Legislators and Interpreters

On Modernity, Post-Modernity and Intellectuals

Zygmunt Bauman

• Publisher: Polity
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9780745638072
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Sociology
• Index: Social Sciences

The book discusses the role of intellectuals in the modern world. Bauman connects this with current analyses of modernity and post-modernity. The theme of the book is that the tasks of intellectuals change from being 'legislators' to 'interpreters' with the transition from modernity to post-modernity.
The book discusses the role of intellectuals in the modern world. Bauman connects this with current analyses of modernity and post-modernity. The theme of the book is that the tasks of intellectuals change from being 'legislators' to 'interpreters' with the transition from modernity to post-modernity.

1

Paul Radin, or an aetiology of the intellectuals

Definitions of the intellectual are many and diverse. They have, however, one trait in common, which makes them also different from all other definitions: they are all self-definitions. Indeed, their authors are the members of the same rare species they attempt to define. Hence every definition they propose is an attempt to draw a boundary of their own identity. Each boundary splits the territory into two sides: here and there, in and out, us and them. Each self-definition is in the end a pronouncement of an opposition marked by the presence of a distinction on one side of the boundary and its absence on the other.

Most definitions, however, refrain from admitting the true nature of their accomplishment: by defining two social spaces they assume they have the right to draw the boundary. Instead, they focus ostensibly on only one side of the boundary; they pretend to confine themselves to the articulation of the attributes uniquely present on one side; and they are silent about the necessarily divisive effects of the operation. What most definitions refuse to admit is that the separation of the two spaces (and the legislating of a specific relationship between them) is the purpose and the raison d’être of the definitional exercise, not its side-effect.

Thus the authors of most known definitions attempt to list the properties of the intellectuals before any reference is made to the extant or postulated social relationship which sets off the defined group from the rest of society. What is overlooked in the process is that this relationship itself, rather than any special qualities and possessions of the intellectuals as a group, constitutes them as a separate entity. Being intellectuals, they subsequently seek to reforge their separatedness into a self-identity. The specifically intellectual form of the operation – self-definition – masks its universal content, which is the reproduction and reinforcement of a given social configuration, and – within it – a given (or claimed) status for the group.

The relatively rare exceptions to this rule come from those cases where the intellectuals focus their attention on another society, starkly different from their own; the more different, as it were, the better. Configurations salient in their own practice, but seldom brought to the surface when dealing with their own society, provide a frame of reference in which knowledge of the other society is ordered and interpreted. Self-delusion, indispensable for pragmatic reasons whenever the defence or enhancement of the group’s own status is involved, becomes superfluous (indeed, counter-productive) when it is necessary to come to grips with alien experience. As both Levi-Strauss and Gadamer would say, only when confronting another culture, or another text (confronting them, let us clarify, in a purely cognitive, theoretical mode), can the intellectual ‘understand oneself. Indeed, the confrontation with the other is first and foremost the recognition of oneself; an objectification, in terms of a theory, of what would otherwise remain pre-theoretical, subconscious, inarticulate.

Nowhere perhaps has this self-revelatory character of cross-cultural hermeneutic exercise found a better illustration than in the work of the eminent American anthropologist Paul Radin. This comes as no surprise, as Radin’s life-long preoccupation was the ‘primitive world-view’, the ideas held by primitive societies; their religious views, moral systems, philosophy. One can legitimately expect such a topic to set in operations precisely those constituents of the researcher’s perspective which bear direct relation to understanding his own role within the world of ideas. He can hardly come to grips with ‘primitive religion’ without scanning the field in search of ‘primitive theologians’; his effort to understand primitive philosophy would require him to locate (or at least construe) primitive philosophers. The way he goes about this task will be found illuminating by anyone wishing to comprehend the processes by which intellectuals are self-constituted in the society of the researcher.

What Radin first found in primitive societies was ‘the existence of two general types of temperament among primitive peoples, that of the priest-thinker and that of the layman; the one only secondarily identified with action, the other primarily so; the one interested in the analysis of the religious phenomena, the other in their effect’.¹ In the beginning, there is an opposition between the great majority of ordinary people, preoccupied with their daily business of survival, ‘action’ in the sense of the routine reproduction of their conditions of existence, and a small group of those who could not but reflect upon ‘action’: ‘truly religious people … have always been few in number’. The opposition is at the same time a relation: the smaller group comes into existence only for some features (or, rather, the absence of some features) in the ‘unmarked’ majority; it has been, so to speak, ‘called into existence’ by a certain insufficiency or incompleteness in the larger group’s equipment; thus the smaller group is in one sense a necessary complement of the ‘unmarked’ majority; in another sense, however, it exists in a derivative, perhaps even parasitic, mode in relation to the larger group.

This interplay between the two aspects of this complex relationship comes out clearly in Radin’s description. ‘Primitive man is afraid of one thing, of the uncertainties of the struggle of life. ’²Uncertainty has always been the paramount source of fear. The random behaviour of factors crucial for the success or failure of one’s life struggle, the stubborn unpredictability of outcome, lack of control over so many unknowns within the life equation, these have always generated acute spiritual discomfort and made the sufferers crave for the security which only the practical control, or intellectual awareness, of probabilities may bring. This urge has been the prime yarn of which the roles of magicians, priests, scientific experts, political prophets or professionals are spun.

The religious formulator, at first unconsciously if you will, capitalised on the sense of insecurity of the ordinary man … The religious formulator developed the theory that everything of value, even everything unchangeable and predictable about man and the world around him, was surrounded and immersed in danger, that these dangers could be overcome only in a specific fashion and according to a prescription devised and perfected by him.³

Capitalising ‘on the sense of insecurity’ expressed itself in the postulation of a special vantage point, accessible only to special people and on special condition, from which a logic could be discerned beneath superficial randomness, so that the random could be made predictable. The control over fate proposed by the religious formulators was thus mediated by knowledge from the very start; a crucial element of the operation, as Radin insists, was ‘the transference of the coercive power from the subject to the object’. (As Francis Bacon would say in a society separated from that described by Radin by millenia of Naturgeschichte time, ‘one can master Nature by surrendering to its laws’.) Once the determinants of fate have been objectified, once the subject’s will has been denied the power of forcing, coaxing or enticing the external objects into submission, the only power of relevance to the primeval urge for certainty is knowledge. By proxy, it is the power of the knowledge-holders. The specific way in which the sense of insecurity was capitalized upon by religious formulators and their later equivalents elevated the attribute of ‘being in the know’ as, simultaneously, its premise and inevitable effect.

But there is still more light in Radin’s analysis. The kind of knowledge the religious formulators claimed was in no way predetermined by, or confined to, the concrete fears which had always haunted ‘ordinary people’. The remarkable feature of the knowledge-attaining process was that it spawned as many new mysteries as it solved among the old ones; and generated as many new fears as it assuaged among the old. The way in which the uncertainty was originally capitalized upon triggered off an unending, self-propelled and self-reinforcing process, in which the very possibility of ever bringing the effort to an end and replacing the situation of uncertainty (within given parameters of the life-process) with one of spiritual balance and practical control was excluded. Once this process had been set in motion, it became apparent that even things seemingly ‘unchangeable and predictable’ were in fact ‘surrounded and immersed in danger’. Power/knowledge denotes a self-perpetuating mechanism, which at a relatively early stage stops being dependent on the original impetus, as it creates conditions for its own continuous and ever more vigorous operation. More fear-generating uncertainties are introduced into the life-world of the ‘laymen’. Many of them are so remote from the daily practice of the latter, that neither their gravity nor their declared cure may be checked against subjectively evident effects. This circumstance, of course, further enhances the power of knowledge and of the knowledge-guardians. Moreover, it renders this power virtually invulnerable to contest.

The relatively innocuous distinction drawn between ‘religious formulators’ and ‘ordinary people’, between ‘being interested in the ideas’ and ‘being interested in their effects’, leads to altogether formidable consequences. It engenders an acute asymmetry in the deployment of social power. Not only does it promote sharp polarization of status, influence, and access to the socially produced surplus, but it also (and perhaps most importantly) builds upon the opposition of temperaments a relationship of dependency. The doers now become dependent upon the thinkers; the ordinary people cannot conduct their life business without asking for, and receiving, the religious formulators’ assistance. As members of society, the ordinary people are now incomplete, imperfect, wanting. There is no clear way in which their morbid flaws can be permanently repaired. Burdened with their flaws forever, they need the constant presence and ongoing intervention of the shamans, magicians, priests, theologians.

The intensity of this need (and hence the strength of dependence) grows with the number of uncertainties built into the existence of ordinary people, and the degree to which the shamans, magicians, etc., enjoy a monopoly in handling them. If, therefore, as Radin suggests, the religious formulators are motivated by the intention to ‘strengthen their authority’, or even, more cynically, by the wish to ‘attain and enhance’ their ‘economic security’,⁴ the most rational strategy open to them will be to manipulate the beliefs of the ordinary people in such a way as to increase their experience of uncertainty, and of their personal inability to ward off its potentially deleterious effects. (This strategy would be a case application of the general cybernetic rule, according to which in every complex system the subsystem ‘nearest to instability rules’.)⁵ The latter condition can be best achieved if the knowledge indispensable for handling the uncertainty is esoteric (or better still, held secret), if handling the uncertainty demands implements the ordinary people do not possess, or if the participation of the shaman, priest, etc., is recognized as an irreplaceable ingredient of the procedure. One can easily observe the application of all these tactical principles in the history of expert-layman relations.

One of the most intriguing of Radin’s insights into the pragmatics of the intellectual role can be found in his attempt to trace back the model of the primitive philosopher to a pattern first introduced by shamans.

The basic qualification for the shaman and medicine-man in the more simply organised groups like the Eskimo and the Arunta is that he belong to the neurotic-epileptoid type. It is likewise clear that, as we approach tribes with a more complex form of economic organisation, these qualifications, while still present, become secondary to new ones. For this we have already given explanation, namely, that, as the emoluments of office increased, many people who were quite normal were attracted to the priesthood. The pattern of behaviour, however, had by that time become fixed and the non-neurotic shaman had to accept the formulation which owed its origin and its initial development to his neurotic predecessors and colleagues. This formulation … consisted of three parts: first, the description of his neurotic temperament and of his actual suffering and trance; second, the description of his enforced isolation, physical and spiritual, from the rest of the group; and, third, the detailed description of what might best be called an obsessive identification with his goal. From the first arose the theory of the nature of the ordeal through which he must pass; from the second the insistence upon taboos and purifications; and from the third the theory either that he was possessed of the goal or that he was possessed by the goal, in other words, all that is connected by the concept of spirit-possession.⁶

The accuracy of the reconstructed history of succession does not interest us here; it may merely be observed as an essentially untestable ‘myth of origin’. What is of more direct relevance to our topic is the striking parallelity revealed by Radin between some all-too-contemporary elements of the legitimation of the intellectual role and those qualities of the shamans widely described in ethnological literature. If seen against the latter, the most vital characteristics of the first come fully into view; normally hidden beneath the diverse wrappings of many colours and designs in which they are presented at different times by different varieties of intellectuals, they may now be examined in their essential shape.

Ordeal, purification and possession; these three seminal and, arguably, permanent constituents of the legitimation of priestly authority have one feature in common. They all proclaim, and explain, the separation of the priesthood from the laity. They put whatever wisdom or skill the priests may own beyond the reach of all those who are not priests. They elevate the priestly ways, by the same token downgrading the paths of the laity. And they present the resultant relationship of domination as one of service and self-sacrifice.

All three have been met throughout history (and are still being met) in many guises. We can recognize the ‘theory of the ordeal’, depending on the leading fashion of the era, in references to physical asceticism and self-immolation, monastic humility, the protracted miseries of student life, an existence devoid of leisure and short on the joys the consumer society may offer. The ‘taboo and purification’ aspect has been elaborated upon with particular zeal: its endless inventory extends from the sexual abstinence of the ancient authors, through the bohemianism of romantic artists to the ‘value-neutrality’ and non-commitment of modern scientists or the auto-violence of ‘transcendental reduction’ of the Husserlian seekers of certainty. In all epochs (though in none as much as in the modern world) this aspect spawned some degree of institutionalized isolation for men of knowledge, in which outside instrusions were seen as impure and potentially contaminating, and elaborate practical measures were taken to keep intruders away. The aspect of ‘possession’ was perhaps that most resistant to institutionalization. It was, however, never abandoned as a professional myth. At the start of their professional careers men of knowledge, sacred or secular, take an oath of utter and sole dedication to the pursuit of wisdom and the disposition of their resulting skills; while professions defend their standing by insisting that this is exactly where they stand and that they cannot but stand there.

The glory and nobility of sacrifice rub off on the knowledge to which it leads. Tools and products ennoble each other, and, once started, reinforce each other’s authority and supply reciprocal justification. The result is that both acquire a degree of independence from the social demand which they invoke as their validity test. ‘Formulations’ enjoy an untarnished reputation because they have been authored by the ‘formulators’ who followed a life which, from their lack of ability and will, ordinary people would not follow. The formulators, on the other hand, retain the esteem they once acquired through putting out a regular supply of highly reputable formulations. The formulators and the formulations now need only each other to substantiate their claim to high status.

We have drawn so far (in a somewhat free fashion, to be fair) on Paul Radin’s Primitive Religion – a study published in 1937. Even allowing for the fact that some of the more radical interpretations in the above analysis go beyond the letter (if not the spirit) of that study, there is little doubt that Primitive Religion was a product of Radin’s intense effort to break through the self-spun, but firmly institutionalized mythology of ‘thinkers’, sacred or secular, ‘primitive’ or modern (the first confronted by him as the object, the second as the subject of his study). He wished to disclose the social relationship which alone underwrites the rationality of the thinkers’ action but which is all but decreed out of existence by the literal message of the myth. How great the effort must have been becomes apparent once Primitive Religion is compared with Primitive Man as Philosopher, a study published by Radin ten years earlier. Radin was already in possession of most of the material used for his later book when the first was published; and yet the conclusions drawn in the two books bear virtually no resemblance to each other.

The following extended quotation conveys the interpretative tenor of Primitive Man:

The man of action, broadly characterised, is oriented toward the object, interested primarily in practical results, and indifferent to the claims and stirrings of his inner self. He recognises them but he dismisses them shortly, granting them no validity either in influencing his actions or in explaining them. The Thinker, on the other hand, although he, too, is definitely desirous of practical results … is nevertheless impelled by his whole nature to spend a considerable time in analysing his subjective states and attaches great importance both to their influence upon his actions and to the explanations he has developed.

The first is satisfied that the world exists and that things happen. Explanations are of secondary consequence. He is ready to accept the first one that comes to hand. At bottom it is a matter of utter indifference. He does, however, show a predilection for one type of explanation as opposed to another. He prefers an explanation in which the purely mechanical relation between a series of events is specifically stressed. His mental rhythm … is characterised by a demand for endless repetition of the same event … Monotony holds no terror for him…

Now the rhythm of the thinker is quite different.⁷

In this interpretation, thinkers and non-thinkers (‘men of action’) are set apart by a difference in their mental proclivities and aptitudes. This difference neither generates, nor stands, for a relationship between the two groups. If a relationship may be deduced from a difference so described, it may be only one postulated in the commentary of the distinguished American psychiatrist Kurt Goldstein:

One can only distinguish in all primitive societies two types of people, those who live strictly in accord with the rules of the society, whom [Radin] calls the ‘nonthinkers’, and those who think, the ‘thinkers’. The number of thinkers may be small but they play a great role in the tribe; they are the people who formulate the concepts and organise them in systems, which are then taken over – generally without criticism – by the nonthinkers.⁸

The distinction which ten years later Radin was to conceive of as a product and a factor of the historical process, of social struggle and the complex relation of dependence, here nests still in its mythological, ‘natural...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Introduction
• 1. Paul Radin, or an aetiology of the intellectuals
• 2. Les philosophes: the archetype and the Utopia
• 3. Sociogenesis of the power/knowledge syndrome
• 4. Gamekeepers turned gardeners
• 5. Educating people
• 6. Discovery of culture
• 7. Ideology, or building the world of ideas
• 8. The fall of the legislator
• 9. The rise of the interpreter
• 10. Two nations, mark two: the seduced
• 11. Two nations, mark two: the repressed
• 12. Conclusions: one too many
• Notes
• Index