Who now reads Ginsberg? When I was an undergraduate in 1961, I bought Maurice Ginsbergâs Essays in Sociology and Social Philosophy [it came out that year]. I bought it because I was told it was an important book and consequently was keen to consult it. But, I repeat, who now reads Ginsberg? The answer, I suspect, is no one.1 Yet Maurice Ginsberg was an important figure in British sociology. He was instrumental in founding the British Sociological Association, being its first chairman in 1951 and then President from 1955 to 1957. He was also the editor of The Sociological Review in the 1930s and the holder of the prestigious post of Martin White Professor of Sociology at the London School of Economics.2 When I was reading Ginsberg, in the 1960s, Donald MacRae was the Martin White Professor at the LSE, at a time when this was still considered the most prestigious post in the country. MacRae was in fact known, unofficially, as âThe King Makerâ as a consequence of his role as an external assessor, called upon by a number of universities in the UK, including York, to help with the appointment of professors in the newly established discipline of sociology. He was also the editor of the British Journal of Sociology , from its founding in 1950 until 1965. But again, one can ask, as I have of Ginsberg, who now reads MacRae? I suspect that the answer here is the same as in the former case: no one.
Now if such figures of obvious importance in their time as Ginsberg and MacRae can be so easily forgotten does the same fate await todayâs leading sociologists? Will the name of my former colleague, Mike Savage (who is the current holder of the Martin White Chair at the LSE) be as unknown to sociologists sixty years from now as Ginsbergâs and MacRaeâs are to todayâs generation? And if indeed that turns out to be the case, does it matter? I ask the question because it has a bearing on how we view our discipline and specifically on the issue that bothers me, which is whether or not it could be said to have progressed. And as it happens the name of Maurice Ginsberg is not unconnected with this topic, as one of the books for which he was famous in his day was called, The Idea of Progress . You will perhaps be unsurprised to hear that he believed in it. The question is, do we? As far as sociology is concerned that is.3 What I canât help but wonder is whether Ginsberg would be surprised to learn that, some forty-nine years after his death (he died in 1970), he is forgotten. That no one reads his books or articles anymore. Would he be disappointed? Would we, if the same fate befell us? It is a question that I am almost in a position to answer, for I published an article in 1972, one that is still cited today, some 47 years later. So, perhaps I should count myself luckier than poor old Maurice. But, of course there is no guarantee that this will remain the case. By the time I reach 81 (which was Mauriceâs age at death), it too may be cited no more.
Why does any of this matter? Why am I talking about long-dead sociologists and their enduring reputation, or rather the lack of it? The answer is because I believe that this topic relates, quite directly, to a matter of concern to us all, and that is the question of why we do what we do: what it is that motivates us. Obviously at one level one could say that, like anyone in paid employment, we simply do our job to earn a living and all that goes with it, such as being able to support those dependent on us or to ensure that we have a pension sufficient to live on when we retire. But I would suggest that there is more to it than that. Some of us are probably also motivated, to some degree, by a sense of public duty, that is by a desire to use our expertise to ensure that policy decisions, either those made by local and central government, by the voluntary sector, or by business, are properly evidence-based. Or alternatively, we may be motivated by a more distinctly idealistic motive, such as a desire to use our expertise to combat what we perceive to be the evils of our age, such as racism, sexism or homophobia, or even, if our motivation is more explicitly ideological, to help build utopia. However, I would suggest that there is another motive that drives many of us on to do what we do: one that is not really at odds with any of the above, although it may not be articulated as frequently or as explicitly. This is the desire for fame. For, as Miguel de Unamuno expressed it, âThe man of letters [the woman of letters is equally applicable] who shall tell you that he [she] despises fame is a lying bastardâ (Cave 2012).
In one respect such a conclusion is obvious enough, for as sociologists, and like most academics and indeed many professional people, we are bound to be motivated by a desire to obtain the esteem of our colleagues, if only because this is usually an essential requirement for promotion. However, I would suggest that for many, if not most of us, there is something that lies beyond this immediate concern with reputation and the associated desire to see oneself as âa successâ, and this something is the desire to believe that our work has, if only in a small way, contributed to the advance of the discipline and to believe, in effect, that we have helped it to progress. This is what, for many of us, makes doing what we do a vocation, which is to say, as Weber put it, that we are âliving for â rather than âliving off â the discipline (Weber 2004 [1919]). And it is by holding on to this truth that we are able to believe that we have attained a small degree of immortality, that is to say to believe that our work will live on in some way after our death. This is not necessarily to assert that we believe sociologists in generations to come will still be citing our workâafter all Maurice Ginsbergâs fate, as well as that of McRaeâs, cannot necessarily be taken to mean that their work has had no lasting effect on the disciplineâbut simply that the works they do cite will necessarily be built, if only in a small way, on our achievements. The problem that concerns me is whether this is actually true. Does the evidence really support the contention that disciplinary knowledge accumulates in this way and hence that understanding progresses, with the consequence that we have good reason to believe that there is this possibility of our attaining even a small measure of immortality? Or, to express it more simply, have we really progressed beyond Ginsberg and MacRae?
When I was a young sociologist, reading my Ginsberg, and then a little later teaching my first courses in the discipline while still struggling to finish my Ph.D., I rather took it for granted that the discipline was cumulative, with the knowledge acquired by one generation built on the achievements of the one before, as the discipline slowly progressed in an understanding of the workings of societies, and of social life more generally. It never crossed my mind that this might not be the case and that, far from progressing, the discipline I had taken a liking to and decided to choose as my career, might not actually be going anywhere, except perhaps in circles. But then I suspect that those assumptions are shared today by many a young sociologist who is in the position that I was then, taking their first steps on the academic ladder. Only I suspect that it isnât just the novices who share this assumption. Indeed, I would be surprised if there are many members of my profession who donât believe that we have a better understanding of the nature of social life and social interaction, of societies and their institutions, as well as the processes of social and cultural change, than was the case fifty or sixty years ago. For this tends, in my experience, to be a tacit assumption underlying our activity as researchers as well as a fairly explicit one in our role as teachers. But is it true? Or more pertinently, can it be demonstrated to be true? Looking at this question from my personal standpoint, I am tempted to ask whether my younger colleagues have a better understanding of the core issues in the discipline than I had at their age. This is not an easy question to answer, given both the unreliability of my memory and the fact that I have not had the nerve to give them the necessary detailed grilling. However, anecdotal evidence would suggest to me that not only is the theoretical material they are acquainted with somewhat different from mine at their age, but also that it is rather more limited and specialized in character. Talking to them has certainly not led me to believe that there has been a quantum leap in the general understanding of the nature of social life during my lifetime.
What I canât help but wonder, is whether our much-vaunted successes, those we believe to constitute progress, will be rubbished by a future generation of sociologists, just as has happened more than once in the past? We may believe that we are standing on the shoulders of giants, but those deemed giants today could well be regarded as pigmies by a future generation of sociologists, standing, as they might be, on the shoulders of those who are either unknown to us now or who we, in our foolishness, neglect to consider? This is a concern raised by John Holmwood who, in a reference to Andrew Abbottâs description of academic disciplines as prone to âfractal dispersalâ, observes that âthere is always a risk that oneâs own engagements over a career turns out to have been attached to a fractal cul de sac and oneâs (younger) colleagues are happily and productively engaged with a different set of priorities, equally dese...