice, by placing attention on the post-Soviet legacy in which the two cases are embedded.

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The chapter comprises five parts in total. The introduction is followed by a geographical and socio-historical account of the two cases. Some brief theoretical and methodological reflections are then sketched out before we undertake an empirical analysis of actor-based practices of bounding and bordering in the two empirical cases and make an attempt to synthesise and conceptualise the generated insight.

2 Geographical and Socio-Historical Background Khorezm Province in Uzbekistan is situated in the irrigated lowlands of the Amudarya River at a distance of approximately 350 km away from the current shore of the Aral Sea. It encompasses an area of 5000 km2 and, as of 2008, was inhabited by 1,517,500 people (UzStat 2009). Approximately, 3.5–5 km3 of water is diverted annually from the Amudarya to irrigated fields in Khorezm through a dense network of irrigation channels. The water arriving in Khorezm collects in the Tuyamuyun water reservoir, and its volume is rationed, depending on monthly water demand in the region. Over 95% of water is used for agricultural purposes. Irrigation water is conveyed to the fields in open, non-lined canals, resulting in substantive losses, mainly due to evaporation and groundwater discharge (­Hornidge et  al. 2011). Furthermore, due to its lowermost location, Khorezm’s water situation depends heavily on areas upstream. (cf. Fig. 1). Since the break-up of the Soviet Union, agriculture, and in turn water management, has been characterised by a high level of involvement by Uzbekistan’s central government in agricultural decisions at farm, district, regional and national levels. Area- and production-based state quotas are in place for cotton and wheat, with compulsory sale to the state at fixed prices, preferential credits for input sup­ ply and agricultural norms, as well as regulations in terms of cropping patterns and agricultural practices. As water supply is a key factor in the fulfilment of production quotas, the cotton and wheat quotas are major determinants of the irrigation water management process. Despite severe restructuring of the water sector in the past years (Veldwisch 2008) the actual physical delivery of water continues to be hampered by an inadequate human, financial and technical infrastructure (Veldwisch 2010; Wegerich 2010). As a consequence, effective water management in Khorezm is impaired by several limitations that encourage actors to employ strategic practices in order to assure water access. However, by doing so, the boundaries between state regulation and everyday practice in water management in Khorezm are both blurred and strengthened at the same time (Hornidge et al. 2013) (cf. Fig. 2).

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Fig. 1   Location of Khorezm Province. Source ZEF/UNESCO-Project GIS Lab

Fig. 2   Case study region II. Source Henryk Alff

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The case of Central Asia’s Dungan community provides an insight from another angle into the mutual impact of co-related practices of border and boundary negotiation. Dungans, predominantly living across both sides of the Kazakhstan–Kyrgyzstan border, have actively shaped and validated the configuration of state borders and social boundaries in the last two decades for their own purposes. Dungans, or huizu in terminological analogy to what is the officially recognised national minority (minzu) in the People’s Republic of China (PRC), have been used as ethnonyms for Chinese-speaking Muslims in the Soviet Union since 1924 (Jiménez Tovar 2013). According to official statistical data, 63,000 Dungans lived in Northern Kyrgyzstan in 2013, with 57,800 concentrated across the border in Southeastern Kazakhstan (Agenstvo po statistike 2012). Dwelling predominantly in rural settlements in the Chu Valley and a few suburban neighbourhoods in Almaty and Bishkek, Dungans are often considered a socially highly cohesive community (Rimsky-Korsakoff Dyer 1977). However, subdivisions, in particular between groups that descended either from Shaanxi or Gansu Province in Western China in the late nineteenth century, speaking two varieties of what they call the ‘Dungan language’ (a form of Mandarin written in Cyrillic letters), are often prevalent (Mashanlo 2008; Allès 2005). The 20,000 inhabitants of the village of Shortobe in the Korday District of Southeastern Kazakhstan are almost exclusively descendants of Dungan refugees from the Chinese province of Shaanxi that escaped annihilation in the Qing Empire during the late 1870s and 1880s (Sushanlo 1967). After having settled in the Russian Empire, these Dungan groups started to establish irrigated agriculture, making use of their advanced skills in vegetable farming (Vansvanova 2000). On the basis of the Dungan-dominated settlements, collective agricultural production units were formed in the early Soviet period, with some of them, like the collective farm in Shortobe, renowned across the region for their high corn, potato and vegetable yields (Hong 2005; Laruelle and Peyrouse 2012). With the overall decay of collective agricultural production after the break-up of the Soviet Union and the reopening of the former Sino-Soviet border, many Dungan inhabitants of Shortobe started to engage with cross-border trade, thereby enacting emergent ethnocultural and religious affiliations to China. In this way, similarly to the Uzbek farmers in Khorezm, Dungan entrepreneurs make sense of and navigate—and thereby shape the function of—political borders and sociocultural boundaries.

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3 Ordering and Bordering: Conceptual and Methodological Reflections In our study, political borders and sociocultural boundaries, or bordering and bounding for the purpose of ‘ordering’, are treated as social processes shaped by human agency rather than defined as static institutions or linear structures cutting across territorial and social space (Donnan and Wilson 1999; Megoran 2006; Popescu 2012). We hereby acknowledge the often Janus-faced, variable role of borders and boundaries contextually enabling connectivity and enforcing division, providing contact and deepening separation (Popescu 2012, p. 9). Bordering and bounding processes are deemed highly dynamic and contingent, or, as Jones has argued, ‘[b]oundaries are never finished or fixed, even if they appear to be, and must be re-fixed and reiterated to reify that perception’ (Jones 2009, p. 180). Here, the issue of ordering difference or classification as a power practice, and, in particular, the negotiation of control over territorial and social space (Popescu 2012, p. 6), comes into play. Bordering and bounding, in fact, is necessarily about engraving visibly and invisibly (symbolically) power in (social) space, and especially in the course of nation-building projects from above and from below (Newman and Paasi 1998, p. 190). In our analysis, we look at specifically post-Soviet characteristics to ascertain how power is exercised and dealt with in bordering and bounding processes in the Central Asian context. In doing so, we attempt to challenge the seemingly ‘universal truths’ inscribed in Eurocentric investigations of cross-border interaction and state/society boundaries (Gavrilis 2006). In this regard, a particular aspect with which we, as other scholars in the postSoviet context, are confronted is the contradictory relationship between the authoritarian character of ‘the state’ and its weak governance in providing for the people (Reeves 2014, p. 10). Reeves proposes the concept of ‘strong-weak states’ (Reeves 2014, p. 10) to refer to this fragmentation of ‘the state’. On the one hand, ‘the state’ claims authority but on the other, it oscillates between the production of ‘truth’ as well as accepted norms and rules and is eventually outperformed on the ground by schemes of patronage, bribery or other illicit practices. In Reeves’ view, particularly ‘[t]he work of bordering highlights the improvisatory work of everyday state formation, and affords an insight into a mode of governance in which power thrives less on rendering populations and places legible than on working the gap between life and law’ (Reeves 2014, p. 21; see also Scott 1998). The research focuses on bordering and bounding offers deeper insights into how ‘the state’ becomes embodied in human actors, both constructed and deconstructed.

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Methodologically, this chapter draws on qualitative and to a lesser degree quantitative research into the sociolegal and symbolic aspects of water management in Khorezm, Uzbekistan, as well as into Dungan strategies of boundary work. Specifically, case 1 is based on extensive qualitative, semi-structured interviews and field observations during the period 2008–2011, primarily on the Water Users Association (WUA) of Ashirmat along the western fringes of Khorezm’s irrigation system. This material is framed further by a series of additional interviews in neighbouring villages and at the regional centre Urgench, as well as by quantitative data collected through a survey of farmers. The field research for the second case was conducted in the period 2011–2014 in the Dungan-dominated village of Shortobe and its surroundings at the Kazakhstan–Kyrgyzstan border, as well as in Bishkek and Almaty. Ethnographic research comprised semi- and unstructured (biographical) interviews and participant observation. The particular cases were chosen based on fieldwork expertise of the two respective authors in post-Soviet Central Asia. This chapter does, however, not aim to provide in-depth comparative insight. Instead the purpose of the present study is to scrutinise in both of the cases the characteristics of seemingly contradictory, but, in fact, coexisting and socially contributive, interdynamics of stateimposed bordering and bounding and everyday strategies of facilitating these state-enforced borders and boundaries while at the same time challenging them through alternative ways of structuring social life. The study therefore seeks to illustrate, on the examples of water management in rural Uzbekistan and trade across the Kazakhstan–Kyrgyzstan–China borderlands, contradictory nature of border and boundary work in the post-Soviet space, which at the same time allows for remarkable flexibility in people’s everyday life adaptation strategies.

4 Everyday Contestations in Water Management and Cross-Border Trade The case of water management in Khorezm, Uzbekistan, represents a specific example regarding boundary formation, as formal (or state-defined) and sociocultural bounding takes place in a de-territorialised realm (see the following section for further discussion). The management of water resources in Uzbekistan is commonly perceived as being the exclusive domain of powerful state authorities. In fact, once water is diverted from the Amudarya into Khorezm’s irrigation system, a number of state organisations on different administrative levels (In particular, the Ministry of Agriculture and Water Resources, Lower Amudarya basin

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Irrigation System Authority, Sub-basin Irrigation System Authority, Main Canal Management Units and the Water User Associations) are formally responsible for the allocation and delivery of water from the off-takes along the river to the entrance of the WUAs. Actual water delivery should, formally, match water allocations1. In reality, however, delivered water quantities regularly differ from allocated water limits. Especially in averagely water-scarce years, water users employ a range of strategies to assure access to water (Veldwisch 2008, 2010). One of the interviewed fermers explains: ‘Things have changed in people’s minds. As last year water was very scarce, people learned the value of water. Before, it was always abundant. People have to learn step by step. It doesn’t change all at once’ (fermer, 20.05.09). One strategy for coping with water scarcity is the use of small, mobile pumps to lift water into field canals, which is officially considered illegal theft of water but is de facto a widespread practice. At pumps that are shared between fermers and dehqons, pump management is a negotiation process in which social relations, such as well-established contacts, play a large role in determining the rules of water use. By catering to individuals’ water demands, this delivery (both with the help of technical means and social relations) overturns the authority of the formal water management institutions but at the same time effectively compensates for the inadequacies of the formal water management organisations— at least for influential agents (Oberkircher and Hornidge 2011; Trevisani 2007, 2010). The ability to assure access to water is a symbol of prestige, power and independence regularly summarised by interviewed farmers in the statement ‘I can get water’ (4 fermer, 04.08.08, 08.08.08, 14.08.08, 11.09.08). What this means for the role of the WUA is indicated by the following: ‘I don’t need the WUA. The WUA is needed for people who can’t get water; WUA people deliver water to them’ (fermer, 20.07.09). Thus, while the sphere of ‘formal’ water management appears to be sharply bounded by the rule of law and widely approved by the public discourse, the seemingly static and impermeable politically enforced rules are negotiated by the strategies of the local water users depending on access to water, and therefore temporal variability, and of influential social ties and individuals. Unlike the sphere of water distribution in Khorezm, the state border between Kazakhstan

1Water

allocation hereby refers to the assignment of so-called water limits to different units within the irrigation network, determined based on the irrigated area, planted crops and the respective irrigation state norms.

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and Kyrgyzstan, in the Dungan case study, is perceived to have entered a process of enforcement only quite recently, which is comparable to other borders in Central Asia (Reeves 2011, 2014; Megoran 2017). The interactions of the borderland population were uninterrupted by borders, and (illicit) cross-border trade, in particular, with Chinese-made consumer goods being re-exported from Kyrgyzstan, flourished on a large scale after the dissolution of the Soviet Union (Alff 2016; Alff and Schmidt 2011; Kamiński and Raballand 2009). Formal bordering accelerated from July 2011 onward by means of stronger supervision and the imposition by Kazakhstan’s authorities of ‘import fees’ paralleling ‘customs duties’, after they enforced a Customs Union with Russia and Belarus. Almost all of the merchants involved in cross-border trade operations, interviewed in 2012 during field research at Bishkek’s giant Dordoy Bazaar, complained about these measures interfering with their business in a particularly devastating way. As an example, one of the interviewed wholesale traders in Bishkek in May 2012 recounted the following while showing me his warehouse still brimming with supplies: ‘These very last few months have been the worst since I started my business re-exporting Chinese clothes to Almaty more than ten years ago. The border to Kazakhstan is closed, and that is why our Kazakh customers stay away from making orders. These border changes will force me into bankruptcy’ (Interview, Bishkek, 06.05.12). Dungan trade entrepreneurs from Shortobe, on the contrary, remained rather optimistic about their sustained success in trading, thanks especially to the social ties they had worked on strategically over decades by engaging with the marketisation of agricultural produce across the Soviet Union and later with flexible schemes of cross-border wholesale trade. In fact, when huge private bazaars like the Dordoy Bazaar in Bishkek and the Barakholka bazaar agglomeration in Almaty replaced state provision schemes in the early 1990s, Dungans became actively involved in this process by strategically (re-)extending their sociocultural connections to China for supply of consumer goods of all kinds. Dungans from Shortobe and neighbouring settlements in Kyrgyzstan were among the first to cooperate closely with Han and huizu business partners across China. This was facilitated by their shared ethnic, linguistic and religious identity (Laruelle and Peyrouse 2012; Zhaparov 2009). The aspect of mutual solidarity based on Muslim beliefs2 and ‘Chineseness’ is a double asset when building exclusive relations with huizu, as these are, in particular, renowned 2The

religious aspect for the perceived solidarity and loyalty is, in particular, pertinent in Dungan-Hui ties. Dungans consider themselves pious Muslims with a much stronger faith than Kazakh or Kyrgyz.

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for their strong entrepreneurial skills, especially in the trade and transport sector and their extensive trade networks. Over more than 20 years of cross-border Dungan-huizu cooperation in the transport and trade business, highly flexible and exclusive networks extending from Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan to Urumqi and as far as Shanghai, the Pearl River Delta and even Malaysia have been established. These help to adapt trade and transport schemes strategically to changing border configurations, in order to remain profitable. Thus, other than in the case of the Uzbek water users, border and boundary negotiation is an ethnically selective process, somewhat cementing the superior position of Dungan trade entrepreneurs vis-à-vis their Kazakh and Kyrgyz competitors. Regarding enhanced border control since 2011, Dungan entrepreneurs, for example, have shifted transportation either across less strictly observed posts along the Kyrgyzstan–Kazakhstan border or, more frequently, relied on direct imports from China to Kazakhstan. As one of my Dungan interlocutors, though rather reluctantly, admitted: ‘Crossing the main border post between Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan at Korday may be a complete nightmare nowadays; however, if you skip it and use less strict border crossings that are supervised by more cooperative staff, re-exporting Chinese-made goods via Kyrgyzstan may still be feasible’ (Interview, Shortobe, 12.05.14). Another important aspect of the Dungans’ agency in border negotiation, along with the selective valorisation of economic and sociocultural ties to China (and Kyrgyzstan), is their constant reaffirmation of belonging to what Kazakhstan’s President Nursultan Nazarbayev has termed the ‘multiethnic nation of Kazakhstan’ (Nazarbayev 2010). In fact, Dungans, more outspoken than other groups, in their transborder activities represent themselves as acting in the Kazakhstani state interest. This is confirmed by key community leaders who have served as counsellors to the President of State, Nursultan Nazarbayev, and actively participated in a number of (non-)official visits made by Kazakhstani officials to China in the past (Laruelle and Peyrouse 2009). One of the interviewed Dungan community leaders in Shortobe emphasised during an interview the intermediate role of the Dungans, who, ‘thanks to their knowledge of Kazakhstan’s mentality and realities, being able to speak Russian and Kazakh, having cultural and philosophical commonalities with the Chinese and speaking their language, should by all means utilise the opportunities arising from China’s rapid development’ (Interview, Almaty, 09.10.12). This combination of valorising exclusive cross-border ties and therefore highlighting their ‘Chineseness’, and at the same time confirming their ‘Kazakhstaniness’ in Dungan social practice, illustrates how emerging formal bordering is

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overlapped and challenged by the sociocultural bounding practices of local people (Jiménez Tovar 2016). While these sociocultural boundaries in the case of Shortobe’s Dungans are exclusive and made seemingly impermeable to ensure loyalty and solidarity among the involved actors and increase their competitiveness in profitable trade transactions, sociocultural bounding, as in the case of Khorezm’s water users, carries an inherently networked dimension. The two cases thus once more illustrate that interrelated processes of bordering and bounding stretch from the negotiation of the territorial edges of states to social forms of differentiation for societal organisation. Yet, interestingly, these processes of bordering and bounding, in the sense of ordering social life, do not seem only to structure behaviour by acting as static dividing lines but they are also in a constant state of flux and thus are contextually situated, drawn and redrawn by different actors, in order to fit their (everyday) social practices and discursive positioning.

5 Contradictory (B)ordering? The two cases above illustrate the highly contextualised processes of negotiating social boundaries and political borders in a situation characterised by the demise and increasing fragmentation of (post-Soviet) political authority and, in fact, signalise evolving seemingly contradictory ordering systems. In Uzbekistan, we observe the continuous formation of parallel (ordering) systems of water governance, with the limitations of the formal system being compensated for through strategic practices and social bounding processes turning against and undermining the formal system of water management while confirming it discursively. In the case of Dungan traders, we observe social bounding processes underlining their Chineseness and Kazakhstaniness at the same time, thus nurturing a close link with the formal system of political bordering and at the same time shaping politics, and the permeability of state borders, in their economic interest. In both cases, we thus observe the parallel contestation and re-enforcement of political borders and sociocultural boundaries that were constructed, revived or utilised by Soviet power in the region and, at times of the dissolution of the communist regime, are again up for debate—on the level of the national state authorities just as much as on the level of local communities and ethnic groups. We thus deem these bordering and bounding processes as being embedded in social interaction and state–society relations and at the same time expressions of dynamically shifting power regimes in post-Soviet Central Asia.

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The peculiarities of post-Soviet state-building and of the ‘post-Soviet’ category itself have been subject to a significant and interdisciplinary body of literature. While much of this work, however, has focused on what Grzymala-Busse and Jones Luong (2002, p. 531) provocatively termed ‘transitology’, a research strand that pre-assumes a linear trajectory of post-Soviet transition to pluralistic and democratic ‘Western-style’ state rule and societal organisation, the powerladen, everyday micro-level and ongoing practice of state formation in the postSoviet area has rarely been subject to in-depth scrutiny.3 The limited existing research has examined the particularity of post-Soviet political and societal transition, and especially highlighted the stable legacy and discursive production of a strong state, whose authority over territory and society, nonetheless, is constantly challenged through actors and groups’ social practice. Grzymala-Busse and Jones Luong have drawn attention to the apparently fragmentary and unaccomplished process of state formation in post-communist countries, questioning predetermined assumptions of statist thinking that have drawn mainly on Western European experiences (Grzymala-Busse and Jones Luong 2002). Particularly relevant to our focus on border and boundary negotiation is their discussion of post-Soviet state power as being (thanks to the totalitarian legacy) strong-by-default and yet dynamic and unconsolidated alike, and therefore in a constant process of ‘becoming’ (Grzymala-Busse and Jones Luong 2002, p. 532). This characterisation, reminiscent of what Reeves has termed a ‘strongweak state’, on the one hand, becomes evident at state borders within Central Asia which were drawn in the early Soviet period but remained highly permeable to social interaction and flows of goods well into the independence period, only to become more strictly enforced, symbolically, most recently. On the other, is the powerful position of state authorities, for example, in making rules or delineating boundaries for normative behaviour, still widely contested in everyday practice but nevertheless constantly reproduced by society. The dynamic character of ‘post-Soviet’ power negotiation and assertion, according to Grzymala-Busse and Jones Luong, is further increased by the blurred boundaries between state and society. In fact, while the state is often presented as separate and superior to society, from an actor- and practice-centred everyday perspective such a clear distinction is much more problematic. In addition, though, the combination of formal and informal power practices in the social interactions of actors such as political elites, trade entrepreneurs, water users and other citizens, as demonstrated in our

3Remarkable

examples are Alexander et al. 2007; Humphrey 2002; Mandel and Humphrey 2002; Ssorin-Chaikov 2003.

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two case studies, contributes to the dynamism of post-Soviet state formation on the ground (Grzymala-Busse and Jones Luong 2002, p. 535). This insight contributes to our understanding of borders and boundaries as products of post-Soviet power negotiation and as being in a constant process of change rather than clearcut markers of division. Water management in Khorezm is negotiated between two parallel systems of ordering: (1) the official system, with its practices that reflect clearly formulated formal institutions and (2) the strategic practices that individual actors apply to pursue their interests. Yet, while deviation from the formal (contradicting it in practice) is commonly taking place, the actors involved spend considerable effort and resources on the discursive compensation of these deviations. When farmers under the state plan on cotton and wheat diverge from the rule that cotton as a state crop should be irrigated before the cash crop rice, observations in the case study WUAs show that they are very likely to state in any official conversation that cotton needs to be irrigated first. At the same time, as individuals take water management actively into their own hands and pursue their own interests, their statements suggest that ‘water management is up to the state’ (Ul-Hassan and Hornidge 2010). This behaviour (a) reflects to some extent the political risk that openly admitted deviation carries in an authoritative state and (b) illustrates the multiple roles of individual actors in informal and formal (state administrative) networks, the latter creating a stake for them to preserve the status quo of the ‘formal’, statedefined water management institutions. However, the very prominence of these discursive practices on all levels of the hierarchy, down to the peasant farmers, suggests that there is a meaning involved in such practices that goes beyond the motivation of assuring access to water. Acts of deviation and contradicting through everyday practice, such as the strategic practices discussed above, are thus concealed by means of discursive practices. They acquire the character of exceptions, special acts in a particular situation—no matter how frequently they occur. They are accepted, applied and do not openly challenge the ‘formal’, authoritarian water management discourse but instead silently undermine the functioning of the formal system. As a consequence, it has to be understood as the exercising of counter-power. In the case of the Dungans’ cross-border trade between Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan, we encounter similar actor-centred practices of power negotiation frequently shifting the boundary of what is generally perceived of as ‘formally’ and ‘informally’ accepted. More rigid border enforcement measures, announced by Kazakhstan’s political leadership after the foundation of a customs union with Russia and Belarus in 2010, intended to gain control of state authorities over

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trade flows and, in particular, over what are condemned as ‘contraband’ imports from third states. The intention behind the border enforcement by Kazakhstan’s authorities, therefore, is to increase income from customs payments into the state budget and protect domestic markets and production from cheap illegal imports, thus supporting the overall formalisation of cross-border practices. While the overall responsibility and authority of the state for formalising, or ordering, trade is broadly acknowledged in Kazakhstan’s society, the performance of state authorities on the ground is widely associated in public discourse with informal, at times illicit, practices such as bribe-taking and corruption. Consequently, on the one hand, many Dungan trade and transport entrepreneurs in their narratives support and legitimise the formal goals behind Kazakhstan’s trade policy, expressed in statist discourses. On the other hand, they more pragmatically vindicate their application of strategic (illicit) practices of cross-border trade by bypassing customs procedures and thus venturing into border-weakening informality and clearly opposing in practice the state-defined bordering regime. This way of acting supports state authorities in asserting control over the border, but it also challenges state power by weakening the border with the aim of keeping cross-border trade channels open and functional. As in the case of Uzbek water users, the working of borders and boundaries therefore comes as a seemingly contradictory—yet from an actor’s perspective very pragmatic and open-ended— process of power negotiation that is not at all concentrated at the edges of the state. Instead, it is helpful to assess bordering and bounding processes from the perspective of studying the continuous production and reproduction of contradictions as governance tool, putting into focus dynamic and power-laden state–society relations.

6 Conclusion This chapter reflects on the production, dissolution and reproduction of political borders and sociocultural boundaries as acts of defining difference and the attempt of ordering, by drawing on case studies among Uzbek water users and Dungan traders. The two cases illustrate the boundary-strengthening and boundary-challenging characteristics of everyday practices of livelihood provision (‘border work’) in both communities researched. State-defined attempts of ordering—Painter (2006, p. 753) speaks of the ‘permeation of stateness into everyday life’ (Painter 2006, p. 753)—by drawing political borders and boundaries between a state-planned versus a subsistence agricultural production system are being contradicted in everyday practice of water management and cross-border trade. The

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production and reproduction of contradictions, of inherently contradictory sets of rule that coexist parallel to each other, thus constitutes a governance mechanism that maintains authoritarian state power, while undermining it in practice. Livelihood practices employed by Uzbek water managers and users and Dungan traders portray struggles over the significance of borders and boundaries. In the case of water management in Khorezm, the ‘formal’, state-defined sphere dominates the discourse on water management while strategic practices are continued clandestinely, challenging a state-defined ordering of the agricultural community by strategically drawing on a mix of ‘formal’ and ‘informal’ channels for securing water to arrive on the fields. Similarly, the flexible sociocultural boundaries of Dungan traders along cross-border transport and trade networks are pronounced, in order to assure trade across the increasingly enforced border between Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan. The ways in which these traders navigate a range of governance spheres through strategic practices highlight both their loyalty to Kazakhstan’s formal policy of border control and nationhood and their rediscovered ‘Chineseness’ in sociocultural and economic exchanges with Han and huizu partners, which in turn makes them agents of change. The Dungan traders’ pronounced sociocultural affiliation with Chinese partners, nevertheless, seems to be a strategy to facilitate border crossing without a remarkable effect on their inclusion in the Kazakhstani body of the nation or their perceived belonging. The resulting coexistence of several, differently motivated systems of ordering from a macro- or external perspective seems contradictory in nature. From a local, actor-focused perspective nevertheless, the contradictory coexistence of different ordering logics, becomes highly logical—embedded and driven by the logic of securing livelihood provision in highly authoritarian contexts. Inherently, contradictory bordering and bounding—we argue here—act as expressions for dynamically shifting power regimes in the post-Soviet context of Central Asia and play an important role in the fragmentary and unaccomplished process of state formation. The ethnographic scholarship on the particularity of post-Soviet political and societal transition has shown that while there indeed exists a pre-assumed and deeply rooted legacy of a strong state, post-Soviet state formation—for multiple reasons—is an unconsolidated and unpredictable process. The chapter has demonstrated that an actor- and practice-centred perspective exploring the everyday working of borders and boundaries is useful in assessing this intricate pattern of the post-Soviet ordering on the ground. The widespread reliance on and utilisation of strategic, strictly speaking, formal–informal practices, posing a deviation from state-defined regimes of ordering illustrates how state power is renegotiated through everyday practices that draw on the coexistence of ‘formal’ and ‘informal’ spheres of governance. The

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loopholes created by their (often contradictory) coexistence create a space for local and actor-defined agency in the interests of the individual actors rather than the centralised state. In line with Grzymala-Busse and Luong (2002), we thus observe state power in the context of the sovereign nation states of Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan as ‘becoming’ through the process of being in a process of constant negotiation. Contradicting, not verbally, but through everyday practice, is intricate part of it.

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Veldwisch, Gert Jan A. 2010. Adapting to demands: Allocation, scheduling and delivery of irrigation water in Khorezm, Uzbekistan. In Water, environmental security and sustainable rural development, ed. Murat Arsek and Max Spoor, 99–121. London: Routledge. Vansvanova, Mariya. 2000. Dungane: Lyudi sud’by. Almaty: Sözdik-Slovar. Wegerich, Kai. 2010. Handing over the sunset: External factors influencing the establishment of water user associations in Uzbekistan. Evidence from Khorezm province. Göttingen: Cuvillier. Zhaparov, Amantur. 2009. The issue of Chinese migrants in Kyrgyzstan. China and Eurasia Forum Quarterly 7: 79–91.

Henryk Alff  is a Postdoc Researcher at the Leibniz Centre for Tropical Marine Research (ZMT) in Bremen, Germany. He is trained as a Human Geographer and as an ‘areanist’ (Slavic and Central Asian Studies). His research interests include Development and Mobilities Research as well as Border and Boundary Studies. Currently, he works on a research project focusing on the local materialisation of China’s Maritime Silk Road Initiative in coastal and West Africa. Alff has edited a special section (2016) entitled ‘Beyond Silkroadism: Contextualising Social Interaction across/along Xinjiang’s Borders’ in: Central Asian Survey 35(3), authored (2016) ‘Flowing Goods, Hardening Borders? China’s Commercial Expansion into Kyrgyzstan Re-examined’ in: Eurasian Geography and Economics and coedited (with Andreas Benz 2014) ‘Tracing Connections: Explorations of Spaces and Places in Asian Contexts’ Berlin: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag. Anna-Katharina Hornidge  is Professor of Development and Knowledge Sociology, University of Bremen as well as Head of Department of Social Sciences and of the Working Group ‘Development and Knowledge Sociology’ at the Leibniz Center for Tropical Marine Research (ZMT). Trained in Sociology and Southeast Asian Studies from Bonn, Singapore and Berlin, her research interests include the social construction of (environmental) knowledge, sustainability futuring (discourses) in contexts of globally prevailing social inequality, and social, cognitive, epistemic (im-)mobility based conceptualisations of space in the context of global transformation. Her research focuses on Southeast and Central Asia and East Africa. Hornidge has published (amongst others) with ‘Soziale Systeme’, ‘Soziale Welt’, Geoforum, Asian Journal of Social Sciences and Journal of Southeast Asian Studies. Her latest books include Mielke and Hornidge. eds. 2017. Area Studies at the Crossroads. New York: Palgrave, van Assche and Hornidge, 2015. Rural Development. Knowledge and Expertise in Governance, Wageningen: Wageningen Academic Publishers and Hornidge, Shtaltovna, Schetter, 2016, Agricultural Knowledge and Knowledge Systems in Post-Soviet Societies. Bern: Peter Lang.

Creative Cities: On Handling Contradictions in Contemporary Urban Planning Anna-Lisa Müller

Abstract

Planning the so-called creative city has advanced to be one of the major objectives of postindustrial urban development (see, selectively, Florida 2005; Lange 2007; Landry 2008; Merkel 2009). Here, creativity as planning principle is used as framework for projects as diverse as waterfront and brownfield developments, the regeneration of housing districts, the promotion of start-up companies, the architectural redesign of cities, and the sponsorship and promotion of cultural events (for an overview see Atkinson and Easthope 2009). Consequently, empirical studies show that the phenomena subsumed under the supposedly integrative umbrella of creativity are not only diverse but also to a great extent contradictory: certain groups are explicitly addressed and integrated in the development process (artists, creative workers, tourists), other groups are explicitly addressed but not integrated (the socially excluded, the “average inhabitant”, the elderly), again others neither addressed nor integrated (the homeless). As a result, creative cities as socio-spatial environments have contradictions at their very core. Taking the example of artists and creative workers, I show 1) how these intrinsic contradictions bring about creative cities as a certain type of cities and 2) what theoretical and methodological consequences for the field of creative cities research this implies. Keywords

Creative city · Urban planning · Neoliberal · Artists · Knowledge workers

A.-L. Müller (*)  Osnabrück University, Osnabrück, Germany e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 J. Lossau et al. (eds.), Spaces of Dissension, Contradiction Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7_11

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1 Creative Cities: A Broad Field of Research When people use the notion of the creative city, they use a term that is potentially contradictory even in itself: A city is ascribed a competence that is normally reserved for humans. But the term is usually not used for a nonhuman entity such as a city. This metaphorical ascription is the first problematic, and sometimes even contradictory, aspect researchers are confronted with when dealing with creative cities. The second possible contradiction lies in the various forms that cities can take on when planning institutions operate with the concept of creativity: although they use the same term (“creativity”), they assemble very different strategies and projects under its conceptual umbrella. These “multiple realities,” their inherent contradictions, and the ways to handle them will be in the focus of this paper. Numerous studies on the impact of the theory of the creative class on urban planning and cities have been published since the late 1990s, focussing on the impact of the discourses of the creative class and the creative city on the fields of urban planning and city branding (for example, Hospers 2008; Bontje and Musterd 2009) or on the local conditions under which the concepts are applied (Hospers 2003; Boyle 2006; Lange 2007; Atkinson and Easthope 2009; Merkel 2009; Rannila and Loivaranta 2015). These studies and my own empirical research show that there exist structural similarities in both strategies and addressees of creative city planning. However, there are local differences accounting for what I want to call the multiple realities of creative cities. The main question guiding the argument in this paper is how urban planners handle the contradictions inherent in contemporary urban planning, namely, when using the concept of creativity to design cities for future usages. With this, the paper examines a topic that is widely discussed in the broad field of urban studies and, each with its own focus, in the fields of cultural geography, cultural sociology, and urban planning. In recent years, planning the so-called creative city has become one of the major objectives of urban planning, especially in industrialized societies (see, selectively, Florida 2005; Lange 2007; Landry 2008; Merkel 2009). One thing makes the creative city concept appealing to both urban planners and city officials (for suggestions on how to become a creative city, see Landry 2006, 2008): The promise that a city can be subject to design and planning strategies and may turn

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into an attractive place for a particular social group—the creative class—which is promising in economic (technologists) and in image terms (artists). Although the planning projects vary in scope and context, they can be grouped according to their focussing on 1) planning strategies applied, 2) social groups addressed, and 3) identified shortcomings of planning strategies following the creativity para­ digm. The latter includes various works criticizing especially the more consultant-oriented creative city approach and its key figure, Richard Florida. While the concept of the creative city was warmly welcomed by many urban planners and city officials, it was massively criticized as a quasi-elitist (planning) approach by researchers and urban activists. Many of the critiques were directed at the prominent protagonist of the creative class theory, Richard Florida (for example, Kunzmann 2005; Peck 2005; Scott 2006). These critiques questioned especially the assumption that an urban environment can be planned so as to be stimulating for certain social groups, in this case, the creative class (exemplarily Pratt 2010).1 In addition, the lack of empirical basis of Florida’s work, his generalization of the data stemming from the U.S. (Hoyman and Faricy 2009), and its implicit elitist character, fostering social exclusion in cities (for example, McCann 2007; for Florida’s reaction to this critique, see Florida 2008, pp. 185– 205), were criticized. Despite this critique, Florida’s theory seems to be an interesting case for urban researchers for two reasons: 1) It highlights the interrelation of a city and its users in emphasizing that cities are not just places to live in, but places to live a specific form of life and 2) as the theory was gratefully taken up and applied by city planners worldwide, it had an apparent effect on practical city planning and thus on cities themselves. What remains rather unanswered in Florida’s and other works is the question what specific characteristics cities develop that use the creativity paradigm as guiding element of their development strategies and how these strategies are adapted to and combined with other societal paradigms. Ultimately, this entails the question whether one can talk of the creative city as a specific type of city— analogous to, e.g., the “global city” (Sassen 1991)—or whether creativity is just one possible characteristic of cities in industrialized societies.

1Florida

explicitly refers to Karl Marx when coining the term creative class; however, he sees a fundamental difference between the working class as described by Marx and the now observable creative class: “the members of the Creative Class do not see themselves as a unique social grouping” (Florida 2004, p. 68). In this sense, Florida describes a class “in itself” and not a class “for itself” (Marx 1959, 4: p. 181, own translation).

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Before describing the different approaches in detail, I want to emphasize that “creative city” can mean very different things. The differing understandings and usages of this term mark two poles of an ideal typical spectrum of meanings. One pole is marked by understanding creativity as producing technologically innovative outcomes; the other by creating artistic-cultural products. Put differently: the spectrum ranges from technology to arts. These different understandings hugely impact the planning strategies assembled under the paradigm of creativity and the projects realized in the cities (Müller 2013). I will refer to this differentiation in detail when describing the multiple realities of creative cities. In the following, I will describe the creative city idea and the changing role of urban planners in today’s societies. Subsequently, I will propose the notion of the multiple realities of creative cities in order to describe the varying urban forms to be found under the umbrella of the creative city. One central element accounting for these multiple realities is that the inherent contradictions in the usage of the creative city paradigm are handled in different ways. I conclude the paper with a prospect for (empirical) research of creative cities.

2 Planning the Creative City In the course of the rise of the concept of the creative city as urban planning objective, many different cities started to use the concept as a guideline for their development projects. Consequently, different planning strategies can be found that are gathered under the conceptual umbrella of the creative city. I argue that this variety of strategies ultimately accounts for what I call the multiple realities of creative cities. Before elaborating on this notion and on the inherent contradictions within the field of creative cities, I will address a more general question: How do strategies aiming at planning the creative city relate to general societal developments? What contradictions between overall strategies and singular projects become visible and in what sense do planning strategies that focus on a certain group of people contradict policies aiming at integrating all members of a society? The context in which the creative city idea has evolved is the observation that creativity has advanced to be one of the major societal paradigms in postmodern societies (Joas 1996; Florida 2004), bringing ever more people to strive for realizing their creativity and to live in environments supposedly inspiring the inhabitants to be even more creative. Parallel to the advancement of creativity

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as a societal paradigm (Reckwitz 2012), a shift in professions occurs, that is an increased monetarization (or, economization?) of cultural professions, ultimately leading to the professional sectors of cultural and creative industries (Hartley 2004; Howkins 2004). In addition, neoliberalism took hold of the everyday lives of cities’ inhabitants (Foucault 2006; Mattissek 2008), ultimately encouraging people to take responsibility for every single branch of their individual lives and optimizing their lives—be it their health, their work/profession, or their family life. In what sense do these changes affect the ways how contemporary cities are planned? This is what I will turn to in the following.

2.1 The Changing Role of Urban Planners These two developments, observable to varying degrees in industrialized societies, fundamentally affected contemporary life in cities and led to a shift in planning strategies. These modified planning strategies are part of a generally changing understanding of the role of urban planning in today’s cities. The role of professional urban planning has crucially changed during the last decades. Planners left behind the idea of planning cities from scratch, totally redesigning cities to conform to planning principles, and directly impacting societal developments via the design of cities. This way of urban planning was, for example, conceptualized by Le Corbusier in the twentieth century. Here, planning tried to directly impact a society’s development by telling people how and for what purpose to use the city (Siebel 2009, p. 40). Today, however, there is a shift from deciding about people’s usages of a city toward enabling certain usages and offering these to people. Rather than assigning fixed functions to specific areas, the approach stresses the possibility of various simultaneous usages; the role of the planner is to offer ways to use a city. This does not mean that planning is arbitrary. Rather, planners intend to design a city to offer the inhabitants certain ways of using the city by simultaneously accepting alternative ways of using it. Nonetheless, these offers refer to superordinate planning goals. For example, the widely used planning objective to create mixed-use quarters implies that planners design quarters so that they are equipped with dwellings, areas for retail shops and restaurants, as well as spaces for leisure activities. Arranging the buildings and spaces in such a way allows using them for living, shopping, and leisure time. Simultaneously, usages such as farming, parking, or

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industrial production are prohibited with zoning plans and others, such as skateboarding, playing on the street, etc., are discouraged through the very design of the quarter. Thus, in the twenty-first century, planners are facilitators rather than ultimate deciders. These two contradictory understandings of urban planners’ roles and their chances to impact societies’ developments are now troubled by the shift toward planning the creative city. Urban planners are now challenged by people who try to fulfill two demands: first, the demand of being creative and, second, the demand of being responsible for themselves. This clashes with an understanding of the urban planner as omniscient: If the neoliberal principle of governing the self is successful (e.g., Foucault 2006; Bröckling 2007), then people will oppose to being governed by urban planners. But is the understanding of the planner as facilitator in line with the neoliberal and the creative demands; are planners possibly even reinforcing the societal demands? Are the planners of the creative city and the creative society of the twenty-first century the Siamese twins of contemporary urbanized societies? I argue that thinking in these dichotomies is not sufficient for explaining contemporary social-spatial phenomena such as the creative city. It is not the dichotomy “planner as omniscient plus people adhering to the designated usage of the urban design” versus “planner as facilitator plus people carefully choosing from the possibilities offered to optimize their lives.” Rather, urban planners find themselves in a hybrid or even contradictory position: On the one hand, they understand their role as securing the well-being of the many and to pay tribute to current societal developments such as the rise of cultural and creative industries as important economic sectors. They acknowledge that a growing number of people work in professions that require technological and artistic creativity. On the other hand, planners are supposed to keep in mind “the others,” that is, those people who do not work in creative professions or are otherwise labeled creative. This is an often discursively silenced but, in quantitative terms, predominant societal group. In this sense, planners are also supposed to facilitate usages of the city that respond neither to the creative demand nor to the neoliberal demand of selfoptimization. Following this line of argument, I will use the remainders of this chapter to shed light on the different planning strategies that are applied to design creative cities and on the two main addressees of creative city planning: technologists and artists. From a perspective taking these two aspects into account, both planning strategies and projects directed at the assumed needs of these two groups account for the multiple realities of creative cities in general and for the inherent contradictions of urban planning in creative cities in particular.

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2.2 The Strategies of Creative City Planning Three different types of strategies can be identified when analyzing urban planning projects under the conceptual umbrella of creativity. In all cases, creativity is used as an overarching framework and guideline. To name only those that are most commonly found: waterfront and brownfield developments, regeneration of housing districts, promotion of start-up companies, architectural redesign of cities, and sponsorship and promotion of cultural events (for an overview, see Atkinson and Easthope 2009). The diversity of approaches refers to and is made possible by the fact that both “creativity” and “creative city” have no fixed meaning and thus allow for a variety of interpretations. As I’ve shown elsewhere (­Müller 2013), they are ideas that travel between local contexts, experiencing shifts in meaning during this travel.2 This allows for the variety of, often contradictory, usages under the general concept of creativity. In my own empirical research,3 I find the openness of the concept expressed in a city official’s statement: “we define it for ourselves and live up to that reputation.” (DCC2, paragr. 694–696) Nonetheless, the strategies applied make it pos­sible to identify types of planning strategies and projects. For the sake of analytical differentiation, I group the strategies according to their main objective. These are housing, economic development, and leisure. Contradictions that might occur lie in different demands of the addressees of the projects: inhabitants who are approached with housing projects will have different infrastructural demands and another sensitivity, e.g., to noise, than tourists who are in the focus of leisure projects; enterprises to bring taxes revenues and jobs to a city might make demands on land that could otherwise be used for public usage, etc. In the following, I describe the different sets of strategies in more detail to illustrate how urban planning toward a creative city looks like. 1. The strategies that address the housing problem are closely connected to waterfront and brownfield development projects. Here, wasteland, especially in inner-city areas, is made accessible via housing projects. Several of the cities in which the creativity paradigm is used for urban development, e.g., Dublin,

2For

the notion of the travel of ideas, see Czarniawska and Joerges (1996). research was carried out between 2008 and 2010 in Dublin (Ireland) and Gothenburg (Sweden). The data stem from qualitative interviews with urban planners, city officials, and members of the creative class; planning documents; and nonparticipant observation as temporary citizen (Müller 2012).

3The

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Bilbao, and San Francisco, use their former port areas as sites for these housing projects, while, in doing so, also regenerating the urban waterfront. This is not least a reaction to reurbanization tendencies and the assumed wish of the creative class to live (close to) downtown (e.g., Florida 2008, pp. 243–245). These housing projects are part of the creative city strategy if they explicitly address those people that belong to the creative class—also known as “young urban professionals” (Piesman and Hartley 1984) or “bourgeois bohemians” (Brooks 2001)—as these social groups show significant overlaps in their characteristics with the members of the creative class. In addition, these housing projects are an attempt to materialize creativity in the buildings’ architecture, thus symbolizing a certain understanding of creativity to the outer world and possibly communicating this understanding to the city’s inhabitants. 2. The strategies that focus on a city’s economic development relate to the emergence of the cultural and creative industries as prospering economic sectors and address the core of what Florida (2004) identifies as the creative class. Here, these strategies aim at providing infrastructure to facilitate the work of smaller start-up companies as well as big IT enterprises. Infrastructural improvements include securing high-speed Internet access, providing employers with office space or financial incentives such as tax reductions or subsidized office space. Often, these planning strategies include the erection of technology parks, for example, The Digital Hub in Dublin, Ireland, or Lindholmen Science Park in Gothenburg, Sweden. These examples also shed light on another important aspect: planning strategies aiming at fostering a city’s economic development often directly affect the city’s material-spatial structure. In Dublin, old industrial buildings are converted to new usages by assigning them the role as a home for the technology park. In Gothenburg, the technology park is part of a greater development project of the former dockyards, aiming at transforming the area from an industrial into a postindustrial working space. By bringing private companies and academic institutions together and housing them in newly erected buildings, these projects contribute to new forms of cooperation (Etzkowitz and Leydesdorff 1995) and a new urban design. 3. Finally, there are strategies that focus on the advancement of the leisure sector. These can be singular events as well as recurring events that are especially directed at the city’s and the region’s inhabitants, but also events with a connection to the national or supranational level. The latter is the case when cities apply for the title as European Capital of Culture (European Commission 2017), a title that refers to the artistic-cultural dimension of the creative city phenomenon. Numerous cities that use the creative city paradigm in their

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planning strategies have also been European Capitals of Culture (Amsterdam in 1987, Dublin in 1991, Copenhagen in 1996, Marseille in 2013, to mention only a few). The European Union also advocates these projects under the label of a “Creative Europe” (European Commission 2017). Other strategies intended to enhance a city’s attractiveness for leisure activities include establishing so-called cultural quarters, supporting local artists or redesigning the waterfront areas to host (cultural) events. In Dublin, there was a Craft Beer Festival in the Docklands in 2012, Gothenburg’s docklands were the site of the Americas Cup in 2015, and the waterfront in Victoria, BC, is where the annual Festival of Trees takes place. These events can be big or small; they reach the local, regional, or international public, and are attractions to visitors from different catchment areas. What they have in common is that a physical transformation of the city goes together with an enhancement of local cultural events, thus connecting urban redevelopments with an eventization of the cities (Häußermann 1993). This eventization is also described as culturalization (Reckwitz 2009) and might be understood as structural element of the creative cities’ planning. The strategies described focus on housing, economic development, and leisure. They differ not only regarding the projects subsumed under them but also address different groups of people who might have contradictory demands on, e.g., planning projects. Two groups of people are especially in focus of urban planning strategies aiming at designing a creative city: technologists and artists. I call these two groups the addressees of creative city planning. In the following, I will describe how they are approached by local urban planners.

3 Addressees of Creative City Planning The addressees of creative city planning are manifold: investors, policy-makers, politicians, tourists and, last but not least, inhabitants. In the following, I am going to focus on the latter group, the inhabitants. They are of special importance because of two reasons: First, a city’s population is a defining criterion not only in quantitative terms (think of administrative definitions of the city as entities of a certain density) but also in qualitative terms.4 Second, the creative city concept is

4Think

of Louis Wirth’ (1938) definition of a city as entity with a heterogenous population or Georg Simmel’s (1995) description of cities as causing an intensification of nervous stimulation.

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ultimately about people and about ways to attract a working and living population to cities (Florida 2007, 2008). For cities that are planned according to the creativity paradigm, two (possible) inhabitants are in focus: technologists/knowledge workers and artists. The two understandings of creativity identified above—technological and artistic creativity—as well as certain types of planning strategies find their respective addressees in these two groups. Technologists or knowledge workers are those who pursue jobs in the creative industries sector. Digital media occupations and information technologies are the professions in which technologists particularly work. With this, they belong to the so-called super creative core of Florida’s (2004, p. 69) creative class. One of their professional characteristics is that they earn their living by inventing new solutions and developing new applications for (technological) problems. A substantial number of these people head or work in start-up companies, thus integrating the demands to optimize one’s professional life (neoliberal demand) and to be creative (creative demand) into their lifestyles. Planning strategies that have these people as their addressees often assemble around the creation of technology or science parks. For urban planners, such technologies parks are a means to achieve at least three objectives: 1) regeneration of urban quarters, 2) job creation, and 3) image building. In analytical terms, these three objectives focus on a city’s material-spatial (ad 1), economic (ad 2), and narrative (ad 3) dimension. Planning projects aim at realizing a technology park in the urban core and thereby attempt to create an image of the city as technologically innovative and smart. The city is presented as a place that is fit for the twenty-first century and a place for the knowledge economy (DDH1, paragr. 211). Jobs created with the help of a technology park are supposed to fuel this image and to make it last. In addition, using “job creation” as argument for urban development under the umbrella of creativity is also a means to convince even the last critic of the strategy. Finally, using technology parks as a way to regenerate urban quarters, often in areas close to the city center, promises to be a financially sound way to refurbish an urban area. By renovating existing buildings and building new sites for the creative class, the built environment is said to depict the creative city planning strategies. Here, planners fall back on the assumed needs and preferences of technologists and artists (here termed “creatives”) as one representative of Dublin’s technology park, The Digital Hub, describes: you know, we’re certainly taking advantage of the infrastructure that’s here already, […] there is a degree of planning in there, in that what we’re trying to establish is a portfolio of space of different sizes, shapes, and different elements,

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because of the range of activities that we’re trying to support, there are some activities that suit older buildings, and particularly where we’re trying to attract creative activities, those creatives tend to prefer heritage type buildings, whereas the technologists tend to like the modern steel and glass buildings, so it’s a combination of both that we’re trying to establish, the other thing I would say is that there is, certainly, some innovation in terms of the way those buildings are being used, and the way they’re designed to be used (DDH2, paragr. 671–679, own emphasis).

The strategies to address artists and thereby the artistic-cultural dimension of creativity are structurally similar to those described above. In general, planners attempt to design areas according to the assumed needs of artists. These assumed needs imply studio space, galleries in close proximity, and an inspirational urban environment. As the latter is hard to design for planners, they focus on infrastructural elements of the city. For example, they provide subsidized studio space and marketing infrastructure to support artists in their professional lives. To grasp the observation that urban planners design a city according to the assumed needs of two groups as diverse as technologists and artists and focus on diverse fields as housing, economic development and leisure, I propose the notion of the multiple realities of creative cities. In the following chapter, I will explain what these realities look like and how they are fundamentally shaped by inherent contradictions.

4 Creative Cities’ Multiple Realities The above description points to the fact that the empirically observable creative cities are very diverse: there exist “multiple realities of creative cities”. This notion highlights the fact that urban planners in each case understand “creative city” in their own way and thus design the city accordingly. To the planners, the particular creative city they attempt to design is real—and these numerous creative cities are the multiple realities of the umbrella term creative city. The multiple realities of creative cities are linked 1) to the locally specific social and material contexts of cities and 2) to the openness of the concept as such. The local context has to be analyzed and assessed separately for each individual case. Still, on a more theoretical level, the twofold understanding of creativity can be used as a grid to understand creative cities’ multiple realities. As I have shown above, existing empirical studies show that the term creativity is open to a variety of meanings, which can be ordered along a continuous spectrum from producing technologically innovative outcomes to creating artistic-cultural products. On the

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local level, the different understandings of creativity become effective in planning strategies: they determine the addressees of the planning strategies, the sites to be (re-)developed, and, ultimately, the planning projects realized. The resulting variety of planning strategies and realized projects under the conceptual umbrella of creativity is not only diverse; the different projects do not just coexist quietly side by side. Rather, empirical studies point to the fact that the planning strategies and projects subsumed under the supposedly integrative concept of creativity are to a great extent contradictory: they contradict other understandings of creativity, and they contradict other projects’ objectives and principles within the greater planning framework of the individual city. As a result, creative cities are socio-spatial environments that include contradictions at their very core. For the sake of clarity, I will now describe these contradictions and their effects in their ideal typical form. In reality, the classifications either— or are never as distinct as presented here. What kinds of contradiction am I talking about when arguing that creative cities are contradictory phenomena? Contradictions as used here are understood in a relational sense: Empirical phenomena are composed of sets of interrelated elements. The relations between these elements can be harmonizing or contradictory. They account for intensified or retardant developments and, ultimately, for the overall complexity of societal phenomena such as creative cities. Thus, I am not using the logical term “contradiction” (A and not-A) here but want to stress that contradictions are inherent in the empirical phenomena researched by social scientists. In the case of creative cities, there are contradictions on a vertical and a horizontal level. Contradictions on these two levels have different effects, and there are different strategies to handle them. Their effects and planners’ ways to manage them are in focus of the following section.

4.1 Contradictions Within Urban Planning In this section, I analyze the empirical reality of contradictions in the field of planning the creative cities. In general, there are contradictions 1) on the vertical level and 2) on the horizontal level that are crucial to urban planning in general and urban planning under the creativity paradigm in particular. Contradictions on these two levels threaten to de-legitimatize the overall work of local urban planners and, ultimately, the success of their work. Thus, they have to be handled in one way or another.

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On the vertical level, contradictions between globally hegemonic planning paradigms and objectives and their application on the local scale are in focus. On this level, it is a contradictory oscillation between the global and the local: On the global scale, the creative city discourse is referred to as an ultimate solution for cities in neoliberal times, giving the cities a toolkit to become creative. This is said to attract economically solvent workers and inhabitants who, in turn, also change the city’s image to the better, thus making the city attractive for tourists. On the local scale, the creative city discourse is challenged by the locally specific contexts and the city’s demand of caring for its actual (and not only future) inhabitants. On the horizontal level, contradictions concerning different groups of addressees are in focus. It is the contradictions on the horizontal level I will elaborate on in the following. On this level, the strategies to design a city as a creative city include addressing different groups (e.g., technologists and artists) with at times contrasting interests and spatially dividing contrasting planning objectives. In focusing on a variety of groups with different demands on the city, the strategies themselves can contradict each other. For example, this is the case when the success of a strategy to create a city as workplace for creative people is either measured with the economic success of funded start-up companies (technologists) or with the cultural reputation of having funded a now renowned painter (artists). Here, economic capital (value added) and symbolic capital (reputation) oppose each other. In addition, planning paradigms and objectives can also contradict each other on this horizontal level: economic sustainability, aimed at by creating an economically sound technology park (Dublin), is assigned the same value within the general planning concept as social sustainability, strived for by using the technology park to improve the inhabitants’ education. Contradictions on the horizontal level can have different effects on the city and its inhabitants. Either, the situation can be worsened: The inherent contradictions are not resolved and intensify existing conflicts. For example, the social and spatial segregation of a city’s population is enhanced by the redesign of the docklands (Dublin). Or, the contradictory situation can be resolved: The contrasting elements of planning objectives (such as supporting the highly skilled creative class and caring for the low-skilled working class) are worked on in a temporal order; by this, a certain sequence is established and the contradictions between the two planning objectives never escalate in a conflict because they are never confronted with each other in the planners’ everyday work. An alternative is the spatial sequentialization: By using different objectives and/or addressees in different urban areas, planners avoid to confront different interpretations of creativity.

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For example, Gothenburg’s formers docklands, Norra Älvstranden, are redesigned as area for the technologists; here, the technologically innovative understanding of creativity shall find its built expression. Artists are explicitly not in the focus of the planning strategies applied here, in contrast to planning projects developed for the quarter Haga in downtown Gothenburg. Finally, a fourth way to deal with contradictions is to create an informal hierarchy among the single planning projects within the overall planning framework to solve this contradiction. For example, the technology park is presented as ultimately economic in nature and yet having a socially sustainable effect as subordinate, intended consequence: “there is a premise that the Digital Hub will be economically sustainable” (DDH2, paragr. 703), but “we also work with the local community” (DDH1, paragr. 158). The broader a planning paradigm, the more different strategies can be subsumed and hierarchically ordered under its umbrella. These strategies can be contradictory; as long as the hierarchies are clear and the audiences are not mixed (Goffman 1959, pp. 136–137), the inherent contradictions do not jeopardize the planners’ work.5

4.2 Contradictions on the Ground: The Case of Redesigning Old Sites and Buildings In the following, I will use the case of reusing old sites and heritage buildings to illustrate the forms that contradictions assume on the local level and how they are handled by the local urban planners. It is the case of contradictions that occur when the globally hegemonic planning paradigm, creativity, is applied in a specific city and is confronted with the locally particular urban conditions. Although today’s planning works differently than that of earlier times and large renewal projects including the demolition of vast areas of cities are rare, the idea of planning still is that a planning paradigm shall be expressed by a city’s material structure. This also applies to planning under the creativity paradigm:

5The

latter way of handling contradictions can also be observed on the vertical level. Acting audience-related is a way to approach the inherent contradictions on the local as well as on the global scale. Depending on whom the planners are talking to and who they are presenting their cases to, they can stress a specific dimension of a project. This strategy, however, makes it necessary that the different dimensions of a project are equally well elaborated— you cannot talk of the socially integrative function of a technology park if no projects to include the local community are carried out.

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the city’s physical and spatial structure is, among other things, understood as the representation of a planning objective. The fundamental difference to earlier planning projects is that radical conversion is replaced by an integration of the old, existing structures into the city’s new design. Here, the potentially contradictory tension holds between new and old, between construction from scratch and renovation. The situation for planners in industrialized societies is often contradictory and tough: there are sites and buildings protected by national or supranational heritage laws; there are sites protected by nature conservation laws from being covered with buildings; the zoning plan assigns certain sites specific usages such as flood protection areas; and there is a bundle of political and economic interests planners have to consider. Within these local contexts, planners have to find adequate ways of (re-)designing the city and still adhere to the current global planning paradigm. Conceptualizing and building a technology park with new “steel and glass buildings” to attract “the technologists” (DDH2, paragr. 671–679) at a heritage site is not only contradictory in itself (new vs. old) but can also contradict the legal framework in which the planners have to act. A possible solution for these contradictions is to use the city’s existing built environment to build the city’s future on it—both in material and in social terms. This “synthesis” (Popper 1980, pp. 263–264) is a way to handle a contradiction and comprises, in this case, two different strategies: A strategy for the social dimension of the conflict is to integrate new buildings into existing structures and have new buildings alongside old buildings. This is a way to reduce uncertainty and hostility among the inhabitants. A strategy for resolving the material dimension of the contradiction is to reuse heritage sites and to adapt the buildings’ infrastructure to meet the needs of, e.g., technologists and artists. The integration of, for environmental reasons, protected areas is reframed and “sold” as an asset of the city which enhances its value for leisure activities. In the case of creativity, the solution comes with a problem: the preference for industrial buildings identified on the site of the creative class makes it possible to adhere to a legal framework (heritage sites) and to use creativity as planning paradigm. Thus, the contradiction between old and new, between renovation and redesign is resolved with a synthesis. This appreciation of industrial aesthetics (Zukin 1989) can be found in many postindustrial cities, and planners currently tend to make use of this development. It has at least one major advantage for them: what has long been a burden for urban planning, industrial buildings protected against demolition because of their status as historic monuments, is now an asset. These industrial buildings are

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transformed into offices for start-ups in the creative industries sector, into studios for artists, and into living spaces for the middle class. But this preference for industrial aesthetics is in itself contradictory as Zukin (1989, p. 59) argues. When describing the reinterpretation of the past by artists and the middle class in the case of the so-called loft living, Zukin identifies contradictions that are inscribed in the urban fabric: a certain material design of buildings, a result of industrialized mass construction, is reinterpreted as built expression of individuality and appreciated in its particular aesthetic. This changing perception is more than just a change in aesthetic preferences. Rather, Zukin identifies it as an expression of a qualitative change not directly correlating to the number of people living in lofts: loft living is more significant than the relatively small number of SoHos or loft dwellers implies. It marks a different perception of space and time and a new relation between art and industry. […] Although loft living seems to reject suburbia and all it represents, living lofts have some of the same spatial values as a typical suburban home, particularly a preference for lots of air, light, and open space. Certainly lofts are located on busy city streets rather than grassy plots, but inside, a loft has an air of detachment from the city. This suggests that loft living is appealing, in part, because it is paradoxical. The incongruity of living in a factory does not cease to surprise us. From the outside, of course, a loft building looks like a factory, but inside, we find a home. Although homes are considered private space, the openness of a loft makes it a public space. (Zukin 1989, p. 60, own emphasis)

What Zukin observed in the late 1980s is not directly connected to urban planning under the paradigm of creativity. However, her description of New York shows strong structural similarities with contemporary urban phenomena in Western postindustrial cities. The difference lies in the degree of control: What has been part of general urban developments in the 1980s is now part of explicit urban planning strategies. The examples above illustrate how the concept of the creative city with its inherent contradictions accounts for multiple realities when applied in local urban planning strategies and development projects. The examples show how urban planners find ways to handle these contradictions by establishing hierarchies, addressing different audiences, and by finding a synthesis that allows for combining the remainders of the city’s past with designs for the future city. In the last section of this paper, I will sketch the methodological implications of understanding creative cities as an inherently contradictory phenomenon.

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5 Beyond Contradictions: On Methodological Consequences The final section of this chapter deals with the methodological implications of looking at creative cities research through the lenses of Contradiction Studies. This section also intends to provide a prospect for future research. The pressing question that arises from my analysis is: what consequences does the answer to the first question have for empirical analyses of creative cities? In order to shed light on the multiple realities of creative cities and the inherent variety of contradictions, I argue for thorough and comparative empirical research on creative cities’ multiple realities. Social scientists researching creative cities are confronted with two contradictory reactions on their work: strong approval, especially from urban planners and colleagues from the economics departments, or equally strong rejection, especially from colleagues from those fields with a “critical” approach (critical geography, critical urban studies, etc.). To avoid the criticism of being either purely affirmative of planning strategies under the umbrella of creativity or absolutely hostile toward these strategies, accusing them of elitism and social exclusion, the empirical research has to provide the researcher with extensive data “to figure out what the hell is going on” (Clifford Geertz in Olson 1991, p. 264). Thick descriptions of the particularities of each single “creative city” as well as a comparative approach help to shed light on the multiple realities and further the understanding of the creative city phenomenon. Such empirical research will then also help to avoid the dichotomy of either-or (either bad or good, either elitist or inclusive, either neoliberal or socially sustainable) and advance this field of research. Three fields of research seem especially promising to me to fully understand the phenomenon “creative city” and, ultimately, to come to an answer for the theoretical question whether the “creative city” in itself is an analytical category or rather an objective of urban planning in industrialized societies applied to different types of cities. Future research could address 1) the meaning that is assigned to the term “creativity” in different contexts and how it changes through its travel as planning idea, 2) the ascriptions used by different social groups when using the notion of the creative city, and 3) the differences and similarities between the built environment in creative cities in both the Global North and the Global South. As these phenomena are highly interdependent, an integrative research design could be used to research them not only as singular phenomenon but also as set of interrelated elements.

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For each of these fields, different methods should be used to collect data. In the first case, an analysis of the metaphors (Lakoff and Johnson 1998; Kruse et al. 2011) and narratives (Elliott and Squire 2017) used by urban planners and the cities’ users alike could be of high value. Such analyses should be both qualitative and quantitative. Although only a qualitative analysis can shed light on the whole spectrum of metaphors and narratives used, the number of cases in which these narratives and metaphors are used in specific contexts provides good information on the diffusion of the concept and the variety of its interpretations. Such an analy­ sis of the linguistic modes of using creativity contributes to understanding the contradictions inherent to the concept and the individuals’ ways of handling the contradictory elements. In the second field, the whole set of qualitative research methods ranging from discourse analysis to interviews and ethnography could be applied. A mixedmethods design proves helpful for assessing the varying, contradictory, or consentaneous forms of understanding the creative city concept and the ways the ascriptions are performed. Finally, a comparative analysis of the built environments of creative cities could help to understand the local particularities and the global similarities of the design and material-spatial structure of creative cities. Methods such as qualitative content analysis of planning documents, visual ethnography (Pink 2007, 2008) in and rephotographing (Harper 1988) of the built environment as well as qualitative interviews with urban planners and architects, but also with the cities’ inhabitants promise fruitful data on the multiple realities of creative cities and their inherent contradictions. Finally, such research should be both in-depth and comparative. Not only cross-local studies should be carried out but also cross-national studies and studies comparing cities in the Global North and South. By this, the results would further the knowledge on the phenomenon “creative city,” its local characteristics and global influences.

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List of cities interviews DCC2: interview with a representative of the Dublin City Council, 16 Sept. 2008. DDH1: interview with a representative of The Digital Hub, 22 Sept. 2008. DDH2: interview with two representatives of The Digital Hub, 22 Sept. 2008. Anna-Lisa Müller  is currently Senior Researcher at the Institute for Migration Research and Intercultural Studies (IMIS) of Osnabrueck University, Germany. Her researchinterests are contemporary urban transformations, international migration, production of space, cultural theory, and qualitative methods of empirical social research, science, and technology studies. She is author of Green Creative City; “Voices in the city. On the role of arts, artists and urban space for a just city” and co-editor of Architecture, Materiality and Society. Connecting Sociology of Architecture with Science and Technology Studies.Her publications include Müller, Anna-Lisa. 2013. Green Creative City. Konstanz: UVK. Müller, Anna-Lisa; Reichmann, Werner, ed. 2015. Architecture, Materiality and Society. Connecting Sociology of Architecture with Science and Technology Studies. Basingstoke, NewYork: Palgrave Macmillan. Müller, Anna-Lisa. 2019. “Voices in the city. On the role of arts, artists and urban space for a just city.” CITIES 91: 49–57.

(In)Visible and (Un)Homely: Underground Infrastructures as Spaces of Dissension Julia Lossau It is one of the great paradoxes of urban life in the Global North that it often requires the collapse of the great, stretched-out infrastructures that sustain the city—the power grids, transport networks, water systems […]—for their critical importance to become manifest. Infrastructures—the largest urban architectures of all—often become most visible when they lie dormant or inactive— temporary ruins to the dreams of modernity, mobility, and circulation that underpin them. (Graham 2010, p. XI)

Abstract

Carving out the paradoxes of underground urban infrastructure, this paper attempts to establish a dialog between infrastructure studies, on the one hand, and Contradiction Studies, on the other hand. It starts from the premise that the technical and political characteristics of infrastructure are only thought of and made visible in case of failure or breakdown. It is thus only through their eventual absence that infrastructures gain a certain presence. This first paradox is both doubled and bedeviled in the case of underground infrastructure which, despite “lying low” in geographical terms, bars itself from being placed “underneath” in symbolic terms. It is argued that it is precisely the uncanniness of underground infrastructure that prevents the latter from being taken for granted and rendered invisible. The theoretical arguments are then illustrated by a discussion of AMFORA, a speculative urban design concept for the city J. Lossau (*)  University of Bremen, Bremen, Germany e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2019 J. Lossau et al. (eds.), Spaces of Dissension, Contradiction Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-25990-7_12

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center of Amsterdam. The paper concludes by discussing some of the lessons that can be learned from an exploration of the unhomely for a theorization of contradictions which aims at challenging simplistic conceptualizations of the contradictive. Keywords

Paradox · Unhomely · Infrastructure · Underground · System Theory

1 Introduction This paper aims at opening up a dialog between infrastructure studies, on the one hand, and Contradiction Studies, on the other hand. While the former can be regarded as an established field of research (see, e.g., Edwards 2003; Flitner et al. 2017; Graham and Marvin 2001; Star 1999; Parks and Starosielski 2015; van Laak 2005), the latter represents a rather recent realm of reasoning whose research agenda remains yet to be outlined in full. In this paper, Contradiction Studies are provisionally taken as the result of a scholarly interest in the broad field of both notions and practices of contradiction, including cognate concepts like antinomies, paradoxes, etc. as well as various forms of communicating and performing antagonisms or oppositions. As the prefix infra indicates, “infrastructure” relates to something that lies underneath. The term is assumed to have been coined in late nineteenth century France to denote the fundament of railway constructions (van Laak 1999). In contemporary social sciences and the humanities, “infrastructure” commonly denotes the manifold technological devices which form the substructures of social worlds (see, e.g., Flitner et al. 2017). Looked at from a perspective interested in contradictions and incongruities, what is paramount to note is the basic paradox which characterizes the relations between the “super-structure” of social life and their (material) “infra-structures”. In the Global North at least, the services of infrastructures are usually “normalized as an essential, but largely invisible, support to modern […] life” (Graham 2010, p. 6). Their technical and political characteristics are only thought of and made visible in case of failure or breakdown. Put differently, it is only through their eventual absence that infrastructures gain a certain presence. As Susan Leigh Star has famously written, infrastructure only becomes “visible upon breakdown” (Star 1999, p. 382). The option that, for instance, a tramway is coming in is so taken for granted that people will only start to think about its operations when service is interrupted. At the same time, potential failure hardly prevents anyone from using

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tramways. In fact, there are probably only few people who refrain from using the tramway only because they abstractly know that it could also not function. The mere potentiality of failure seems to have a calmative effect. Failure is considered so unlikely that the possibility of malfunction actually happening is “suppressed”—and for precisely this reason, infrastructure slips out of its users’ minds as long as it works. It can be argued, though, that the situation is different if the tram operates underground. Underground railway involves infrastructures that lie low in two senses—not only because they operate outside of our consciousness but also because they circulate under the surface and in this way escape our view. This “infra-ness” of underground infrastructure dramatizes the fact that the metro might also not operate and possibly get stuck underground. As a consequence, the calmative effect of mere potentiality does not work for everyone. There are in fact many people who forego the conveniences of using the metro for fear of getting stuck. Even though waiving the usage may entail high costs, these people are not prepared to make use of underground trains—or at most by bearing otherwise high costs. From a perspective interested in contradictions, the particularity of subterranean infrastructure resonates with the uncanny qualities that are attributed to the underground in everyday life. As a space void of air and light, the underground is commonly regarded as a scene of death, of awfulness and frightfulness. It is often through reports of mining disasters or catastrophic tunnel accidents that the underground is brought to people’s attention. In fictional accounts, underground constructions are represented as places of horror where dark creatures commit their monstrous deeds. There are indeed a number of underground places that seem to defy the common imagery of darkness, being invested instead with a pleasant, even “homely” atmosphere. This is true, e.g., for RÉSO, the popular shopping space underneath the Canadian metropolis of Montréal (Hustak 2017), as well as for Zion, the free underground city in the Matrix trilogy (Gillis 2005). The potential “homeliness” of the underground, however, is always threatened by its counterpart—the unhomely or “the ‘uncanny’” (Freud 1955). Against such a background, this paper intends to map underground infrastructures as “spaces of dissension” (Foucault 1972, p. 152; original emphasis) which are both visible/invisible and homely/unhomely at the same time. In order to come to terms with the twofold contradictory nature of underground infrastructure, the paper proceeds in four steps. Recapitulating recent discussions on infrastructure, the first step rethinks the basic paradox of infrastructural installations by drawing upon system theory. In the second step, the uncanniness of the underground is sketched out in more detail with reference to poststructuralist and

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psychoanalytic literature. The third step illustrates the theoretical arguments by applying them to the case of AMFORA, a speculative urban design concept for the city center of Amsterdam. The plan proposes the construction of “a city under the city” (Strukton 2016) comprising sport and leisure facilities as well as shops and parking places under the streets and canals of Amsterdam. The insights that can be derived from the case study with a view to the paradoxes of underground infrastructure are discussed in the fourth section.

2 The (In)Visibility of Infrastructure According to a seminal paper by infrastructure historian Paul N. Edwards, to “be modern is to live within and by means of infrastructures” (Edwards 2003, p. 186). It is by their seemingly ceaseless technical mastering of natural forces that wires, pipes, railroads, sewers, power plants, or tunnels provide the functional background to everyday modern life. In a modernist perspective, infrastructural services are regarded not only as primarily functioning but also “as virtually ubiquitous and utterly ordinary” (Graham 2010, p. 6). Against the background of what Stephen Graham in When Infrastructures Fail calls “neoliberal capitalism” (Graham 2010, p. 17), however, the faith in infrastructural functioning and ubi­ quity has lost much of its persuasive power. In the wake of processes of growing socio-spatial fragmentation and marginalization, infrastructural failure, instability, and even disconnection have become a threat—and a reality—to a growing number of users: “For marginal users facing poverty, […], even relatively basic services can seem extremely precarious because of the dangers of disconnection as a result of nonpayment” (Graham 2010, p. 9). As a consequence, the assumption of uninterrupted and comprehensive infrastructural service has been represented as a mere illusion; as the exception rather than the rule (Marquardt 2017). This seems to hold true in the Global South in particular where large numbers of people live in what AbdouMaliq Simone (2004, p. 425) has called “half-built environments: underdeveloped, overused, fragmented, and often makeshift urban infrastructures where essential services are erratic or costly and whose inefficiencies spread and urbanize disease.” Not least by taking seriously the daily struggles with unstable, unreliable, and “splintered” forms of infrastructure, recent contributions have introduced more practice-oriented notions of infrastructure (e.g., Graham and McFarlane 2015). What remains unchallenged from the critique of the social conditions of infrastructural visibility and the Western bias in earlier work, however, is what can be called the symbolic invisibility of infrastructure. It can be argued that, where

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and whenever infrastructures exist, it is only through their absence that they gain a certain presence. Even if we are to fully embrace the social embeddedness of infrastructures by highlighting the entanglements between infrastructural materiality and social everyday life, the basic paradox of (in)visibility persists. While scholars of infrastructure studies frequently draw upon actor-network theory or assemblage thinking in order to “study the technologies and techniques through which the visible and the invisible are separated, connected and managed in […] social life” (Appadurai 2015, p. xiii), this paper prefers to adopt a system-theoretical perspective. In his “Theory of Society”, Niklas Luhmann (2012, p. 318) asserts that “technology […] makes it possible to couple completely heterogeneous elements.” At first sight, Luhmann’s account thus seems to adhere to a rather common concept of technology which focuses on the latter’s ability to “broaden out” and “open up”, to create new possibilities by interconnecting society with its material environment. What Luhmann has in mind, however, is rather the opposite (see Lippuner 2011). To him, technology is predominantly concerned with reduction, specification, and isolation in consideration of empirical complexity: The world does not only consist of alternatives to be accepted and rejected; it is first of all the wilderness of what happens simultaneously—and for this reason alone, uncontrollably: other simultaneously real causes and effects, other sources of information. Simultaneity is chaos. Superseding this chaos therefore always requires distantiation in time and space […]. And before any technical forms are developed that can be inserted in this time-space (dechaoticized) world, systems have to be formed that take their distance from the other realities that they can treat as environment. (Luhmann 2012, p. 319)

Against the background of “chaos” and “simultaneity”, Luhmann defines technology as “functioning simplification” (Luhmann 2012, p. 317, original emphasis). In so doing, he aims at overcoming both the common limitation of technology “to a material substratum” (Luhmann 2012, p. 315) and “the now usual opposition drawn between technology and humanity” (Luhmann 2012, p. 315). Instead of situating technology, as actor-network theory does, in an overlap region between materiality and society, Luhmann highlights the communicative function of technology. To him, technology represents a social phenomenon that is about “the successful reduction of complexity” (Luhmann 2012, p. 317): Whatever else might happen, technology supplies the intended results. However, we also know […] that complexity itself can be captured in no reduction, can be represented in no model. Even if it works, we must also expect something to be left over. “Successful” reduction thus amounts to harmless ignoring. (Luhmann 2012, p. 317)

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In the above-quoted passages, Luhmann’s account is focused on functioning technology. However, Luhmann is far from disregarding the eventuality of technological failure. In his book on risk (Luhmann 1993), in particular, he elaborates on the consequences of technological malfunctioning for a society that depends on functioning technology. In fact, technology is of “paradigmatic significance” (Luhmann 1993, p. 95) for the subject of risk, since technology can be understood as an installation which, as Luhmann underlines, always contains within it the risk of malfunctioning. As risks are inherent in technology itself, “limits are apparently set to any attempt to protect oneself against the risks of technology by technical means” (Luhmann 1993, p. 94). “The pre-requisite of most infrastructures”, writes the historian Dirk van Laak (2005, p. 86), “is […] the technical mastery of natural hazards”.1 This quotation does not only illustrate the common tradition of understanding technology “in terms of it being distinct from nature” (Luhmann 1993, p. 84). It also suggests that infrastructures themselves can ultimately be conceptualized as technologies in Luhmann’s sense. As such, they are paradoxical in nature: On the one hand, they are invested with the risk of malfunctioning. The inevitability of the risk of malfunctioning explains why, as Laak goes on to write, “the history of most infrastructures was […] characterised by catastrophes, errors in planning, wrong tracks, new risks and changes in use, and is distinguished as a whole […] by significantly loss-making trial and error” (van Laak 2005, p. 87, original emphasis). On the other hand, infrastructures represent functioning simplifications. As has been argued above, it is by leaving undisputed realities out of account that the use of infrastructure successfully reduces empirical complexity. The use of infrastructure implies “the elimination of the rest-of-the-world” (Luhmann 2012, p. 317) in the sense that “decisions are not constantly required ad interim” (Luhmann 2012, p. 318, original emphasis). It is due to their de-randomizing power that, as van Laak writes, infrastructures, once implemented, fall almost immediately into the subconscious mind of their users and are taken for granted. One does not become accustomed to anything so quickly as to that which is activated at the push of a button or the turn of a tap, the origin of which one does not need to think about and the price of which one is only struck by upon receipt of the monthly service charge statement at the most. (van Laak 2005, p. 87, original emphasis)

1Unless

stated otherwise all quotations from non-English sources have been translated by the author.

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3 The Underground as Place of the Unhomely While infrastructure is factually invisible—“always provided that it works” (Luhmann 2012, p. 318)—, not all actual infrastructures are equally taken for granted. It can be argued that underground infrastructures, in particular, balk at falling “into the subconscious mind of their users”, to echo van Laak. This is noteworthy since underground infrastructure, as noted in the introduction to this paper, “lies low” in two senses: as a form of infrastructure, it first lives by definition “in the shadows”, so to speak, lying “underneath” the social processes it is engineered to facilitate. Second, in geographical terms, underground infrastructure is found under the earth’s surface. Why then, in symbolic terms, does it bar itself from being placed “underneath”? As argued in the introduction to this paper, the contumacy of underground infrastructure can be related to the connotations of the underground. In line with conceptual metaphors such as LIGHT IS GOOD/DARK IS BAD or UP IS GOOD/DOWN IS BAD (Lakoff and Johnson 1980), the evaluation of the underground is predominantly negative. As a “dark space”, the underground is a projection screen for at least two forms of horror. A transcendental, religiously tinged horror emanates from the underground in that it represents a place of death, the counterpart to the bright world of life above ground. This transcendental form of horror is epitomized perhaps in the catacombs of Paris, an ossuary created in late eighteenth century in abandoned underground quarries. The catacombs contain countless skulls and skeletons dating from the eighteenth to nineteenth century (Liehr and Faÿ 2000). In this regard, residing underground corresponds to resi­ ding in the grave. In the second form of horror, which is of a sociopolitical nature, the underground is not merely a place of death. It rather represents a “home and breeding ground” (Frank 2003, p. 194) of a social counterworld which corrodes “the social order, so to speak, from below” (Frank 2003, p. 194). Characterized by crime, prostitution and revolutionary attempts, this “underworld” is famously depicted in Victor Hugo’s 1862 novel “Les Misérables”. In this book, the horror of modern society is projected onto the Paris sewers: In Les Misérables, perhaps the most famous literary evocation of the underground city, Victor Hugo depicted the Paris sewers of the 1830s as “the evil in the city’s blood”, a place where the poor and the outcasts lurked together as a threatening formation for the world above ground (Gandy 1999, p. 24, original emphasis).

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Both forms of horror are frequently amalgamated, not least in fictional stories. In his silent film classic Metropolis released in 1927, Fritz Lang, for instance, locates the working class, who must slave to preserve the luxurious life of the upper class, deep under the city, in an underground place of desolation and gloom. In HG Wells’ science fiction classic The Time Machine (1895), the underground is the abode of the grotesque and, as it unfolds over the course of the story, cannibalistic Morlocks—“bleached, obscene, nocturnal Thing[s]” (Wells 1950, p. 39). Neither Lang nor Wells exclusively depicts the underground as a place of horror; on the contrary, additional ambivalent meanings are introduced when the underground, as with Lang, is the home of the radiant protagonist (Maria) or when, as with Wells, it emerges as the home of the actual rulers (the Morlocks). Nevertheless, both pieces of work pursue and build upon the significance of the underground as a terrible place. As a terrible place, the underground is home of the unhomely. From a perspective interested in contradiction, the uncanny is a particularly productive category because it oscillates between signification and meaning, on the one hand, and materiality and substance, on the other hand. Its unsettled—and unsettling— nature has also been underlined, at least implicitly, by critics of architecture who have discussed the uncanny in connection with built structures of the present (see, e.g., Krell 1997; Vidler 1992; Wigley 1993). In his study on “The Architectural Uncanny”, architectural historian Anthony Vidler (1992, p. x) explores “the relations between the psyche and the dwelling, the body and the house, the individual and the metropolis.” In the preface of his book, he alludes to the uncanny qualities of much contemporary architecture: […] its fragmented neoconstructivist forms mimetic of dismembered bodies, its public representation buried in earthworks or lost in mirror reflections, its “seeing walls” reciprocating the passive gaze of domestic cyborgs, its spaces surveyed by moving eyes and simulating “transparency”, its historical monuments indistinguishable from glossy reproductions […]. (Vidler 1992, p. iv)

Structures and buildings of deconstructive architecture, in particular, aim at translating the fundamental homelessness and groundlessness of modern live worlds into material artifacts. Architects like Eisenman, Tschumi, or Libeskind have thus contributed to popularizing the notion of the uncanny, which by now serves as an increasingly established tool in different contexts. As Anne­ leen Masschelein (2011, p. 1) writes in her genealogy of the uncanny, “it is an accepted and popular concept in various disciplines of the humanities, ranging from literature and the arts, to […] sociology, and recently crossing over to the

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‘hard’ field of robotics and artificial intelligence.” At the same time, Masschelein highlights that the uncanny is an “unconcept” rather than a concept because “it fundamentally questions and destabilizes the status and possibility of concepts” (2011, p. 2): […] the uncanny questions nothing less than the epistemological foundation of thinking and of theoretical discourse because it discloses what has to be ignored or repressed for the sake of clarity and certainty. It is thus a concept and at the same time not allowed to be one. It always stays “marginal” in that it operates at the margin of theoretical discourse whose claims it both discloses and undermines. (Mas­ schelein 2005, p. 241)

An essential starting point of the debates on the uncanny as a concept that “confronts the conscious subject with its limitations and fundamentally questions the very possibility of conceptualisation” (Masschelein 2002, p. 60) is Sigmund Freud’s 1919 essay of the same name. After discussing aspects and instances of the uncanny in literature (primarily in E.T.A. Hoffmann’s The Sandman) as well as in psychoanalytic practice, Freud summarizes his account of the uncanny in two considerations. Following the idea that every effect “is transformed, if it is repressed, into anxiety, then among instances of frightening things there must be one class in which the frightening element can be shown to be something repressed which recurs” (Freud 1955, p. 240). This class of elements, according to Freud, constitutes the uncanny. On this basis, Freud secondly maintains that “this uncanny is in reality nothing new or alien, but something which is familiar and old-established in the mind and which has become alienated from it only through the process of repression”(Freud 1955, p. 240). Jacques Lacan discusses Freud’s text in his 1962/1963 Séminaire X, his seminar on anxiety (Lacan 2016). For Lacan, anxiety is connected with the irreducible lack that characterizes human subjectivity. In “Inhibitions, Symptoms and Anxiety” (Freud 1977), Freud suggested to interpret anxiety as the signal reaction for the loss of an object. In Lacan’s work, the lost object becomes the object of desire (object a), which, however, cannot fill the fundamental lack of the subject and must remain unattainable: “Man (sic) finds his home in a point situated in the Other […] and this place represents the absence where we are” (Lacan 1962/1963 cited in Leutzinger-Bohleber and von Hoff 2007, p. 105). Anxiety, according to Lacan, is experienced when “something” appears in place of the desired object, i.e., when an object occupies the place of the lack. Therefore, it is not the unattainability of the desired object which provokes anxiety; rather, anxiety is provoked when the object seems to appear against all expectations, when “the lack

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is lacking” (Lacan 1962/1963 cited in Leutzinger-Bohleber and von Hoff 2007, p. 105), as it were. According to Peter Widmer (2004, p. 85), anxiety arises when the lack “disappears, or when it appears to have disappeared”.

4 “The City Under the City” What can be learned from applying the “unconcept” of the uncanny to a concrete example of underground infrastructure? And how can a concrete example of underground infrastructure help to “earth” the abstract remarks on the uncanny and its references to anxiety? The following section aims at answering these questions by using the example of AMFORA, an urban design concept plan for a “city under the city” in Amsterdam. Designed by Bas Opladen, Senior Consultant of the Dutch engineering company Strukton, and developed by the Amsterdam-based architecture office Zwarts & Jansma, the concept plan is speculative, i.e., it deliberately operates between design, fiction, and potential futures. For the following analysis, presentation and design documents have been examined that have been made available online by both Strukton and Zwarts & Jansma (Strukton 2016; Jansma 2017; Zwarts & Jansma Architects 2017).

4.1 Imagining Underground Infrastructure as Functioning Simplification The concept of AMFORA, “the Alternatieve Multifunctionele Ondergrondse Ruimte Amsterdam” (Alternative Multifunctional Underground Space Amsterdam), was presented in 2008 at the international conference “Underground Space Challenges in Urban Development” in Amsterdam (Strukton 2016). The fundamental idea is for a multistorey, multifunctional tunnel network stretching almost 50 kilometers underneath the city’s canals within the A10 motorway ring road. Generating one million square meters per underground layer (Jansma 2017), the complex is intended to include parking places and shops as well as sport and leisure facilities. In the documents, the underground is depicted as a resource for an environmentally friendly urban development. Aimed at “improving the living environment in Amsterdam” (Strukton 2016, para. 1), the concept is intended to give priority to pedestrian and bicycle traffic and to improve the quality of the public space. By shifting the motorized individual traffic underground, AMFORA is meant to convert the existing traffic area into a “space for

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city nature” (cf. Lossau and Winter 2011): “The network of underground roads and access roads in AMFORA […] creates more space in the inner city for squares and public green areas in places that are now still dominated by car traffic” (Jansma 2017, p. 3). Furthermore, the use of technology is said to reduce harmful emissions and help to achieve carbon neutrality (Jansma 2017). The design builds on diaphragm walls that are embedded in the ground, forming the invisible outer walls of the tunnel network. Filters embedded in the walls will, in theory, clean the polluted air of harmful substances before it is released into the atmosphere. As a consequence, the usual conflict between unbraked mobility and car traffic, on the one hand, and environmental protection, on the other hand, supposedly turns into a “win-win situation”: “A plan that renders environmental zones superfluous and turns traffic versus environment and livability into a win-win situation” (Jansma 2017, p. 3). In addition, it is claimed that, due to the implementation of thermal energy storage systems, temperature in the tunnel system will be maintained constant over the year without adding further energy (Jansma 2017). In the initiators’ opinion, an implementation of AMFORA would pay off not just from an ecological perspective. In the documents, it is highlighted that shifting car traffic underground would also be beneficial in social and economic terms. First, the then car-free areas above ground could serve as meeting points and “stimulate social interaction” (Jansma 2017, p. 3). Second, retail would be strengthened. By enhancing the ambience in the city center, the project would promote the economic revitalization of the city along the canals and facilitate “shopping streets full of activity” (Jansma 2017, p. 2): “Like Barcelona and London have world-famous shopping streets such as the Ramblas and Regent Street, Amsterdam could develop a characteristic shopping area along the canals” (Jansma 2017, p. 2).

4.2 “Making Homely” a Place Invested with the Risk of Malfunctioning Textual analysis of the AMFORA documents reveals the important role technology plays in the plan. Reference is repeatedly made in the material to the gains that can be realized by technical means; what technology can do and what technology is capable of. In this way, the concept plan is part of the long tradition of partly utopian attempts to make the underground accessible and usable for various purposes with the aid of technology (von Meijenfeldt et al. 2003; Williams

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2008). It can be argued that this tradition relies on the already mentioned vision of technology which focuses on the former’s ability to “broaden out” and “open up”. While this vision, in turn, is focused on the creation of new possibilities by interconnecting society with its material environment, the risks of malfunctioning which are, according to Luhmann (1993), by necessity inherent in the use of technology are frequently hidden or backgrounded. It is not surprising, therefore, the AMFORA documents are (at least also) characterized by the idea of the underground as an uncanny place. Broad sections of the material can be interpreted as attempts to conceal the uncanny nature of the underground. The first strategy of making the underground appear as a safe and “homely” place is of technological nature. In a move which is both paradoxical and coherent, Rein Jansma explains that […] “AMFORA is a plan based on existing technology in the field of safety and detection […]” (Jansma 2017, p. 4). For instance, the cordoning-off of individual sections of the structure in an emergency is meant to prevent the spread of fire or water: “In case of calamities, such as fire or flood, the compartments can be closed off” (Jansma 2017, p. 5). The potential evacuation of people is also accounted for: “The underground space is designed in such a way that it is accessible for emergency services and can be equipped with a system for transport guidance and vehicle identification systems by which motorists can be directed to empty parking places in the vicinity of their destination” (Jansma 2017, p. 5). A second design feature of AMFORA which is contributed to the “making homely” of the underground is the physical proximity of differing uses. A mixture of uses is presented in the materials as an appropriate means of increasing the “social safety” of AMFORA: “[…] the various activities between the parking areas are allocated and positioned in such a manner that one is never far away from other people. This is beneficial for social safety” (Jansma 2017, p. 4). The sheer fact that social safety is mentioned in the material underlines the important role that safety issues play for the project representatives. In addition, the quotation illustrates that safety in the AMFORA material does not only implicate protection from fire, water, or other environmental dangers. Consideration is also given to dangers posed by other people. In the context of infrastructure studies, social safety issues have been primarily discussed in connection with socalled “frightening spaces” (Angsträume in German; see, e.g., Kramer and Mischau 1994). While frightening spaces which lie underground have been described as especially oppressive to experience, the underlying assumption that physical proximity to other people offers protection is debatable because it risks evoking an ecological fallacy.

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Finally, varying lighting and image projections are intended to help represent AMFORA as a safe and homely place. Lighting technology is supposed to furnish the building complex with a vibrant atmosphere: “In AMFORA another important condition for atmosphere has been met: Variation in lighting” (Jansma 2017, p. 4). Additional image projections are supposed to improve the users’ sense of direction, which is notoriously weak in dark settings. To this end, images of the aboveground area are to be projected underground. Portraits of Amsterdam bridges, for instance, which represent prominent landmarks of orientation, are to be displayed at the corresponding underground sites: “The orientation in this plan is simple: the streets of AMFORA follow the known canals. The existing bridges form points of reference, in combination with […] projection of aboveground images” (Jansma 2017, p. 4). As a strategy of “making homely”, the idea of using projection technology to transfer images from above surface to the underground is of particular interest. Strictly speaking, it leads to a peculiar duplication of the city aboveground which can, in turn, be discussed with regard to the motives of the “double”, of splitting and the doppelgänger. In his fundamental essay on the uncanny previously mentioned, “the factor of the repetition of the same thing […]” is named by Freud “as a source of uncanny feeling” (Freud 1955, p. 235). Freud refers to the Austrian psychoanalyst Otto Rank, according to whom doubling originally guaranteed immortality in the face of death, serving “as insurance against the destruction of the ego” (Freud 1955, p. 234). In “the later stages of the ego’s development”, however, “the ‘double’ reverses its aspect”: “from having been an assurance of immortality, it becomes the uncanny harbinger of death” (Freud 1955, p. 234). From this perspective, the doubling of the aboveground environment by projecting it onto the underground does not only imply that the underground is “made homely”—it is simultaneously “made unhomely”.

5 The Uncanny (das Unheimliche) and the Homely (das Heimliche) As the discussion of the AMFORA documents illustrates, attempts to make the underground “homely” ultimately imply a denial of (the inhospitality of) the underground as a space void of air and light. It can be argued, however, that underground architecture can never be made entirely safe by means of technology, albeit state of the art. This is due first to the paradoxical nature of infrastructure which, as Luhmann (1993, p. 95) puts it, is invested with “the risk of a failure to function”. Second, this is due to a particular quality of the homely which can be deduced from the relationship maintained between the German word for

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“homely”, das Heimliche, and its antonym, das Unheimliche. The latter is the German word for “uncanny”, and for the sake of the argument, “unhomely” will be used instead of “uncanny” in the remainder of this paper. Deriving etymologically from “homelike” (das Heimische), the homely (das Heimliche) has a double meaning: on the one hand, it correlates with “domestic”, “intimate”, “friendly”, or “trusting” but, on the other hand, it can also equate to “secret”, “hidden”, or “concealed”. According to Friedrich Kluge’s Etymological Dictionary of the German Language, the unhomely unfolds its meaning out of the homely itself, “right from the beginning also to designate the hidden aspect of it: one who withdraws into his home hides from others, from strangers” (Kluge 1989, p. 301). The double meaning of the homely is also discussed by Freud (1955). The first part of his essay contains an extensive derivation of the homely including a history of the concept, cross-referencing inter alia the entries in the dictionaries of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm and Daniel Sanders. Freud states that “what interests us most […] is to find that among its different shades of meaning the word ‘heimlich’ exhibits one which is identical with its opposite, ‘unheimlich’” (Freud 1955, p. 223, original emphasis). Based on an observation by Schelling that, as Freud paraphrases, “everything is unheimlich that ought to have remained secret and hidden but has come to light” (Freud 1955, p. 224, original emphasis), Freud maintains: “Thus heimlich is a word the meaning of which develops in the direction of ambivalence, until it finally coincides with its opposite, unheimlich. Unheimlich is in some way or other a sub-species of heimlich” (Freud 1955, p. 225, original emphasis). Following on from Freud, Roger Hofmann and Burkhardt Lindner (1995, p. 36) note that “the unhomely can be traced back to the homely because the unhomely nests inside the homely.” It is this twofold structure of the unhomely to which Lacan refers to when he theorizes anxiety with the help of the unhomely. In a clarification of Freud’s statement that the unhomely “tends to coincide with what excites fear in general” (Freud 1955, p. 188), Lacan regards anxiety in conjunction with the ambiguity of homely and unhomely: as the unhomely is nothing new or foreign but rather something familiar, something that ought to have remained hidden and has come to light, so anxiety “is when […] something appears that was already there, much closer to the house, the Heim: the host” (Lacan 1962 quoted in Vidler 1992, p. 224, original emphasis). In this sentence, the host stands for something that “belongs to” and “is foreign” at the same time; it stands for the “self disguised as foreign and fictitious” (Därmann 1995, p. 88); for “the self made homely [originally: verheimlicht] in its intolerableness and insupportableness peculiar to the self” (Därmann 1995, p. 88).

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The close relationship that exists between the unhomely and the homely finally elucidates why the unhomely has been discussed as a central attribute of the poststructural subject. The “unconcept” (Masschelein 2011) of the unhomely epitomizes the state of instability and alienation, of inconsistency and incompletion, which has been ascribed to the subject by authors such as Derrida, Althusser, Foucault, and not least Lacan (refer to Lossau 2002, pp. 33–59). In addition, the close relationship explains why the unhomely has found resonance primarily in the context of poststructural architecture: the concept aims at designating the “outer” rather than the “inner”, addressing to a certain extent the ecology of the subject. A house/home of danger and uncertainty represents the fragile shell of a subject that is “fortified and surrounded by garbage dumps” (Vidler 1992, p. 224) and is placed in what Victor Burgin (1990) refers to as “paranoiac space”.

6 AMFORA/Amphora Carving out the paradoxes of underground urban infrastructure, this paper has attempted to bridge the gap between infrastructure studies and Contradiction Studies. Infrastructure studies, it has been argued, are faced with a subject of study that is thoroughly contradictory in that it only becomes “visible upon breakdown” (Star 1999, p. 382). The basic paradox of visibility/invisibility is both doubled and bedeviled in the case of underground infrastructure which, despite “lying low” in geographical terms, bars itself from being placed “underneath”. As illustrated by the example of AMFORA, it is precisely the unhomeliness of underground infrastructure that prevents the latter from being taken for granted and rendered ­invisible. What can be learned, then, from an exploration of the unhomely in the context of Contradiction Studies? First, the “unconcept” (Masschelein 2011) of the unhomely fruitfully contributes to a theorization of contradictions which aims at challenging simplistic conceptualizations of the contradictive. Confronting us with “a secret of the self” (Därmann 1995, p. 88) and “an oppressive revitalisation of the repressed” (Linder 1995, p. 43), the unhomely addresses the multiplicity of inconsistencies in what David Berliner (2017, p. 45) calls our “oxymoronic selves”. Recognizing the significance of the unconscious, of affect and emotions, in personal and social life not only provides insight into manifold intra- and interpersonal oppositions but also leads to a better understanding of why “we do not say what we mean and we say what we don’t mean” (Sioh 2015, p. 391).

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Second, and related to the first point, the unhomely opens up “spaces of dissension” (Foucault 1972, p. 152; original emphasis) which are symbolic and material at the same time. Applying the viewpoints of poststructuralist architecture dealt with in this paper to our everyday built environment, it can be argued that the very materiality of this environment unsettles us inasmuch as it is equally homely and unhomely, visible and invisible, present and absent, familiar and foreign, known and unknown. As a matter of fact, anxiety can occur in both aboveground and underground built structures. When it is experienced underground, however, it is strengthened further by feelings of the inescapable which correspond to the ties by which the contradictions of both homely and unhomely, both visible and invisible, both present and absent, both familiar and foreign, both known and unknown are held together. Against such a background, the name given to the “city under the city” by its designers can be argued to imply an indelible Freudian slip. The feeling of anxiety that lurks in AMFORA is not only intensified by the imagery of the amphora. By this imagery, it is also designated in its origin. As a bulged vessel, an amphora is considerably narrower at its neck than at its middle part. People who are unsettled by the idea of being situated underground will be unsettled all the more by the idea of being situated in an amphora that is embedded underground—they could be trapped in the amphora and be buried alive, so to speak. Regarding the idea of being buried alive, Freud asserts: To some people the idea of being buried alive by mistake is the most uncanny thing of all. And yet psychoanalysis has taught us that this terrifying phantasy is only a transformation of another phantasy which had originally nothing terrifying about it at all […]—the phantasy, I mean, of intra-uterine existence. (Freud 1955, p. 243)

With this in mind, it can be assumed that the engineers and architects of AMFORA—in spite of their trust in technical feasibility—are aware of the anxiety and repressed longings which are connected with spending time underground. Although this awareness was actually intended to stay hidden, it has come to light in the name AMFORA, which in itself carries traits of the unhomely. Acknowledgements  I would like to thank Arno Heitland for his input in the discussion of the urban underground. Arno Heitland completed his geography studies at the Humboldt University of Berlin in 2009. Drawing upon AMFORA as a case study, his thesis dealt with sustainability strategies in underground urban development.

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Julia Lossau  is Professor of Human Geography at the University of Bremen. The focus of her research is on cultural theory, urban studies, postcolonial theory, and aesthetics. She is Editor of Flitner, Michael, Lossau, Julia, and Anna-Lisa Müller. 2017. Infrastrukturen der Stadt. Wiesbaden: Springer and of Lossau, Julia, and Quentin Stevens. 2015. The Uses of Art in Public Space. New York: Routledge, with Quentin Stevens) and of Lossau, Julia, Freytag, Tim, and Lippuner, Roland. 2014. Schlüsselbegriffe der Kultur- und Sozialgeographie. Stuttgart: Ulmer UTB.

Index

A Aeneas, 24, 28 Alexander the Great, 24 Antinomy, 116, 152 Anxiety, 72, 102, 245, 246, 250, 252 Architecture, 74, 222, 244, 246, 249, 251, 252 Aristotelian logic, 152, 154, 155, 157, 160 Authenticity, 41, 42, 49–51, 53, 54, 56, 62, 142 Authorship, 13, 41–44, 47–51, 57–59, 62 Autonomy, 14, 50, 158–160, 162, 164–166, 170–181, 183–186

C Categorical imperative, 170, 176, 178 Central Asia, 14, 194, 199–201, 203, 205, 206, 209 City, 14, 26, 28, 132, 216–231, 237, 239, 240, 243, 244, 246, 247, 249, 252 Common European Framework of Languages, 172 Conceptual properties, 78, 80 Conduct of conduct, 182, 184 Conflict, 28, 62, 102, 106, 107, 135, 137, 138, 143, 144, 227, 229, 247 Consecration, 59

Constructivism, 7 Contradiction, 2, 4–14, 20, 21, 26, 27, 30, 31, 33, 34, 47, 49, 51, 52, 54, 55, 57, 62, 71–74, 76, 77, 79–89, 92, 100, 101, 107, 116, 123, 141, 142, 145, 152–163, 166, 167, 180, 181, 216, 226, 228, 229, 231, 238, 244, 251 studies, 12, 34, 41, 50, 63, 68, 73, 74, 76, 77, 81, 91, 92 Courtly romance, 30, 31 Creative city, 216–218, 220–227, 230–232 class, 216, 217, 221, 222, 224, 227, 229 Creativity, 14, 57, 116, 124, 216–218, 220, 221, 224–232 Cultural learning, 118, 121–123

D Death, 2, 30, 71, 107, 239, 243, 249 Design, 118–123, 134, 173, 216, 217, 219–222, 225, 227, 229–232, 240, 246–248 Difference, 2, 152–157, 196, 200, 208, 217, 229, 230 Disambiguation, 63 Discourse Linguistics, 77, 85, 92 Domination, 158–160, 164–167

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258 E Economic action, 101, 102 development, 221–223, 225 Educational paradox, 180, 181 Emotional embeddedness, 100, 103, 106, 108 Empirical studies, 225, 226 Entrepreneur, 52, 185

F False front, 86, 87, 89, 91 Family business, 13, 101, 103–107

G Ghostwriting, 13, 41–51, 53, 54, 56, 58–60, 62, 63 Governance, 3, 14, 104–107, 180–184, 194, 195, 200, 205, 208, 209 Governmentality, 14, 181–186 Grammar, 11, 68

H Heroic epic, 22, 23 Heteronomy, 164, 165, 178–180, 185, 186 Homely, 237, 239, 247, 248–252 Housing, 221–223, 225 Hybridity, 118, 144

I Identity, 5, 83, 86, 130, 131, 133, 143, 144, 203 Improvisation, 104, 105 Inauthenticity, 41 Inconsistency, 10, 20, 24, 26, 28, 32, 34, 79, 83, 84, 87, 89, 91, 117, 176, 185, 186, 251 Individual, 3, 8, 12, 44, 50, 52, 58, 75, 77, 105, 106, 115–118, 120, 121, 123, 132, 134, 141, 143, 144, 155, 157–163, 165, 166, 170–179, 181,

Index 184, 185, 195, 207, 210, 219, 225, 226, 244, 246, 248 Infrastructure, 14, 197, 222, 224, 225, 229, 238–240, 242, 243, 246, 248, 249, 251 Instrumental logic of action, 101, 103 Interaction, 100, 101, 103, 106, 119–121, 135, 200, 205, 206, 247 Interreligious dialogue, 130, 131, 133, 143

K Kazakhstan, 194, 199, 201–204, 207, 209, 210

L Language education, 171–175, 180 Learner autonomy, 171–178, 180 Learning, 30, 114–124, 171–180, 184, 185 Leisure, 219, 221–223, 225, 229, 240, 246 Liar paradox, 152, 154–156, 158, 161–167 Liberation, 144, 158, 159, 164–167 Lifelong learning, 14, 171, 174, 175, 180, 181, 183–185 Literature, 2, 20, 21, 24, 27–30, 41, 42, 47, 63, 101, 206, 240, 244, 245

M Mediation, 157–161, 163–167 Memoir, 40, 42, 43, 54–56, 59, 63 Methodology, 74, 76–78, 141, 173 Methods, 108, 115, 118, 120, 139, 142, 172, 173, 178, 232

N Negation, 9, 84, 163, 164, 167 Negative dialectical approach, 156, 157, 159–161, 165–167 Negotiation, 118–121, 123, 124, 130, 199, 200, 202, 204–207, 210 Nibelungenlied, 22, 23 Non-religion, 130 Normativity, 7

Index O Opposition, 6, 152, 153, 155–157, 160, 162, 241 Ownership transition, 13, 100–108

P Paradox, 6, 52, 57, 87, 152, 154, 155, 161, 163, 165–167, 170, 178, 195, 238, 239, 241, 251 Planning, 131, 216–224, 226–232, 242 paradigm, 227–229 strategy, 217–224, 226, 228, 230, 231 Politics, 3, 135, 139, 179, 205 Positioning, 69, 73, 74, 81, 87, 92, 205 Postindustrial, 222, 229, 230 Power, 5, 6, 8, 12, 14, 41, 56–59, 61–63, 68, 70, 82, 84, 85, 102, 130, 143, 144, 152, 158, 164, 167, 182, 183, 185, 195, 196, 200, 202, 205–207, 209, 237, 240, 242 structures, 143, 144 Pragmatics, 87 Principles, 2, 23, 68, 73, 74, 104, 107, 117, 120, 141, 153, 178, 219, 226

R Rabenschlacht, 23 Religion, 13, 128–134, 137, 138, 140–144 Religious studies, 12, 13, 128, 130

259 S Saga, 22, 23 Salafism, 130, 138, 143 Scaffolding, 120–122 Self-access learning, 171, 177, 179 Self-reference, 163, 164, 167 Situational adaptation, 104, 105 Society, 4, 5, 71, 75, 128–130, 134, 135, 138–144, 152, 155–167, 175, 176, 185, 196, 200, 205, 206, 208, 218–220, 241–243, 248 Strict antinomy, 151, 152, 154–156, 160, 161, 163, 165–167 Succession, 101, 102, 107

T Technology, 177, 218, 222, 224, 227–229, 241, 242, 247–249 Tradition, 21–26, 28, 30, 124, 130, 165, 242, 247 Travel of ideas, 221 Troy, 24, 26–28 Trumpism, 40, 55

U Uncanny, 14, 239, 244–246, 248–250, 252 Uncertainty, 33, 71, 106, 115, 116, 123, 137, 195, 229, 251 Underground, 14, 239, 243, 244, 246–249, 251, 252 Unhomely, 237, 239, 243, 244, 249–252 Uzbekistan, 194, 197, 201, 205, 210