Wilhelm Dilthey (19 November 1833 to 01 October 1911)

Every so often a term from philosophy — and by “philosophy” in this context I mean the kind of philosophy that is generally not read by the wider public, and which is therefore sometimes called “technical” or “professional” — finds its way into the wild, as it were, and begins to appear in non-philosophical contexts. This happened with Thomas Kuhn’s use of “paradigm shift” and with Derrida’s use of “deconstruction.” To a lesser extent, it is also true of “phenomenology” since Husserl’s use of the term. Another philosophical term that has come into general currency is “lived experience.” (There are also variations on the theme of “lived experience,” such as “felt experience,” which I found in Barry Mazur’s 2008 paper “Mathematical Platonism and its Opposites,” in which the author refers to, “…the passionate felt experience that makes it so wonderful to think mathematics.”) Recently I saw “lived experience” used in the title of a non-philosophical book, Nubia in the New Kingdom: Lived Experience, Pharaonic Control and Indigenous Traditions, edited by N. Spencer, A. Stevens, and M. Binder. A description of the book on the publishers website says that the approach of the volume provides, “…a more nuanced understanding of what it was like to live in colonial Kush during the later second millennium BC.”

This, I think, is the takeaway of “lived experience” for non-philosophers — that of “what it was like to live” in some particular social or historical context. One could easily imagine, “what it was really like to live” becoming a slogan on a par with Leopold von Ranke’s, “to show what actually happened” (“wie es eigentlich gewesen”). Both could be taken as historiographical principles, and indeed the two might be taken to imply each other: arguably, one can’t know what it was like to live without knowing what actually happened, and, again arguably, one can’t show what actually happened without knowing what it was like to live. Actually, I think that the two are distinguishable, but I only wanted to make the point of how closely related these ideas are.

I believe, though I cannot say for sure, that the philosophical use of “lived experience” originates in the work of Wilhelm Dilthey. If Dilthey did not originate the philosophical use of “lived experience,” he did write extensively about it earlier than most other philosophers who took up the term. (If anyone knows otherwise, please set me straight.) Since I am planning on making use of the idea of lived experience, I have been reading Dilthey recently, especially his Selected Works, Volume III: The Formation of the Historical World in the Human Sciences (which corresponds to the German language Gesammelte Schriften, Volume 7: Der Aufbau der geschichtlichen Welt in den Geisteswissenschaften), which has a lot of material on lived experience.

Dilthey is not an easy author to read. I have heard it said many times that Husserl is a difficult author, but I find translations of Husserl to be much easier going than translations of Dilthey. Dilthey and Husserl knew each other, read each others’ works, and they corresponded. Dilthey’s exposition of lived experience contains numerous references to Husserl’s Logical Investigations (Husserl’s systematic works on phenomenology mostly appeared after Dilthey passed away, so it was only the Logical Investigations to which Dilthey had access). Most interestingly to me, Husserl wrote a semi-polemical article, “Philosophy as Rigorous Science,” in which Husserl discussed Dilthey in the section “Historicism and Weltanschauung Philosophy.” Dilthey did not agree with the characterization of his work by Husserl. It was Husserl’s article that was the occasion of their correspondence (translated in Husserl: Shorter Works), and it is a lesson in the unity German philosophy to read this exchange of letters. In their correspondence, Dilthey and Husserl were easily able to find common ground in a language rooted in 19th century German idealist philosophy.

While the apparent ground of their common outlook was expressed in the peculiar idiom of German philosophy, both were also reacting against that tradition. Both Dilthey and Husserl were centrally concerned with the experience of time. Husserl’s manuscripts on time consciousness run to hundreds of pages (cf. On the Phenomenology of the Consciousness of Internal Time (1893–1917)). Of Husserl’s efforts Dilthey wrote, “A true Plato, who first of all fixes in concept the things that become and flow, then puts beside the concept of the fixed a concept of flowing.” (cited by Quentin Lauer in The Triumph of Subjectivity from Dilthey, Gesammelte Schriften, Vol. V, p. cxii) Dilthey’s own exposition of time consciousness can be found in Vol. III of the selected works in English, Drafts for a Critique of Historical Reason, section 2, “Reflexive Awareness, Reality: Time” (pp. 214-218), where it is integral with his exposition of lived experience.

Of time and lived experience Dilthey wrote:

“Temporality is contained in life as its first categorical determination and the one that is fundamental for all others… Thus the lived experience of time determines the content of our lives in all directions.”

Wilhem Dilthey, Selected Works, Volume III: The Formation of the Historical World in the Human Sciences, Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2002, pp. 214-215.

I suspect that Husserl would have agreed with this, as for Husserl time consciousness was the foundation of the constituting consciousness. Dilthey also writes:

“That which forms a unity of presence in the flow of time because it has a unitary meaning is the smallest unit definable as a lived experience.” And, “A lived experience is a temporal sequence in which every state is a flux before it can become a distinct object.” And, “The course of life consists of parts, of lived experiences that are inwardly connected with each other. Each lived experience relates to a self of which it is a part.”

Op. cit., pp. 216-217

Here I have plucked out a few representative quotes by Dilthey on lived experience; this may give a flavor of his exposition, but I certainly don’t maintain that this is a fair way of coming to grips with Dilthey’s conception of lived experience. The only way to do that is by the lived experience of reading the text through and deriving from it a unitary meaning. I will not attempt to do that in the present context, as I only wanted here to give the reader an impression of Dilthey’s writing on lived experience.

Dilthey, as I noted, is not an easy author. Both Dilthey’s and Husserl’s discussions of time consciousness and lived experience are opaque at best. I keep at Dilthey despite the difficulty because I want to understand his exposition of lived experience. However, as I keep at it I cannot help but think that part of the difficulty of the discussion is the absence of a scientific understanding of consciousness. As I have mentioned many times, we simply have no idea, at the present stage of the development of our scientific knowledge, what consciousness is. Trying to give a detailed description of time consciousness and lived experience without any scientific foundation is almost crippling. I believe that the effort is worthwhile, but it is as instructive in how it fails as it is instructive in how it less often succeeds.

In this frame of mind I recalled a passage from Foucault’s The Birth of the Clinic:

“Towards the middle of the eighteenth century, Pomme treated and cured a hysteric by making her take ‘baths, ten or twelve hours a day, for ten whole months.’ At the end of this treatment for the desiccation of the nervous system and the heat that sustained it, Pomme saw ‘membranous tissues like pieces of damp parchment … peel away with some slight discomfort, and these were passed daily with the urine; the right ureter also peeled away and came out whole in the same way.’ The same thing occurred with the intestines, which at another stage, ‘peeled off their internal tunics, which we saw emerge from the rectum. The oesophagus, the arterial trachea, and the tongue also peeled in due course; and the patient had rejected different pieces either by vomiting or by expectoration’.”

“…Pomme, lacking any perceptual base, speaks to us in the language of fantasy. But by what fundamental experience can we establish such an obvious difference below the level of our certainties, in that region from which they emerge? How can we be sure that an eighteenth-century doctor did not see what he saw, but that it needed several decades before the fantastic figures were dissipated to reveal, in the space they vacated, the shapes of things as they really are?”

Michel Foucault, The Birth of the Clinic, New York: Vintage, 1975, pp. ix-x; Foucault cites Pomme, Traite des affections vaporeuses des deux sexes (4th edn., Lyons, 1769, vol. I, pp. 60-5)

Because of the theory-ladenness of perception, when the theory is absent or unclear, perception has little to go on and it is confused and unclear. We cannot describe with precision unless we can conceptualize with precision. The eventual development of an adequate science of consciousness — which may ultimately involve a revision to the nature of science itself — will issue in concepts of sufficient precision that they can be the basis of precise observations, and precise observations can further contribute to the precisification of the concepts — a virtuous circle of expanding knowledge.

I would not insist upon the theory-ladenness of perception to the point of excluding the possibility of any knowledge without an adequate theory to guide perception. In this spirit I have already acknowledged that there is some value in Dilthey’s attempt to clarify the idea of lived experience. If theory and observation are mutually implicated, and eventually can accelerate in a virtuous circle of mutual clarification, then the first, tentative ideas and observations on lived experience can be understood analogously to the stone tools used by our earliest ancestors. These stone tools are rough and rudimentary by present standards of precision machine tools, but we had to start somewhere. So too with our conceptual tools: we have to start somewhere.

Dilthey’s approach to lived experience is one such starting point, and from this point of departure we can revise, amend, and extend Dilthey’s conception until it becomes a more useful tool for us. One way to do this is by way of what has been called the knowledge argument, also known as the Mary’s room thought experiment. I have earlier discussed the knowledge argument in Colonia del Sacramento and the Knowledge Argument and Computational Omniscience.

Here is the locus classicus of the thought experiment:

“Mary is a brilliant scientist who is, for whatever reason, forced to investigate the world from a black and white room via a black and white television monitor. She specializes in the neurophysiology of vision and acquires, let us suppose, all the physical information there is to obtain about what goes on when we see ripe tomatoes, or the sky, and use terms like ‘red,’ ‘blue,’ and so on. She discovers, for example, just which wavelength combinations from the sky stimulate the retina, and exactly how this produces via the central nervous system the contraction of the vocal cords and expulsion of air from the lungs that results in the uttering of the sentence ‘The sky is blue.’ […] What will happen when Mary is released from her black and white room or is given a color television monitor? Will she learn anything or not?”

Frank Jackson, “Epiphenomenal Qualia” (1982)

The historical parallel of the Mary’s room argument would be to ask, if Mary had exhaustively studied life in colonial Kush during the later second millennium BC, and then Mary was enabled to actually go back and live in colonial Kush during the later second millennium BC, would Mary learn anything by the latter method that she did not already know from the first method? If we answer that Mary learns nothing from living in Kush that she did not already know by exhaustively studying Kush, then we can assert the equivalence of what it was like to live and what actually happened. If, on the other hand, we answer that Mary does indeed learn something from living in Kush that she did not learn by exhaustively studying Kush, then we ought to deny the equivalence of what it was like to live and what actually happened.

While this exact thought experiment cannot be performed, there is a more mundane parallel that anyone can test: exhaustively educate yourself about somewhere you have never visited, and then go to see the place for yourself. Do you learn anything when you visit that you did not know from your prior exhaustive study? In other words, does the lived experience of the place add to the knowledge you had gained without lived experience?

While Dilthey does not use the term “ineffable,” many of his formulations of lived experience point to its ineffability and our inability to capture lived experience in any conceptual framework (as is implied by his criticism of Husserl, quoted above). If what one learns from what it was like to live is ineffable, then we could assert that, even when our conceptual framework was as adequate as we can make it, it is still inadequate and leaves out something of what what it was like to live, i.e., it leaves out the component of lived experience.

But, as I said, Dilthey himself does not use the term “ineffable” in this context, and he may have avoided it for the best scientific reasons. Our inability to formulate the distinctiveness of lived experience in contradistinction to that which can be learned apart from lived experience may be simply due to the inadequacy of our conceptual framework. When we have improved our conceptual framework, we may possess the concepts necessary to render that which now appears ineffable as something that can be accounted for in our conceptual framework. We must admit in all honesty, however, that we aren’t there yet in relation to lived experience. This is not a reason to avoid the concept of lived experience, but, on the contrary, it is a reason to work all the more diligently at clarifying the concept of lived experience. Employing simple distinctions like that between what it was like to live and what actually happened is one way to test the boundaries of the concept and so to better understand its relationships to other related concepts.

. . . . .

Pierre Pomme (1735 to 1812)

. . . . .


. . . . .

Grand Strategy Annex

. . . . .

project astrolabe logo smaller

. . . . .



Civilisation Clark

At the present time I hold a view of civilization that is quite broad, and which pushes civilization back to the origins of settled agrarianism. As I see it, all of the essential institutions come into place quite early, although they are present in a very rudimentary form. The first few thousand years of civilization, given this broad conception, consist of a painfully slow and incremental refinement of these rudimentary institutions until they become undeniably civilization, and we find fully developed literature, monumental architecture, elaborate social differentiation and organized religion, another other social institutions.


I did not always hold this broad conception of civilization, and I would say that it was a study of prehistory that was decisive in the evolution of my broad view of civilization. Yet I do not doubt or deny that there are many persons who know much more about prehistory than I do and who nevertheless deny to the efforts of prehistoric humanity the title of civilization. It was once customary (that is an unsatisfactory word in this context) to identify civilization with the historical period, and to identify the beginning of the historical period with the invention of written language. While written language did play an important role in the organization of civilization, it must be accounted a coincidence (or, at most, as loosely-coupled association) that fully developed civilizations of antiquity appeared at about the same time in the historical record as written language. I suppose that my own view, before I became critical of my own presuppositions, was to more or less identify civilization with the emergence of written history, so that I formerly accepted this historiographical convention.

Does civilization begin with written records?

Does civilization begin with written records?

In many of my posts on civilization I have referenced Kenneth Clark’s book and television series Civilisation: A Personal View, and in this work we can find hints of a very narrow conception of civilization, which stands out as all the more interesting to me as it contrasts so sharply with my own views at present. This narrow conception of civilization is most apparent in the discussion of England in Chapter 6, in the context of the Protestant Reformation. Early in the chapter Clark mentions in passing, “…the barbarous and disorderly state of England in the fifteenth century,” and later in the same chapter he wrote:

“I suppose it is debatable how far Elizabethan England can be called civilised. Certainly it does not provide a reproducible pattern of civilisation as does, for example, eighteenth century France. It was brutal, unscrupulous and disorderly.”

Kenneth Clark, Civilisation: A Personal View, New York et al.: Harper and Row, 1969, p. 163

Certainly any conception of civilization that would deny that Elizabethan England — for some, a high point of civilization — constitutes a civilization is a narrow conception indeed, but Clark immediately goes on to add a number of intangible considerations in the characterization of civilization:

“…if the first requisites of civilization are intellectual energy, freedom of mind, a sense of beauty and a craving for immortality, then the age of Marlowe and Spenser, of Dowland and Byrd, was a kind of civilisation.”


Here Clark concedes that Elizabethan England was a kind of civilization; in other words, there are distinct varieties of civilization, some of which we would unproblematically identify as civilization, and some marginal cases, like Elizabethan England, which might be plausibly interpreted as a civilization if we judge the period sympathetically. This is still a rather narrow conception.

An engraving by Hogarth, Midnight Modern Conversation, of which Clark said, “Plenty of animal spirits, but not what we could, by any stretch, call civilisation. ”

An engraving by Hogarth, Midnight Modern Conversation, of which Clark said, “Plenty of animal spirits, but not what we could, by any stretch, call civilisation. ”

I don’t have any interest in either defending or criticizing this particular judgment, but I am interested in the principles implicit in this judgment, as the contrast of narrow and broad conceptions of civilization may be considered comparative concepts in the study of civilzation, which can contribute to a more scientific understanding. Early in the book Clark disclaims any idea of civilization and offers no definition, but as his exposition develops a number of principles manifest themselves in the narrative. The example of eighteenth-century France comes up several times, so that we may conclude that, for Clark, this constituted a paradigm of civilization.

“La Lecture de Molière” Jean François de Troy, which Clark contrasted to the Hogarth, “ can't deny that the de Troy is a picture of civilised life.”

“La Lecture de Molière” Jean François de Troy, which Clark contrasted to the Hogarth, “…one can’t deny that the de Troy is a picture of civilised life.”

Strangely enough — strange because it seems like it comes out of an entirely distinct scholarly context, or, one might say, out of a different civilization — this seems also to have been the view of Michel Foucault, who frequently in his historical writings (by which I mean the earlier books thaat are narrowly focused case studies of madness, prisons, clinics, and the human sciences) uses the term “The Classical Age” (l’âge classique), which for Foucault seems to mean the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries — though Foucault no more offers a definition of l’âge classique than Clark offers a definition of civilization. For Foucault, l’âge classique constituted a particular épistème in the development of civilization, and one superseded by the emergence of the modern world.

Michel Foucault's Histoire de la folie à l'âge classique established the idea of a classical age without defining it.

Michel Foucault’s Histoire de la folie à l’âge classique established the idea of a classical age without defining it.

Though Clark and Foucault give us no definitions, Clark does offer the intriguing hint that eighteenth century France provides a pattern that can be reproduced, whereas Elizabethan England does not. This idea of a reproducible pattern of civilization I have called (again, drawing on references to Clark) the iterative conception of civilization, and I have contrasted the iterative conception to the heroic conception of civilization. If this contrast holds good in this context, then, if Elizabethan civilization, as Clark allows, is a kind of civilization, it is an heroic civilization. And certainly Shakespeare is an heroic figure in literature, a singular genius who transformed the language thus creating the conditions of a civilization of the word — another idea that Clark introduces, and contrasts to the civilization of the image, i.e., the civilization of medieval Catholicism.

Sir Christopher Michael Wren

Sir Christopher Michael Wren

By the end of Chapter 8, Clark specifically singles out England as an exemplar of civilization, a new paradigm, as it were, to set next to the salons of eighteenth century France, though this is the England of Christopher Wren rather than the England of Shakespeare. Of Wren’s Royal Naval hospital at Greenwich and its dining hall Clark wrote:

“…the result is the greatest architectural unit built in England since the Middle Ages. It is sober without being dull, massive without being oppressive. What is civilisation? A state of mind where it is thought desirable for a naval hospital to look like this and for the inmates to dine in a splendidly decorated hall.”

Kenneth Clark, Civilisation: A Personal View, New York et al.: Harper and Row, 1969, p. 215

While I don’t reject Clark’s characterization of civilization in this passage, I think it should be acknowledged that this is no less singular and no less idiosyncratic that the earlier England of Shakespeare. What Clark does not say, but which is implicit in his remarks, and in his overall point of view, is that there is an element of democratization involved in building a magnificent naval hospital where residents could dine in splendor. While this is not democracy as we have come to think of it more recently, in comparison to the extremes of poverty and luxury that marked the “civilization of the image” of medieval Christendom, this is in comparison enlightened and magnanimous to spend so lavishly for an institution intended for individuals who were in no sense the elite of agrarian-ecclesiastical civilization.

V0013271 Royal Naval Hospital, Greenwich, with houses either side, sh

Thus the idea of narrow and broad conceptions of civilization must itself be broadened to account for the possibility of a civilization that only accrues to the benefit of the most privileged members of society (a different conception of a narrow conception of civilization) and a civilization that accrues to peoples of a society across social classes and irrespective of privilege and hierarchy (a different conception of a broad conception of civilization). Earlier in his exposition of the Reformation Clark noted how Protestantism became an excuse for uneducated individuals to take out their fury on a higher culture in which they did not share. One might argue that this is a consequence of cultivating a narrow conception of civilization in which the benefits of civilization are not distributed widely.

The dining hall of which Clark wrote, often called The Painted Hall.

The dining hall of which Clark wrote, often called The Painted Hall.

Nearer to our own times, communism, like Protestantism before it, was often used as an excuse for the uneducated, lower strata of society to release its fury against a high culture in which it did not share. We have all heard the stories of the horrors of communism, and I would not wish to minimize them, having often written on the topic. On the other hand, there were moments in which the communist leaders grasped that it was an opportunity for them to demonstrate their concern for the masses in whose name they undertook the revolution by lavishing resources on the people that once would have gone into Tsars palaces. The most famous example of this is the Moscow Metro, the stations of which were designed as “people’s palaces,” which the working class could enjoy during their commute.

Moscow Metro station

Moscow Metro station

Of course, the idea of a broadly based civilization is distinct from the idea of a broadly conceived civilization, as the idea of a narrowly based civilization is distinct from the idea of a narrowly conceived civilization. Yet in the case of narrowness we can see that narrow conceptions foster narrow bases, and narrow bases foster narrow conceptions, so the two are not unrelated. Probably also a broadly based conception of civilization fosters a broadly conceived civilization, but this is not as intuitively striking as the coincidence of narrowness.

. . . . .


. . . . .

Grand Strategy Annex

. . . . .

project astrolabe logo smaller

. . . . .


Michel Foucault

Michel Foucault

Among the many theoretical innovations for which Michel Foucault is remembered is the idea of biopower. We can think of biopower as a reformulation of perennial Foucauldian themes of the exercise of power through institutions that do not explicitly present themselves as being about power. That is to say, the subjugation of populations is brought about not through the traditional institutions of state power, but by way of new institutions purposefully constituted for the reason of monitoring and administrating the unruly bodies of the individuals who collectively constitute the body politic.

Foucault introduced the idea of biopower in The History of Sexuality, Vol. 1, in the chapter, “Right of Death and Power over Life.” Like his predecessor in France, Descartes, Foucault writes in long sentences and long paragraphs, so that it is difficult to quote him accurately without quoting him at great length. His original exposition of biopower needs to be read in full in its context to appreciate it, but I will try to pick out a few manageable quotes to give a sense of Foucault’s exposition.

Here is something like a definition of biopower from Foucault:

“…a power that exerts a positive influence on life, that endeavors to administer, optimize, and multiply it, subjecting it to precise controls and comprehensive regulations.”

Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, Vol. 1, translated from the French by Robert Hurley, New York: Pantheon, 1978, p. 137

Later Foucault names specific institutions and practices implicated in the emergence of biopower:

“During the classical period, there was a rapid development of various disciplines — universities, secondary schools, barracks, workshops; there was also the emergence, in the field of political practices and economic observation, of the problems of birthrate, longevity, public health, housing, and migration. Hence there was an explosion of numerous and diverse techniques for achieving the subjugation of bodies and the control of populations, marking the beginning of an era of ‘biopower’.”

Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, Vol. 1, translated from the French by Robert Hurley, New York: Pantheon, 1978, p. 140

Prior to the above quotes, Foucault begins his exposition of biopower with an examination of the transition from the traditional “power of life and death” held by sovereigns, which Foucault says was in fact restricted to the power of death, i.e., the right of a sovereign to deprive subjects of their life, to a fundamental change in emphasis so that the “power of life and death” became the power of life, i.e., biopower. The shift from right of death to power over life is what marks the emergence of biopower. Foucault, however, explicitly acknowledged that,

“…wars were never as bloody as they have been since the nineteenth century, and all things being equal, never before did regimes visit such holocausts on their own populations.”

Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, Vol. 1, translated from the French by Robert Hurley, New York: Pantheon, 1978, pp. 136-137

This thanatogenous phenomenon is what Edith Wyschogrod called “The Death Event” (which I wrote about in Existential Risk and the Death Event), but if Foucault is right, it is not the Death Event that defines the social milieu of industrial-technological civilization, but rather a “Life Event” that we must postulate parallel to the Death Event.

What is the Life Event parallel to the Death Event? This is nothing other than the loss of belief in an otherworldly reward after death (which defined social institutions from the Axial Age to the Death of God, and which may be the source of the relation between agriculture and the macabre), and the response to this lost possibility of eternal bliss by the quest for health and felicity in this world and in this life.

A key idea in Foucault’s exposition of biopower hinges upon how the contemporary power over life that has replaced the arbitrary right of death on the part of the sovereign has been seamlessly integrated into state institutions, so that state institutions are the mechanism by which biopower is applied, enforced, expanded, and preserved over time. From this perspective, biopower becomes the unifying theme of Foucault’s series of earlier books on asylums for the insane, prisons for the criminal, and clinics for the diseased, all of which institutions had the character of the, “subjugation of bodies and the control of populations” through “precise controls and comprehensive regulations.” (At this point Foucault could have profited from the work of Erving Goffman, who identified a particular subset of “total institutions” that completely regulated the life of the individual.)

What we are seeing today is that the “success” of the imperative of biopower has resulted in longer and healthier lives among docile populations, who dutifully report to their mind-numbing labor of choice and rarely riot. To step outside the confines of acceptable social behavior is to find oneself committed to a total institution such as an asylum or a prison, so that that individual self-censors and self-restrains in order to preempt state action that would bring his behavior into conformity with the norm. With the imperative of biopower largely established and largely uncontested, the next frontier is the imperative of extending biopower to the mind, and rendering the population intellectually docile in the way that bodies have been regulated and rendered docile.

The extension of biopower to the life of the mind might be called psychopower. This extension presumably involves parallel regimes of psychic hygiene that will give the individual mind a longer, healthier life, as biopower has bequeathed a longer, heathier life to the body, but the healthy and hygienic mind is also a mind that has subjugated to precise controls and comprehensive regulation. Cognitive pathology here becomes a pretext for state intervention into the private consciousness of the individual.

The proliferating regimes of therapy, counseling, psychiatric services, so-called “social” services that today almost invariably have a psychiatric component, not to mention the bewildering range of psychotropic medications available to the public — and apparently prescribed as widely as they are known and available — are formulated with an eye to regimenting the intellectual life of the body politic. And this “eye” is none other than the medical gaze now trained upon the individual’s introspection.

The mechanism by which psychopower is obtained has, to date, been the same state institutions that have overseen biopower, but this is already changing. The emergence of biopower in the period of European history that Foucault called “The Classical Age” (“l’âge classique”) was a product of agricultural civilization (specifically, agrarian-ecclesiastical civilization) at its most mature and sophisticated stage of development, shortly before all that agrarian-ecclesiastical civilization had built in terms of social institutions would be swept away by the unprecedented social change resulting from the industrial revolution, which would eventually begin to converge upon a new civilizational paradigm, that of industrial-technological civilization.

Thus biopower at its inception was the ultimate regulation of a biocentric civilization. As civilization makes a transition from being biocentric to technocentric, new instrumentalities of power will be required to implement a regime of docility under radically changed socioeconomic conditions, i.e., technocentric socioeconomic conditions, and this will require technopower, which will take up where biopower leaves off. Biopower conceived after the manner of biocentric civilization, of which agrarian-ecclesiastical civilization is an expression, cannot answer to the regulatory needs of a technocentric civilization, which thus will require a regime of technopower.

Already this process has begun, though the transition from biocentric civilization is likely to be as slow and as gradual as the transition from hunter-gatherer nomadism to the discipline of settled civilization, in which the institutions of biopower first begin to assume their inchoate forms. What we are beginning to see is the transition from state power being embodied in and exercised through social institutions to state power being embodied in and exercised through technological infrastructure. Central to this development is the emergence of the universal surveillance state, in which the structures of power are identical to the structures of electronic surveillance.

The individual participates in social media for the presumptive opportunities for self-expression and self-development, which are believed to have many of the positive social effects that the regulation of docile bodies has had upon longevity and physical comfort. The structure of these networks, however, serves only to reinforce the distribution of power within society. The more alternatives we have for media, the more we hear only of celebrities (in what is coming to be called a “winner take all” economic model). At the same time that the masses are encouraged to occlude their identity through the iteration of celebrity culture that renders the individual invisible and powerless, the individual self is relentlessly marginalized. In Is the decontextualized photograph the privileged semiotic marker of our time? I argued that the proliferating “selfies” that populate social media, as a self-objectification of the self, are nothing but the “death of the self” prognosticated by post-modernists.

It is unlikely in the extreme that most or even many individuals have any kind of ideological commitment to the emerging universal surveillance state or to the death of the subject, but the technological institutions that are increasingly the mediators of all expression and commerce are becoming inescapable, and as they converge upon totality they will effect a reconstruction of society that will consolidate technopower in the hands of the systems administrators of the technocentric state. These structures are already being constituted, and the channeling of power through apparently benign networks will be the triumph of technopower as it replaces biopower.

. . . . .


. . . . .

Grand Strategy Annex

. . . . .


There is passage in Foucault, in the preface to the English language of The Order of Things, after the more famous passage about the “Chinese dictionary” in Borges, in which he discusses a pathological failure of taxonomy. The theme of Foucault’s book, restated compellingly in this preface, is taxonomy — taxonomy in its most general (and therefore its most philosophical) signification. Taxonomy is a problem.

It appears that certain aphasiacs, when shown various differently coloured skeins of wool on a table top, are consistently unable to arrange them into any coherent pattern; as though that simple rectangle were unable to serve in their case as a homogeneous and neutral space in which things could be placed so as to display at the same time the continuous order of their identities or differences as well as the semantic field of their denomination. Within this simple space in which things are normally arranged and given names, the aphasiac will create a multiplicity of tiny, fragmented regions in which nameless resemblances agglutinate things into unconnected islets; in one corner, they will place the lightest-coloured skeins, in another the red ones, somewhere else those that are softest in texture, in yet another place the longest, or those that have a tinge of purple or those that have been wound up into a ball. But no sooner have they been adumbrated than all these groupings dissolve again, for the field of identity that sustains them, however limited it may be, is still too wide not to be unstable; and so the sick mind continues to infinity, creating groups then dispersing them again, heaping up diverse similarities, destroying those that seem clearest, splitting up things that are identical, superimposing different criteria, frenziedly beginning all over again, becoming more and more disturbed, and teetering finally on the brink of anxiety.

THE ORDER OF THINGS: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences, MICHEL FOUCAULT, A translation of Les Mots et les choses, VINTAGE BOOKS, A Division of Random House, Inc., New York, Preface

Taxonomy is the intersection of words and things — and just this was the original title of Foucault’s book, i.e., words and things — and Foucault brilliantly illustrates both the possibilities and problems inherent in taxonomy. Foucault had an enduring concern for taxonomy, and, as is well known, named his chair at the Collège de France the “History of Systems of Thought” — as though he were seeking a master taxonomy of human knowledge.

Foucault found madness and mental illness in the inability of a test subject to systematically arrange skeins of wool, since each attempted scheme of classification breaks down when it overlaps within another system of classification pursued simultaneously. One suspects that if the task placed before Foucault’s aphasiac were limited in certain ways — perhaps in the number of colors of wool, or the number of categories that could be employed — the task might become practical once a sufficient number of constraints come into play. But the infinite universe investigated by contemporary science is the very antithesis of constraint. There is always more to investigate, and as the sciences themselves grow and fission, begetting new sciences, the task of bringing order to the sciences themselves (rather than to the empirical phenomena that the sciences seek to order) becomes progressively more difficult.

The taxonomy of the sciences is more problematic that usually recognized. Consider these possible categories of science, not all of which are current today:

● natural sciences It is still somewhat common to speak of the “natural sciences,” with our intuitive understanding of what is “natural” as sufficient to classify a given study as an investigation into “nature.” What, then, is not a natural science? At one time there was a strong distinction made between the natural sciences and the formal sciences (q.v.)

● formal sciences The phrase “formal sciences” is rarely used today, though it is still a useful idea, comprising at least mathematics and logic and (for those who know what it is) formal mereology. Today the formal sciences might also include computer science and information science, though I haven’t myself ever heard anyone refer to these sciences as formal sciences. Since the mathematization of the natural sciences beginning with the scientific revolution, the natural sciences have come more and more to approximate formal sciences, to the point that mathematical physics has, at times, only a tenuous relationship to experiments in physics, while it has a much more robust relationship with mathematics.

● moral sciences Philosopher J. R. Lucas has written of the moral sciences, “The University of Cambridge used to have a Faculty of Moral Sciences. It was originally set up in contrast to the Faculty of Natural Sciences, and was concerned with the mores of men rather than the phenomena of nature. But the humane disciplines were hived off to become separate subjects, and when the faculty was finally renamed the Faculty of Philosophy, philosophy was indeed the only subject studied.”

● earth sciences The earth sciences may be understood to be a subdivision of the natural sciences, and may be strongly distinguished from the space sciences, but the distinction between the earth sciences and the space sciences, as well as these two sciences themselves, is quite recent, dating to the advent of the Space Age in the middle of the twentieth century. While the idea behind the earth sciences is ancient, their explicit recognition as a special division within the sciences is recent. I suspect that the fact of seeing the earth from space, made possible by the technology of the space age, contributed greatly to understanding the earth as a unified object of investigation.

● space sciences The space sciences can be defined in contradistinction to the earth sciences, as though science had a need to recapitulate the distinction between the sublunary and the superlunary of Ptolemaic cosmology; however, I don’t think that this was the actual genesis of the idea of a category of space sciences. The emergence of the “Space Age” and its associated specialty technologies, and the sciences that produced these technologies, is the likely source, but the question becomes whether a haphazardly introduced concept roughly corresponding to a practical division of scientific labor constitutes a useful theoretical category.

● social sciences The social sciences would obviously include sociology and cultural anthropology, but would it include biological anthropology? History? Political science? Economics? The social sciences often come under assault for their methodology, which seems to be much less intrinsically quantitative than that of the natural sciences, but are not social communities as “natural” as biologically defined communities?

● human sciences In German there is a term — Geisteswissenschaften — that could be translated as the “spiritual sciences,” and which roughly corresponds to the traditional humanities, but it is not entirely clear whether the human sciences coincide perfectly either with Geisteswissenschaften or the humanities. Foucault’s The Order of Things, quoted above, is subtitled, “An Archaeology of the Human Sciences,” and the human sciences that Foucault examines in particular include philology and economics, inter alia.

● life sciences I assume that “life sciences” was formulated as a collective term for biological sciences, which would include studies like biogeography, which might also be called an instance of the earth sciences, or the natural sciences. But the life sciences would also include all of medicine, which gives us a taxonomy of the medical sciences, though it does not give us a clear demarcation between the life sciences and the natural sciences. Does medicine include all of psychiatry, or ought psychiatric inquiries to be thought of as belonging to the social sciences?

● historical sciences I have written about the historical sciences in several posts, since S. J. Gould often made the point that that historical sciences have a distinctive methodology. In Historical Sciences I argued that there is a sense in which all sciences can be considered historical sciences. Indeed, one of the distinctive aspects of the scientific revolution has been to force human beings to stop assuming the eternity and permanence of the world and to see the world and everything in it as having a natural history. If everything has a natural history, then all investigations are historical investigations and all sciences are historical sciences — but if this is true, then Gould’s claim that the historical sciences have a unique methodology collapses.

There are also, of course, informal distinctions such as that between the “hard” sciences and the “soft” sciences, which is sometimes taken to be the distinction between mathematicized sciences and non-mathematicized sciences, and so may correspond to the rough distinction between the natural sciences and the social sciences, except the that the social sciences are now dominated by statistical methods and can no longer be thought of a non-mathematicized. This leads to problems of classification such as whether economics, for example, is a natural science or a social science.

For each of the science categories above we could attempt either an extensional or an intensional definition, i.e., we could give a list of particular sciences that fall under the category in question, or we could attempt to define the meaning of the term, and the meaning would then govern what sciences are so identified. An extensional definition of the earth sciences might involve a list including geomorphology, biogeography, geology, oceanography, hydrology, climatology, and so forth. An intentional definition of the earth sciences might be something like, “those sciences that have as their object of study the planet earth, its subsystems, and its inhabitants.”

Today we employ the sciences to bring order to our world, but how do we bring order to the sciences? Ordering our scientific knowledge is problematic. It is complicated. It involves unanticipated difficulties that appear when we try to make any taxonomy for the sciences systematic. Each of the scientific categories above (as well as others that I did not include — my list makes no pretension of completeness) implies a principled distinction between the kind of sciences identified by the category and all other sciences, even if the principle by which the distinction is to be made is not entirely clear.

The implicit distinction between the earth sciences and the space sciences has a certain intuitive plausibility, and it is useful to a certain extent, though recently I have tried to point out in Eo-, Exo-, Astro- the importance of astrobiology as unifying terrestrial biology and exobiology in a truly Copernican framework. While the attempted task of a taxonomy of the sciences is important, the nature of the task itself suggests a certain compartmentalization, and too much thinking in terms of compartmentalization can distract us from seeing the larger synthesis. Concepts based on categorization that separates the sciences will be intrinsically different from extended conceptions that emerge from unification. An exclusive concern for the earth sciences, then, might have the subtle affect of reinforcing geocentric, Ptolemaic assumptions, though if we pause for a moment it will be obvious that the earth is a planet, and that the planetary sciences ought to include the earth, and the the planetary sciences might be construed as belonging to the space sciences.

The anxiety experience by Foucault’s aphasiac is likely to be experienced by anyone attempting a systematic taxonomy of the sciences, as here, any mind, whether sick or healthy, might continue to extrapolate distinctions to infinity and still not arrive at a satisfactory method for taking the measure of the sciences in way that contributes both to the clarity of the individual sciences and an understanding of how the various special sciences relate to each other.

On the one hand, perfect rigor of thought would seem to imply that all possible distinctions must be observed and respected, except that not all distinction can be made at the same time because some cut across each other, are mutually exclusive, order the world differently, and subdivide other categories and hierarchies in incompatible schemes. To use a Leibnizean term, not all distinctions are compossible.

To invoke Leibniz in this context is to suggest a Leibnizean approach to the resolution of the difficulty: a Leibnizean conception of conceptual rigor would appeal to the greatest number of distinctions that are compossible and yield a coherent body of knowledge.

A thorough-going taxonomic study of human bodies of knowledge would reveal a great many possible taxonomies, some with overlapping distinctions, but it is likely that there is an optimal arrangement of distinctions that would allow the greatest possible number of distinctions to be employed simultaneously while retaining the unity of knowledge. This would be a system of compossible taxonomy, which might have to reject a few distinctions but which makes use of the greater number of distinctions that are mutually possible within the framework of methodological naturalism as this defines the scientific enterprise.

There are not merely academic considerations. The place of science within industrial-technological civilization means that our conception of science is integral with our conception of civilization; thus to make a systematic taxonomy of the sciences is to make a systematic taxonomy of a civilization that is based upon science. Such conception categories extrapolated from science to civilization will have consequences for human self-understanding and human interaction, which latter does not always take the form of “cultural exchanges” (in the saccharine terminology if international relations). Industrial-technological civilization is in coevolution with industrial-technological warfare, so that a taxonomy of science is also a taxonomy of scientific warfare. Our conception of science will ultimately influence how we kill each other, and how we seek peace in order to stop killing each other.

One of the most distinctive forms of propaganda and social engineering of our time is the creation from whole cloth of artificial and fraudulent sciences. Since science is the condition of legitimacy in industrial-technological civilization, social movements seeking legitimacy seek scientific justification for their moral positions, but the more that science is seen as a means to an end, where the end is stipulated in advance, then science as a process must be compromised because any science that does not tend to the desired socio-political end will be subject to socio-political disapproval or dismissal. While there is a limit to this, the limits are more tolerant than we might suppose: large, complex societies with large and diverse economies can sustain non-survival behavior for a significant period of time — perhaps enough time to conceal the failure of the model employed until it is too late to save the society that has become a victim of its own illusion.

. . . . .


. . . . .

Grand Strategy Annex

. . . . .


Jane Goodall

One of the greatest contributions to science in the twentieth century was Jane Goodall’s study of chimpanzees in the wild at Gombe, Tanzania. Although Goodall’s work represents a major advance in ethology, it did not come without criticism. Here is how Adrian G. Weiss described some of this criticism:

Jane received her Ph.D. from Cambridge University in 1965. She is one of only eight other people to earn a Ph.D. without a bachelor’s (Montgomery 1991). Her adviser, Robert Hinde, said her methods were not professional, and that she was doing her research wrong. Jane’s major mistake was naming her “subjects”. The animals should be given numbers. Jane also used descriptive, narrative writing in her observations and calculations. She anthropomorphized her animals. Her colleagues and classmates thought she was “doing all wrong”. Robert Hinde did approve her thesis, even though she returned with all of his corrections with the original names and anthropomorphizing.

Most innovative science breaks the established rules of the time. If the innovative science is eventually accepted, it eventually also becomes the basis of a new orthodoxy. Given time, that orthodoxy will be displaced as well, as more innovative work demonstrates new ways of acquiring knowledge. As the old orthodoxy passes out of fashion it often falls either into neglect or may become the target of criticism as vicious as that directed at new and innovative research.

“A real science recognizes and accepts its own history without feeling attacked.” Michel Foucault

I have to imagine that it was this latter phenomenon of formerly accepted scientific discourses falling out of favor and becoming the target of ridicule that inspired one of Foucault’s most famous quotes (which I have cited previously on numerous occasions): “A real science recognizes and accepts its own history without feeling attacked.” Here is the same quote with more context:

Each of my works is a part of my own biography. For one or another reason I had the occasion to feel and live those things. To take a simple example, I used to work in a psychiatric hospital in the 1950s. After having studied philosophy, I wanted to see what madness was: I had been mad enough to study reason; I was reasonable enough to study madness. I was free to move from the patients to the attendants, for I had no precise role. It was the time of the blooming of neurosurgery, the beginning of psychopharmacology, the reign of the traditional institution. At first I accepted things as necessary, but then after three months (I am slow-minded!), I asked, “What is the necessity of these things?” After three years I left the job and went to Sweden in great personal discomfort and started to write a history of these practices. Madness and Civilization was intended to be a first volume. I like to write first volumes, and I hate to write second ones. It was perceived as a psychiatricide, but it was a description from history. You know the difference between a real science and a pseudoscience? A real science recognizes and accepts its own history without feeling attacked. When you tell a psychiatrist his mental institution came from the lazar house, he becomes infuriated.

Truth, Power, Self: An Interview with Michel Foucault — October 25th, 1982, Martin, L. H. et al (1988) Technologies of the Self: A Seminar with Michel Foucault, London: Tavistock. pp.9-15

It remains true that many representatives of even the most sophisticated contemporary sciences react as though attacked when reminded of their discipline’s history. This is true not least because much of science has an unsavory history — at least, by contemporary standards, a lot of scientific history is unsavory, and this gives us reason to believe that many of our efforts today will, in the fullness of time, be consigned to the unsavory inquiries of the past which carry with them norms, evaluations, and assumptions that are no longer considered to be acceptable in polite society. This is, of course, deeply ironic (I could say hypocritical if I wanted to be tendentious) since the standard of acceptability in polite society is one of the most stultifying norms imaginable.

I'm not sure that acceptability in polite society is the best standard for rigorous science.

It has long been debated within academia whether history is a science, or an art, or perhaps even a sui generis literary genre with a peculiar respect for evidence. There is no consensus on this question, and I suspect it will continue to be debated so long as the Western intellectual tradition persists. History, at least, is a recognized discipline. I know of no recognized discipline of the study of civilizations, which in part is why I recently wrote The Future Science of Civilizations.

There is, at present, no science of civilization, though there are many scientists who have written about civilization. I don’t know if there are any university departments on “Civilization Studies,” but if there aren’t, there should be. We can at least say that there is an established literary genre, partly scientific, that is concerned with the problems of civilization (including figures as diverse as Toynbee and Jared Diamond). Even among philosophers, who have a great love of writing, “The philosophy of x,” there are very few works on “the philosophy of civilization” — some, yes, but not many — and, I suspect, few if any departments devoted to the philosophy of civilization. This is a regrettable ellipsis.

When, in the future, we do have a science of civilization, and perhaps also a philosophy of civilization (or, at very least, a philosophy of the science of civilization), this science will have to come to terms with its past as every science has had to (or eventually will have to). The prehistory of the science of civilization is already fairly well established, and there are several known classics of the genre. Many of these classics of the study of civilization are as thoroughly unsavory by contemporary standards as one could possibly hope. The history of pronouncements on civilization is filled with short-sighted, baldly prejudiced, privileged, ethnocentric, and thoroughly anthropocentric formulations. For all that, they still may have something of value to offer.

A technological typology of human societies that is no longer in favor is the tripartite distinction between savagery, barbarism, and civilization. This belongs to the prehistory of the prehistory of civilization, since it establishes the natural history of civilization and its antecedents.

Edward Burnett Tylor proposed that human cultures developed through three basic stages consisting of savagery, barbarism, and civilization. The leading proponent of this savagery-barbarism-civilization scale came to be Lewis Henry Morgan, who gave a detailed exposition of it in his 1877 book Ancient Society (the entire book is conveniently available online for your reading pleasure). A quick sketch of the typology can be found at ANTHROPOLOGICAL THEORIES: Cross-Cultural Analysis.

One of the interesting features of Morgan’s elaboration of Tylor’s idea is his concern to define his stages in terms of technology. From the “lower status of savagery” with its initial use of fire, through a middle stage at which the bow and arrow is introduced, to the “upper status of savagery” which includes pottery, each stage of human development is marked by a definite technological achievement. Similarly with barbarism, which moves through the domestication of animals, irrigation, metal working, and a phonetic alphabet. This breakdown is, in its own way, more detailed than many contemporary decompositions of human social development, as well as being admirably tied to material culture and therefore amenable to confirmation and disconfirmation through archaeological research.

Today, of course, we are much too sophisticated to use terms like “savagery” or “barbarism.” These terms are now held in ill repute, as they are thought to suggest strongly negative evaluations. A friend of mine who studied anthropology told me that the word “primitive” is now referred to as “the P-word” within the discipline, so unacceptable has it become. To call a people (even an historical people now extinct) “savage” is similarly considered beyond the pale. We don’t call people “savage” or “primitive” any more. But the dangers of these terminological obsessions are that we get hung up on the terms and no longer consider theories on their theoretical merits. Jane Goodall’s theoretical work was eventually accepted despite her use of proper names in ethology, and now it is not at all uncommon for researchers to name their subjects that belong to other species.

Some theoreticians, moreover, have come to recognize that there are certain things that can be learned through sympathizing with one’s subject that simply cannot be learned in any other way (score one posthumously for Bergson’s conception of “intellectual sympathy”). Of course, science need not limit itself to a single paradigm of valid research. We can have a “big tent” of science with ample room for many methodologies, and hopefully also with plenty of room for disagreements.

It would be an interesting exercise to take a “dated” work like Lewis Henry Morgan’s book Ancient Society, leave the theoretical content intact, and change only the names. In fact, we could formalize Morgan’s gradations, using numbers instead of names just as Jane Goodall was urged to do. I suspect that Morgan’s work would be treated rather better in this case in comparison to the contemporary reception of its original terminology. We ought to ask ourselves why this is the case. Perhaps it is too much to hope for a “big tent” of science so capacious that it could hold Lewis Henry Morgan’s terminology alongside that of contemporary anthropology, but we have arrived at a big tent of science large enough to hold Jane Goodall’s proper names alongside tagged and numbered specimens.

. . . . .


. . . . .

Grand Strategy Annex

. . . . .


In a world as technologically complex and sophisticated as ours, the political uses of science are legion. Science both gives us technology and analyzes how these technologies function. Technology is, in a sense, older than science, since technology pre-dates the emergence of civilization itself, a fortiori also the emergence of science in its modern form. Moreover, a rudimentary technology existed side-by-side with non-scientific civilizations for thousands of years.

What is different now is that the conscious application of science to technical problems was one of the factors that made the Industrial Revolution what it was, and continues to make the Industrial Revolution a reality in our ever-changing daily lives. We have come to expect rapid technological and scientific change, and to expect that as we grow older we become progressively more out of date. Whereas before the Industrial Revolution patterns of life had been relatively stable since the Neolithic Agricultural Revolution, now it is often said that change is the only constant.

I haven’t yet thought systematically about the political uses and abuses of science, but what follows is a sort of first impression, an off-the-cuff account of how the ideals of scientific objectivity become prey to human, all-too-human interests in a scientific society.

Feudal Science

Feudal science is science pursued in the interests of established power structures. This is nothing other than the science favored by the powers that be and the economic and military infrastructure that supports them and which gives them their raison d’être. In other words, feudal science is the ideological infrastructure of quasi-feudal, ossified societies, and as such is a species of ideological science (see below), but it deserves special mention because of its relation to power structures.

Foucault’s illustrious career was more of less devoted to exposing feudal science in its many forms in psychiatry, penology, natural science, political economy, and a variety of fields. Though Foucault disdained to identify himself with any intellectual “movement” (and for good reason, presumably similar reasons to those of Sartre in warning intellectuals of allowing themselves to become an institution), his focus on history is redolent of the Annales historians with their concern for the longue durée. The virtue of Foucault’s approach is to see science in the context of the longue durée, and this is fatal to any effort to set up any society and its institutions as permanent and unchanging, which is a typical feature of feudalism.

Here is Foucault’s formulation from a well-known interview:

Each of my works is a part of my own biography. For one or another reason I had the occasion to feel and live those things. To take a simple example, I used to work in a psychiatric hospital in the 1950s. After having studied philosophy, I wanted to see what madness was: I had been mad enough to study reason; I was reasonable enough to study madness. I was free to move from the patients to the attendants, for I had no precise role. It was the time of the blooming of neurosurgery, the beginning of psychopharmacology, the reign of the traditional institution. At first I accepted things as necessary, but then after three months (I am slow-minded!), I asked, “What is the necessity of these things?” After three years I left the job and went to Sweden in great personal discomfort and started to write a history of these practices. Madness and Civilization was intended to be a first volume. I like to write first volumes, and I hate to write second ones. It was perceived as a psychiatricide, but it was a description from history. You know the difference between a real science and a pseudoscience? A real science recognizes and accepts its own history without feeling attacked. When you tell a psychiatrist his mental institution came from the lazar house, he becomes infuriated.

Truth, Power, Self: An Interview with Michel Foucault — October 25th, 1982, Martin, L. H. et al (1988) Technologies of the Self: A Seminar with Michel Foucault, London: Tavistock. pp.9-15

If “a real science recognizes and accepts its own history without feeling attacked,” then a feudal science either denies that history or constructs a fictitious history that gives no reason for even the most reactionary elements within a scientific institution to feel attacked.

Baroque Science

In his idiosyncratic Dictionary of Philosophy, Mario Bunge defines baroque philosophy as, “Rhetorical (empty and convoluted) form of philosophizing that specializes in miniproblems and pseudoproblems.” This definition can be applied, mutatis mutandis, to what we may call baroque science. Baroque science focuses its effort, intensified by its very narrowness, upon the miniproblems and pseudoproblems of science. The conceptual miniaturist, if he has no ambitions for anything greater, can find endless fascination in the smallest possible objects of the scientific interest. As this fascination builds momentum with its focus refined to a pinpoint, this method contains itself as it comes to see scientific problem as the smaller the better.

It should be immediately obvious that baroque science is nothing but a subspecies of feudal science; baroque science is feudal science at its most precious and self-conscious. Taking Bunge’s architectural metaphor further, it might even be better to call it rococo science, and to reserve the term “baroque science” for what I have above called “feudal science,” for rococo science has all the delicacy, intimacy, and mannered good taste as is to be found in any rococo interior. One can scarcely think in such terms without imagining chamber music by candlelight, and only a very civilized science indeed would inspire such a thought.

Revolutionary Science

Human nature being what it is, no class of intelligent, resourceful, and ambitious men could ever be content with dubious pleasures of feudal science or baroque science, and so they rebel. In rebelling they contribute to the speciation of the science and create a new, revolutionary science. Now, revolutionary science is none other than that science made famous by Thomas Kuhn’s efforts to analyze the nature of scientific revolutions. I have many times had occasion to mention Kuhn’s work (for example, in Scientific Progress) so I will not spend much time on it here. Kuhn’s fame nearly singles him out among twentieth century philosophers, comparable perhaps to Foucault, whose critique of the history of science is very different from that of Kuhn, but in no sense mutually exclusive. Kuhn, like Foucault, sees science in historical context, but draws different lessons from his historical inquiry.

Revolutionary science is scientific novelty at the vanguard of social change — i.e., a scientific movement often co-opted by a political movement, and therefore a species of ideological science (see below).

Potemkin Science

Potemkin science is the science of a Potemkin Village; it is fake science, false science, unreal science, science based upon unscientific principles and assumptions. What we are here calling “Potemkin science” is also known as “cargo cult science,” so called by Richard Feynman, or more commonly known as pseudo-science. Feynman put it like this:

In the South Seas there is a cargo cult of people. During the war they saw airplanes land with lots of good materials, and they want the same thing to happen now. So they’ve arranged to imitate things like runways, to put fires along the sides of the runways, to make a wooden hut for a man to sit in, with two wooden pieces on his head like headphones and bars of bamboo sticking out like antennas — he’s the controller — and they wait for the airplanes to land. They’re doing everything right. The form is perfect. It looks exactly the way it looked before. But it doesn’t work. No airplanes land. So I call these things cargo cult science, because they follow all the apparent precepts and forms of scientific investigation, but they’re missing something essential, because the planes don’t land.

A Potemkin science can have all the trappings of a genuine science, and as science matures and stabilizes within industrialized civilization, becoming less and less frequently revolutionary science, it builds up socio-political forms that are easily mimicked and imitated by epistemic efforts that are flagrantly unscientific. A Potemkin science can have journals, awards, scientific societies, university chairs, institutions, and the respect and approbation of the public. But, as Feynman said, Potemkin sciences lack something essential.

Feynman had his own examples of Potemkin science, but my favorite current example is the so-called technological singularity.

Revisionary Science

Revisionary science I understand to be the scientific equivalent to what Strawson called revisionary metaphysics, which he contrasted to descriptive metaphysics. Whereas the latter seeks only to describe the world as accurately as possible according to a received conceptual scheme, the former seeks to revise the conceptual scheme itself and improve upon metaphysics. Thus revisionary science tries to improve upon science itself, and not merely to produce further examples of familiar science.

Revisionary science thus occupies a place between openly revolutionary science, with its ambition to overturn established scientific conventions and knowledge, and feudal science with its pretense to understanding the world in terms of unchanging ideas, categories, and concepts. A great deal of science is revisionary science, and much of the best science is revisionary science. We save what is of value in the tradition, but we cast away what is no longer of value and supplement what remains with novel science.

Any such endeavors involve dangers; the attempt to formulate a better set of background assumptions for science is more likely to simply reflect the prejudices of present investigators than to introduce any new objectivity in place of former cant and subjectivity, but this danger is no less than the danger of feudal science, which bends every effort to admit not change at all. Revisionary science attempts to find the truth between these opposite dangers, and when it succeeds it advances our knowledge.

Perverted Science

Perverted science is none other than that species of science made famous in the peroration of Winston Churchill’s “Finest Hour” speech:

Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, ‘This was their finest hour.’

I can imagine a journalist would tell us that perverted science is science that has lost its “moral compass,” but we are not journalists, so we must hold ourselves to certain standards. We must, for example, acknowledge the complexity of the world, and the fact that what is a perversion for one person is a pleasure for another.

Perverted science is that science pursued according to a morality distinct from that which we recognize as our own. This is important on two points. Firstly, it is an open admission that science depends upon a moral vision of the world, and therefore that science conceived apart from such a moral vision is itself a kind of perverted science, and secondly that if we can attain to a morality of sufficient generality and egalitarian representation, we can approach a science that reflects what is best in us, and we can also identify more clearly a perverted science for what it is.

Ideological Science

Ideological science, like perverted science, is a science pursued according to a morality distinct from that which we recognize as our own, or, rather, science pursued according to a political ideology distinct from our own. Here I am being a bit idealistic and allowing us to assume that we have attempted to formulate a science (as mentioned above) that exemplifies all that is best in us, and that other sciences fall far short of this mark.

Outright ideological science is less common that science co-opted by ideology. Powerful political ideologies have relentless representatives who are always on the lookout for science that seems to support a view of things that the political ideologue already believed independently of any scientific investigation. Once discovered, few scientists can resist the Siren song of funding and recognition that comes with political support. And so what might otherwise be legitimate science becomes seduced by ideology and gradually allows itself to be transformed into ideological science.

Big Science

Big Science is the science is in part the science of the military-industrial complex, but it is moreover simply the science that emerges from mature and stable industrialized civilization, with its mature and stable institutions that evolve and develop gradually but which are formulated with an eye toward excluding any revolutionary change that would “rock the boat.” (Big science may at times appear to be revolutionary science, but the two are usually radically distinct.) It is also, more specifically, the science that emerges from institutionalized scholarship (of which I have written at some length).

Big Science is known for its big university departments, its big research programs, its big endowments, and especially its big hardware. Enormous science projects that draw in expertise, funding, and entire departments become self-sustaining and indeed expanding social movements in miniature. No one can afford to be left out of the big ambitions of big science (as no news outlet can afford to not cover the big story that every other news outlet is covering) so that big science creates a growing cluster of scientific activity.

With big science, scientists becomes players in a game that has little or nothing to do with science. In order to keep the research dollars flowing in, they must compete with others also seeking money and attention, and so they become bureaucrats, accountants, politicians, and even showmen as they pursue yet another magazine cover to showcase their work. There is no reason that one cannot be both scientist and showman at the same time, but few have the aptitude or the ability to do both really well; one function or the other must suffer, and if the show is to go on, it won’t be the show that suffers.

Science and Knowledge

In our contemporary world of industrialized civilization, science is perhaps the primary source of the generation of new knowledge (we might even coin a term and say that it is epistemogenic). Science is not only the primary source of knowledge today, but also the primary guarantor of the legitimacy of knowledge. Thus “science” has come to serve a rhetorical function in our vocabulary, as we express our admiration of certain epistemic efforts by calling them “science” while we express our disapproval of other epistemic efforts by denying that such efforts are science. This habit has been formalized in Popper’s criterion of scientificity in terms of falsifiability.

However, as we have seen, science is not one, but many. There are many species of science, and each species of science produces a species of knowledge. Thus knowledge too is not one, but many. If we don’t look to carefully, we can convince ourselves that all the diverse efforts of the many forms of science are somehow and ultimately in harmony (like ancient and early modern attempts to demonstrate the harmony of Plato and Aristotle). But if we do look carefully, we will have to admit that there are many kinds of science, many kinds of knowledge produced by these many kinds of science, and that the result is a teeming epistemic pluralism with no central theme of unifying idea.

The proper response to this is to sort through the species of scientific knowledge philosophically, and to assess them by a philosophical criterion that is external to all the sciences and internal to none of them, but I don’t expect this to happen any time soon, as the same sociological mechanisms that have enshrined science as a source of knowledge have also virtually made philosophical knowledge disappear. As a result, contemporary culture is almost incapable of exercising philosophical judgment, and we all suffer as a consequence of this conceptual myopia. The eye of the soul has become near-sighted, and we await a change in present sociological formations that will make possible a dispensing optician to address the deficit.

. . . . .


. . . . .

Grand Strategy Annex

. . . . .

project astrolabe logo smaller

. . . . .

%d bloggers like this: