Historians now know very well that the mass of his- toric documents can be combined according to
different
modes which have neither the same traits nor the same kind of evolution.
Foucault-Live
MF: I'm not looking underneath discourse for the thought of men, but try to grasp discourse in its manifest exis- tence, as a practice that obeys certain rules--of formation, existence, co-existence--and systems of functioning.
It is this practice, in its consistency and almost in its materiality, that I describe.
? Q: So you refuse psychology.
? MF: Absolutely. One must be able to make an his- torical analysis of the transformation of discourse without hav-
? The Archeology of Knowledge 47
? ing recourse to the thought of men, to their mode of percep- tion, their habits and the influences to which they have sub- mitted, etc.
Q: You begin your book with the observation that history and the human sciences have been inversely trans- formed. Instead of searching for the events that would consti- tute the ruptures, history now searches for continuities, whereas the human sciences search for discontinuities.
? MF: Indeed, historians today--and I am thinking of course of the Annales school, Marc Bloch, Lucien Febvre, Ferdnand Braudel--have tried to enlarge the periodizations that historians usually make. Braudel, for example, has suc- ceeded in defining a notion of material civilization that would have an extremely slow evolution: the material universe of European peasants from the end of the Middle Ages to the 18th century--the landscape, techniques, tools and crafted ob- jects, their customs--^has been modified in an extremely slow manner; one might say that it has developed on a very gradual incline. These great blocks, much more massive than the events one ordinarily isolates, have now become part of the objects that historians can describe. Thus one sees large conti- nuities appearing that until this work had never been isolated. On the other hand, the historians of ideas and of the sciences, who used to speak above all in terms of the continuous prog- ress of reason, of the progressive advent of rationalism, etc. , now insist on discontinuities and ruptures. For example, the break between Aristotelian and Galilean physics, the absolute eruption represented by the birth of chemistry at the end of the 18th century. It's from this paradox that I started: the regular historians were revealing continuities, while the historians of ideas were liberating discontinuities. But I believe that they are two symmetrical and inverse effects of the same methodo- logical renewal of history in general.
? 48 The Archeology of Knowledge
Q: Which is to say that when you attack those who mythologize history, by showing that they are attaching themselves again to the traditional philosophy of transcenden- tal consciousness, of man as sovereign, you attack them on their own ground, which is that of history. Whereas the stru- cturalists, who attack them equally, do it on another terrain.
MF: I don't believe that the structuralists have ever attacked the historians, but a certain historicism, a certain reaction and historicist mistrust with which their work col- lided. A certain number of traditional thinkers have been fiightened by structural analysis. Not, to be sure, because one began to analyze the formal relations among indifferent elements; that was done a long time ago, and there was no cause for alarm. But these traditional thinkers felt very strongly that what was in question was the status of the sub- ject. If it is true that language and the unconscious can be analyzed in structural terms, then what is there of this famous speaking subject, this man reputed to put language to work, to speak it, to transform it, to make it live! What is there of this man, reputed to have an unconscious, capable of becoming conscious of this unconscious, of assuming its burden and making a history of his fate! I believe that the belligerence or in any case the bad feelings that structuralism raised among the traditionalists was linked to the fact that they felt that the status of the subject had been put back into question.
? And they sought refuge on a terrain that appeared for their cause, infinitely more solid, that of history. And they said: let's admit that a language, considered outside its histori- cal evolution, outside of its development, consists in effect of a set of relations; let's admit that the unconscious in an indi- vidual functions Uke a structure or set of structures, that the unconscious can be located starting ft-om structural facts; there is at least one thing on which the structure will never catch:
? The Archeology of Knowledge 49
? that's history. For there is a becoming (devenir) that structural analysis will never account for, a progress which on the one hand is made of a continuity, whereas the structure by defini- tion is discontinuous, and on the other hand is made by a subject: man himself, or humanity, or consciousness, or rea- son, it matters little. For them, there is an absolute subject of history that makes history, that assures its continuity, that is the author and guarantor of this continuity. As for the struc- tural analyses, they can never take place but in the synchronic cross section cut out from this continuity of history subject to man's sovereignty.
? When one tries to put into question the primacy of the subject in the very domain of history, then there is a new panic amongst all the old faithfiil, for that was their line of defense, the point from which they could limit structural analysis--stop the "cancer"--by restricting the power of its disturbance. If, in regard to history, and precisely in regard to the history of knowledge (savoir) or of reason, one manages to show that it doesn't at all obey the same model as conscious- ness; if one succeeds in showing that the time of knowledge or of discourse is not at all organized or laid out like the time of lived experience, that it presents discontinuities and specific transformations; if finally, one shows that there is no need to pass through the subject, through man as subject, in order to analyze the history of knowledge (connaissance), one raises great difficulties, but one touches perhaps on an important problem.
? Q: As a result, you were led to challenge the philoso- phy of the last two hundred years, or, what is worse for it, to leave it aside.
? MF: Indeed, at present this whole philosophy, which since Descartes has given primacy to the subject, is falling apart before our eyes.
? 50 The Archeology of Knowledge
Q: And do you date the onset of this decline from Nietzsche?
MF: It seems to me that one could fix this moment starting from Marx, Nietzsche and Freud.
Q: In addition, in your book, you denounce the an- thropologizing interpretation of Marx and the interpretation of Nietzsche in terms of a transcendental consciousness as a re- fusal to take into consideration what is new in their contri- butions.
MF: Exactly.
Q: I quote the following passage irom your introduc- tion; "To make of historical analysis the discourse of continu- ity and to make of human consciousness the originary subject of all progress and of every practice are two phases of the same system of thought, where time is conceived in terms of totalization and revolutions are never but the assumptions of consciousness. " Aren't you directly attacking Sartre there, all the more as the assumption of consciousness and totalization belong especially to his vocabulary?
MF: In using those words Sartre only takes up a general style of analysis that one can find in the work of Lucien Goldmann, Georg Luka? cs, Dilthey and the Hegelians of the 19th century. The words are certainly not specific to Sartre.
? Q: Sartre would simply be one of the end points of this transcendental philosphy that is falling apart?
MF: That's right.
? ? The Archeology of Knowledge 51
? Q; But apart from the structuralists, who find them- selves in a position analogous to your own, there are few philosophers who are conscious of the end of transcendental philosophy.
MF: On the contrary, I believe there are many, among whom I would put Gilles Deleuze in the first rank. '
Q: When, in The Order of Things, you wrote that man is to be cast aside, you unleashed "diverse movements. " Yet, in The Archeology of Knowledge, you say that not only things but even words are to be cast aside.
? MF: That's what I meant. My title The Order of Things (Les mots et les choses) was perfecdy ironic. No one saw it clearly; doubtlessly because there wasn't enough play in my text for the irony to be sufficiently visible. There is a problem: how can it happen that real things, things that are perceived, can come to be articulated by words within a dis- course. Is it that words impose on us the outline of things, or is it that things, through some operation of the subject, come to be transcribed on the surface of words. That's not at all the old problem that I wanted to treat in The Order of Things. I wanted to displace it: to analyze the discourses themselves, that is, these discursive practices that are intermediary between words and things; these discursive practices starting from which one can define what are the things and mark out the usage of words. Let's take a very simple example. In the
17th century the naturalists multiplied the descriptions of plants and animals. One can write a history of these descrip- tions in two ways. Either by starting with things and saying: the animals being what they are, the plants being such as we see them, how is it that the peo pie of the 17th and 18th centu- ries saw them and described them? What did they observe?
? 52 The Archeology of Knowledge
What did they omit? What have they seen, what have they not seen? Or one can do the analysis in the inverse direction, by establishing the semantic field of the 17th and 18th centuries, by seeing what words and consequently what concepts they then had available, what the rules of usage for these words were, and starting from there, determining what grille or pat- tern was placed over the whole set of plants and animals. These are the two traditional analyses.
I have tried to do something else, to show that in a discourse, as in natural history, there were rules of formation for objects (which are not the rules of utilization for words), rules of formation for concepts (which are not the laws of syntax), rules of formation for theories (which are neither deductive nor rhetorical rules). These are the rules put into operation through a discursive practice at a given moment that explain why a certain thing is seen (or omitted); why it is envisaged under such an aspect and analyzed at such a level; why such a word is employed with such a meaning and in such a sentence. Consequendy, the analysis starting from things and the analysis starting from words appear at this moment as secondary in relation to a prior analysis, which would be the discursive analysis.
In my book there are no analyses of words and no analyses of things. And a number of people--the oafs and hedgehoppers--^have said it's scandalous, that in a book called Les mots et les choses there are no "things. " And the more subtle ones have said that there is no semantic analysis. Well, to be sure: I didn't want to do either.
? Q: Since your scientific trajectory begins with a sort of empirical groping, how did you arrive--^by what itinerary-- at this completely theoretical book which is The Archeology of Knowledge?
? ? The Archeology of Knowledge 53
? MF; Yes, of course, it started with empirical research on madness, sickness and mental illness, on medicine in the 18th and 19th centuries, and on the set of discipUnes (natural history, general grammar, and the exchange of money) that I treated in The Order of Things. Why has this research led me to construct the theoretical machinery of The Archeology of Knowledge, which seems to me to be a rather difficult book for the reader? I encountered several problems: when one did a history of the sciences one treated in a privileged, almost exclusive fashion the beautifiil, very formal sciences like mathematics arid theoretical physics. But when one broached disciplines like the empirical sciences, one was very con- stricted, most often being content with a sort of inventory of discoveries; it was said that these disciplines were only in sum a mix of truths and errors; in these knowledges that are so imprecise, the minds of men, their prejudices, mental habits and the influences to which they submit, the images in their heads, their dreams--^all that prevents them from acceding to the truth; and the history of these sciences was finally only the history of the mixture of these massive and numerous errors with some nuggets of truth, the problem being to know how one day someone had discovered a nugget.
Such a description bothers me for several reasons. First because, in the real historical life of men, these famous empirical sciences that the historians or the epistemologists neglect have a colossal importance. The progress of medicine has had consequences for human life, for the human species, for the eonomy of societies, and for the social organization certainly as great as those that the discoveries of theoretical physics have had. I regretted that these empirical sciences had not been studied.
? On the other hand, it seemed interesting to me to study these empirical sciences insofar as they are more closely linked to social practices than the theoretical sciences are. For
? ? 54 The Archeology of Knowledge
example, medicine or political economy are disciplines per- haps lacking a high degree of scientificity, compared to mathematics; but their articulations onto social practices are very numerous and that's precisely what interested me. The Archeology that I just described is a kind of theory for a his- tory of empirical knowledge (savoir).
Q: Hence your choice, for example, of a history of madness (Madness and Civilization).
MF: Exactly.
Q; The advantage of your method, among others, is thus to function in two dimensions: diachronically and syn- chronically. For example, for Madness and Civilization (His- toire de lafolie) you go back in time and study the modifica- tions, whereas in the case of natural history in the 17th and 18th centuries, in The Order of Things, you study this science in a state that is not completely static, but more immobile.
? MF: Not exactly immobile. I tried to define the transformations: to show the discoveries, inventions, changes of perspective and theoretical upheavals that could occur start- ing from a certain system of regularities. One can show for ex- ample what makes possible the appearance of the idea of evo- lution in the 18th century in the discursive practice of natural history; or what makes possible the emergence of a theory of the organism, which was unknown to the first naturalists. Thus when certain people, happily very few in number, accused me of only describing states of knowledge and not the transforma- tions, it was simply because they hadn't read the book. If they had, if only leafing through it in a cursory fashion, they would have seen that it deals only with transformations and with the order in which these transformations occur.
? The Archeology of Knowledge 55
? Q: Your method studies the practice of discourse, a method that you base, in The Archeology of Knowledge, on the statement, which you distinguish radically from the grammatical sentence and the logical proposition. What do you mean by the statement (e? nonce? )!
MF: The sentence is a grammatical unity of ele- ments linked together by Unguistic rules. What the logicians call a proposition is a set of symbols constructed such that one can say if it is true or false, correct or not. What I call a state- ment is a set of signs that can be a sentence or a proposition, but envisaged at the level of its existence.
Q: You deny being a structuralist even if for the common consciousness you are part of the group. But your methodology has two points in common with the structural method: the refusal of an anthropological discourse and the absence of a speaking subject. Insofar as what is in question is the place and status of man, that is, of the subject, don't you align yourself automatically on the side of the structuralists?
? MF: I think that structuralism is inscribed today within a great transformation of knowledge (savoir) in the human sciences, and that this transformation is directed less toward the analysis of structures than toward the putting into question of the anthropological status, the status of the subject, and the privileges of man. And my method is inscribed within the framework of this transformation in the same way that structuralism is--along side of the latter but not in it.
? Q: You speak of structuralism's "legitimate limits. " Yet, one has the impression that structuralism tends to absorb everything: myths with Le? vi-Strauss, the unconscious with La- can, then hterary criticism--^all the human sciences pass through it.
? 56 The Archeology of Knowledge
? MF: I don't have to speak for the structuralists. But it seems to me that one could say this in response to your question: structuralism is a method of which the field of appU- cation is not defined a priori. What is defined at the start are the rules of the method and the level at which one inserts one- self in order to apply them. It may very well be that one can do structural analyses in domains that are absolutely unfore- seen at this point. I don't believe that one can set a priori limits to the expanse of this research. A
? Translated by John Johnston
? Note
? 'Gilles Deleuze is the author (with Fe? lix Guattari) of Capital- ism and Schizophrenia: Anti-Oedipus, trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem, Helen R. Lane (New York; Viking, 1977), and A Thousand Plateaus, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis; Univ. of Minnesota Press, 1987). See also On the Line and Nomadology: The War Machine (New York; Semiotext(e) Foreign Agents Series, 1983 and 1987.
? 5
The Birth of a World
? Q; Michel Foucault, you are known today as one of the great theoreticians of the immense field of investigations constituted by epistemology, and above all as the author of two books enthusiastically received by a vast pubHc: Madness and Civilization and The Order of Things. You just recently published The Archeology of Knowledge. If you are willing I would like for you to try to specify what unites them.
? MF: The three books that I wrote before this last one--Madness and Civilization, The Order of Things and The Birth of the Clinic--I wrote in a state of happy semi-con- sciousness, with a great deal of naivete and a little innocence. At the last moment, while editing The Order of Things, I real- ized that these three series of studies were not unrelated and that, moreover, they raised a large number of problems and difficulties, so much in fact that even before finishing The Order of Things I felt obliged to write another book which would clarify the unity of the preceding ones and which would attempt to resolve the problems raised. When I became aware of this I was very disappointed. When writing one always thinks that it's the last time, but in fact it's not true. The ques- tions posed and the objections made have forced me to go
? 58 The Birth of a World
? back to work, reasonably stimulated, either out of amusement or interest, and sometimes out of irritation. This book. The Archeology of Knowledge, is at once a resumption of what I have already attempted, motivated by the desire to correct the inaccuracies and carelessness contained in the precedent books, and an attempt to trace in advance the path of a later work that I really hope never to write, owing to unforeseen circumstances!
Q: Could you clarify this concept of archeology which is essential to your undertaking?
MF: I have used it as a play on words to designate something that would be the description of the archive and not at all the discovery of a beginning or the bringing to light of the bones of the past.
By the archives, I intend first the mass of things spoken in a culture, conserved, valorized, re-used, repeated and transformed. In brief, this whole verbal mass that has been fashioned by men, invested in their techniques and in their institutions and woven into their existence and their history. I envisage this mass of things said not on the side of language and the linguistic system that they put to work, but on the side of the operations which give it birth. My problem could be stated as follows: How does it happen that at a given period one could say this and that something else has never been said? It is, in a word, the analysis of the historical conditions that account for what one says or of what one rejects, or of what one transforms in the mass of spoken things.
The "archive" appears then as a kind of great practice of discourse, a practice which has its rules, its conditions, its functioning and its effects.
The problems posed by the analysis of this practice are the following:
? ? The Birth of a World 59
? ? What are the different particular types of discursive practice that one can find in a given period?
? ? What are the relationships that one can establish be- tween these different practices?
? ? What relationships do they have with non-discur- sive practices, such as political, social or economic practices?
? ? What are the transformations of which these prac- tices are susceptible?
? Q: You have been reproached--I am thinking of Sartre in particular--^for wanting to substitute archeology for history, for replacing "the cinema with the magic lantern" (Sartre). Is your vision the opposite of a historical and dialec- tical thought like Sartre's? How does it contradict the latter's?
? MF: I am completely opposed to a certain concep- tion of history which takes for its model a kind of great con- tinuous and homogenous evolution, a sort of great mythic life.
?
Historians now know very well that the mass of his- toric documents can be combined according to different modes which have neither the same traits nor the same kind of evolution. The history of material civilization (fanning tech- niques, habitat, domestic tools, means of transport) doesn't un- fold in the same marmer as the history of political institutions or as the history of monetary flows. What March Bloch, Febvre and Braudel have shown for history tout court can be shown, I think, for the history of ideas, of knowledge (connaissance), and of thought in general. Thus it is possible to write a history of general paralysis, the history of Pasteur's thought; but one can also, at a level that has been rather ne- glected until the present, undertake the analysis of medical discourse in the 19th century or in the modem era. This his-
tory will not be one of discoveries and of errors, it will not be one of influences and originalities, but the history of condi-
? 60 The Birth of a World
? tions that make possible the appearance, the functioning and the transformation of medical discourse.
? I am also opposed to a form of history which assumes change as a given and which proposes itself as the task of discovering its cause. I believe that there is a preliminary task for the historian, more modest if you like, or more radical, which consists in posing the question of what this change constitutes exactly. This means:
? Are there not between several levels of change cer- tain modifications that are immediately visible, that leap to the eye as highly individualized events, and certain others, very exact however, that are located at buried levels where they appear much less evident? In other words, the first task is to distinguish different types of events. The second is to define the transformations that have actually been produced, the sys- tem according to which certain variables have remained con- stant while others have been modified. For the great myth- ology of change, evolution and the perpetuum mobile we must substitute a serious description of types of events and systems of transformation, and the establishment of series and series of series. Obviously this is not cinema.
? Q: Your work has often been brought together with the research of Claude Le? vi-Strauss and Jacques Lacan under the label of "structuralism. " To what extent do you accept this grouping? Is there a real convergence in your different re- searches?
? MF: It's for those who use the label to designate very diverse works to say what makes us "structuralists. " You know the joke: what's the difference between Bernard Shaw
and Charlie Chaplin? There is no difference, since they both have a beard, with the exception of Chaplin of course.
? The Birth of a World 61
? Q: In The Order of Things you speak of the "death of man," which has provoked vivid emotional reactions and innu- merable controversies among our good humanists. What do you think of all this?
? MF: The death of man is nothing to get particularly excited about. It's one of the visible forms of a much more general decease, if you like. I don't mean by it the death of god but the death of the subject, of the Subject in capital letters, of the subject as origin and foundation of Knowledge (savoir), of Liberty, of Language and History.
One can say that all of Western civilization has been subjugated (assujettie), and philosophers have only certified the fact by referring all thought and all truth to consciousness, to the Self, to the Subject. In the rumbling that shakes us today, perhaps we have to recognize the birth of a world where the subject is not one but split, not sovereign but de- pendent, not an absolute origin but a function ceaselessly modified. ?
? Rituals of Exclusion
? Q: Mr. Foucault, it's been said that you've given us a new way of studying events. You've formulated an archeology of knowledge, the sciences of man, objectifying literary, or non-literary, documents of a period, and treating them as "ar- chives. " And you're also interested in current politics. How do you live out your science; how do you apply it to what's going on today? In other words, how do you uncover today's dis- course? How do you perceive changes taking place at this moment?
? MF; In the first place, I am not at all sure that I have invented a new method, as you were so kind to assert; what I am doing is not so different from many other contemporary endeavors, American, English, French, German. I claim no originality. It is true, though, that I have dealt especially with phenomena of the past; the system of exclusion and the con- finement of the insane in European civilization from the six- teenth to the nineteenth century, the establishment of medical science and practice at the beginning of the nineteenth cen- tury, the organization of sciences of man in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. But I was interested in them--^in fact, profoundly interested--^because I saw in them ways of think- ing and behaving that are still with us.
? 64 Rituals of Exclusion
I try to show, based upon their historical establish- ment and formation, those systems which are still ours today and within which we are trapped. It is a question, basically, of presenting a critique of our own time, based upon retrospec- tive analyses.
Q: In terms of what's been happening in higher edu- cation around the world, do you see us, yourself, all of us, im- prisoned in some kind of system?
? MF: The form in which societies pass on knowledge is determined by a complex system: it hasn't yet been fully analyzed, but it seems to me that the system is being shattered; more under the influence of a revolutionary movement, in fact, than of mere theoretical or speculative criticism. There's a sig- nificant difference between the insane and the sick on the one hand, and students on the other, in this respect: in our society it is difficult for the insane who are confined or the sick who are hospitalized to make their own revolution; so we have to question these systems of exclusion of the sick and the insane from the outside, through a technique of critical demolition. The university sytstem, however, can be put into question by the students themselves. At that point criticism coming from the outside, from theoreticians, historians or archivists, is no longer enough. And the students become their own archivists.
? Q: Several years ago, a document appeared here called The Student as Nigger. Are there parallels aside from the m^ter-slave relationship between the student as an ex- cluded figure and the madman? And are there other "pariahs" defmed and set by society in order to maintain its own ration- ality and cohesion?
? Rituals of Exclusion 65
? MF: Your question is far-reaching and difficult to answer. At any rate, it concerns me greatly because it points essentially in the same direction as my work. Until now, it seems to me that historians of our own society, of our own civilization, have sought especially to get at the inner secret of our civilization, its spirit, the way it estabUshes its identity, the things it values. On the other hand, there has been much less study of what has been rejected from our civilization. It seemed to me intersting to try to understand our society and civilization in terms of its sytems of exclusion, of rejection, of refusal, in terms of what it does not want, its limits, the way it is obliged to suppress a certain number of things, people, proc- esses, what it must let fall into oblivion, its repression-sup- pression system. I know very well that many thinkers--though if only since Freud--have already tackled the problem. But I think there are exclusions other than the suppression of sexual- ity that have not been analyzed. There's the exclusion of the insane. There is, up to a certain point, the exclusion whereby we short-circuit those who are sick and reintegrate them in a sort of marginal circuit, the medical circuit. And there is the student: to a certain extent he is caught similarly inside a circuit which possesses a dual function. First, a function of exclusion. The student is put outside of society, on a campus.
Furthermore, he is excluded while being transmitted a knowl- edge traditional in nature, obsolete, "academic" and not di- rectly tied to the needs and problems of today. This exclusion is underscored by the organization, around the student, of so- cial mechanisms which are fictitious, artificial and quasi-theat- rical (hierarchic relationships, academic exercises, the "court" of examination, evaluation). Finally, the student is given a gamelike way of life; he is offered a kind of distraction, amusement, freedom which, again, has nothing to do with real life; it is this kind of artificial, theatrical society, a society of cardboard, that is being built around him; and thanks to this.
? 66 Rituals of Exclusion
? young people from 18 to 25 are thus, as it were, neutralized by and for society, rendered safe, ineffective, socially and politi- cally castrated. There is the first function of the university: to put students out of circulation. Its second function, however, is one of integration. Once a student has spent six or seven years of his life within this artificial society, he becomes "absorb- able": society can consume him. Insidiously, he will have re- ceived the values of this society. He will have been given socially desirable models of behavior, so that this ritual of exclusion will finally take on the value of inclusion and recu- peration or reabsorption. In this sense, the university is no doubt little different from those systems in so-called primitive societies in which the young men are kept outside the village during their adolescence, undergoing rituals of initiation which separate them and sever all contact between them and real, active society. At the end of the specified time, they can be entirely recuperated or reabsorbed.
Q: Could you then study the university the way you studied hospitals? Hasn't the system of the university changed somewhat? For example, are there not in recent history, and for various reasons, exclusions that were initiated by the ex- cluded themselves?
? MF: What I have just said is obviously only a very rough outline: it needs to be tightened up, for the mode of exclusion of students was certainly different in the nineteenth from that in the twentieth century. In the nineteenth century, higher education was only for the children of the bourgeoisie, or that fiinge of the petite-bourgeoisie which the higher eche- lon needed for its industry, its scientific development, its tech- nical skills, etc. Universities now have a greater number of students from poorer groups of the petite-bourgeoisie. Thus we have, inside the university, explosive conflicts between, on
? ? Rituals of Exclusion 67
? the one hand, a lower-middle class which finds itself politi- cally and socially more and more proletarianized by the very development of this higher bourgeoisie, for its development depends upon technology and science, that is, upon those con- tributions to it that are made by students and scientists sought from the ranks of the lower-middle class. This end result is that the upper-middle class, in its universities, recruits and enrolls, in order to make them scientists or technicians, people already undergoing a proletarian conversion and who conse- quently arrive at the university bearing a revolutionary poten- tial: the enemy is within the gates.
? So the status of the university becomes problemati- cal. The upper-middle class must see to it that universities remain environments of exclusion where students are cut off from their real milieu, that is, from one which is undergoing a proletarian change. Concomitantly, universities must increas- ingly provide rituals of inclusion inside a system of capitalistic norms. Thus we have the strengthening of the old traditional university, with its character of both theatricality and initia- tion. However, as soon as they enter the system, students un- derstand that they are being played with, that someone is trying to tum them against their true origins and surroundings; there follows a political awareness, and the revolutionary ex- plosion.
? Q: Aesthetics aside, do you see in what's happening in the university a parallel with Peter Weiss's play, MaratSade^--there also is a director-producer who sought to put on a play acted out by mental patients who try to tum the play against the spectators?
MF: That's a very interesting reference. I believe that play tells what is happening now better than many theo- retical essays. When Sade was an inmate at Charenton, he
? ? 68 Rituals of Exclusion
? wanted to have plays acted by the inmates. In Sade's mind, his plays were to question his own confinement; in fact, what happened was that the inmates acting out his plays questioned not only the system of confinement, but the system of oppres- sion, the values which Sade enforced upon them as he made them act out his plays. To a certain extent, Sade plays today's professor, the liberal professor who says to his students, "Well, why don't you just question all the bourgeois values they want to impose upon you," and the students, acting out this theater of academic liberalism, end up questioning the professor himself.
? Q: This is just what I wanted to ask you about the relation between faculty and students: are not professors in a way themselves excluded? After all, professors and adminis- trators live in the university community as well as students. Of course, one could say that administrators are only representa- tives of society, but in most cases, they are professors who have become administrators, and often temporarily. Are there differences between faculty and students?
? MF: I don't know the American university system well enough to give you even the beginning of an answer. In France, a professor is a public official and therefore is a part of the state apparatus. Whatever personal opinions he may hold, the professor, as a public official, maintains the system of transmission of knowledge required by the government, that is, by the bourgeois class whose interests are represented by the government. In the United States, it is probably different because of the open market for professors. I don't know whether the American academic is more threatened, more ex- ploited, or more ready to accept the values imposed upon him. The position of professor is almost untenable at the present, as is perhaps that of the lower-middle class: are not professors
? Rituals of Exclusion 69
? the most striking manifestation of this class which, in the nine- teenth century, at least in France, succeeded in having the upper-middle class delegate to it the right to exercise power? There existed what has been called a republic of professors, and the political framework of the Third Republic was bor- rowed directly from the teaching profession, or from profes- sions of the same type, physicians, lawyers, etc. Now that the Republic is functioning in a quite different framework, the lower-middle class in France is losing all control of the state apparatus. Therein lies its sense of misfortune, and its simulta- neous wavering between the temptation to join the students and their revolutionary struggle, and the temptation to regain power, to seduce once more that upper-middle class which no longer is willing to accept it except in a role as technician.
? Q: Before coming to Buffalo, you were teaching at Vincennes, an avant-garde university, talked about by some as being in complete chaos, seeking to adapt itself to the process you just described. You were saying that the position of pro- fessor is becominf untenable--from this perspective, on com- ing from Vincennes to Buffalo, did you find yourself in a strange, exotic land?
? MF: When I arrived in Buffalo, I thought that I still was in Vincennes: in spite of relatively superficial differences in behavior, dress, gestures and speech, it seemed to me that the same struggle was being waged in France and the United States. However, I believe that, as far as tactics and political strategy are concerned, American students are in a much dif- ferent position from their French counterparts. French stu- dents, in fact, have to deal with a large, organized working class which, through its unions and political organizations, clamors its allegiance to Marxism: French workers are perhaps ready to listen to students and understand their struggle, but at
? 70 Rituals of Exclusion
? the same time, French students have to fight the conservative influence of the Communist Party and the C. G. T. ^ The situ- ation of American students appears very different: it seems to me that the working class in America relates less easily to the students' cause. It must be more difficult for an American student to militate together with workers. On the other hand, the advantage in America is that there are no great conserva- tive forces like the Communist Party and the C. G. T. In prohib- iting and prosecuting the Communist Party for so many years,
? I think that the American government rendered, in a sense, a sort of service to the revolutionary cause; it kept open the possibility of ties between the students and the workers. Obvi- ously, there is also in America a specific stress point, the racial problem that we also have in France, but on a much smaller scale (one must not forget that there is in France a rather sizable group of African, Algerian or black workers constitut- ing a numerically important subproletariat).
? Q: Has there been an intensified chauvinism in France in the last few years, an increased refusal of anything that comes from the outside? It's true that America is a melt- ing pot; does it make a difference?
? MF: Well, it seems to me that, at least in intellectual circles, one does not encounter in America the unbearable chauvinism one finds in France. One must not forget that we are a small country caught between the two great models, the United States on the one hand and the Soviet Union on the other. We had to struggle for a long time against these two models. It was the Communist Party which suggested and im- posed the Russian one, and the struggle against the Party's conservative influence brought a somewhat systematic refusal of the Soviet model; on the other hand, a certain liberal bour- geoisie tied up with American interests never stopped putting
? Rituals of Exclusion 71
? forward the American model, against which it was also neces- sary to struggle. At that moment, I think, the mechanisms of chauvinism appeared inside the French Left. These are mecha- nisms that are not always conscious; they manifest themselves by a game of exclusion, of refusal and oversight. American literature, for instance, is very httle read in France. One does not read American philosophy, history and criticism at all; American books are translated after an enormous delay. One must not allow the struggle against American economic influ- ence and relations to affect relations with American intellectu- als. We must have a selective nationalism. I believe that a small country like France is necessarily bound to be somewhat nationalistic in its politics and economy if it wants to preserve some degree of independence; on the other hand, we must understand that a struggle which today is ideological but will become some day openly revolutionary is tuming up in every comer of the world. Cultural chauvinism must be abandoned.
? Q: This has been your first trip to America, your first teaching assignment in an American university. In relation to the cultural change which you just spoke about, how will these two months affect you?
? MF: My problem is essentially the definition of the implicit systems in which we find ourselves prisoners; what I would like to grasp is the system of limits and exclusion which we practice without knowing it; I would like to make the cultural unconscious apparent. Therefore, the more I travel, the more I remove myself from my natural and hibitual centers of gravity, the greater my chance of grasping the foundations I am obviously standing on. To that extent any trip--not of course in the sense of a sightseeing trip nor even a survey-- any movement away from my original frame of reference, is fiiiitful. It is always good for me to change language and
? 72 Rituals of Exclusion
? country. A simple example; in New York I was struck, as any foreigner would be, by the immediate contrast between the "good sections" and the poverty, even the misery, that sur- round them on the right and the left. North and South. I well know that one finds that same contrast in Europe, and that you too, when in Europe, are certainly shocked by the great misery in the poor sections of Paris, Hamburg or London, it doesn't matter where. Having lived in Europe for years, I had lost a sense of this contrast and had ended up believing that there had been a general rise in the standard of living of the whole population; I wasn't far from imagining that the proletariat was becoming middle class, that there were really no more poor people, that the social struggle, the struggle between classes, consequently, was coming to an end. Well, seeing New York, perceiving again suddenly this vivid contrast that exists everywhere but which was blotted out of my eyes by familiar forms of it, that was for me a kind of second revela- tion; the class struggle still exists, it exists more intensely. A
? Notes
? ' Peter Weiss, The Persecution and Assassination of Jean- Paul Marat, as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton, under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade, Translated by Geoffrey Skelton and Adrian Mitchell, (New York; Atheneum, 1966).
? 2 The C. G. T. (General Confederation of Workers) is a power- ful trade-union very close to the French Communist Party. Cf. A. Beiden Fields, Trotskyism and Maoism: Theory and Practice in France and the United States (New York; Au- tonomedia, 1988).
? 7
An Historian of Culture
?
? Q: So you refuse psychology.
? MF: Absolutely. One must be able to make an his- torical analysis of the transformation of discourse without hav-
? The Archeology of Knowledge 47
? ing recourse to the thought of men, to their mode of percep- tion, their habits and the influences to which they have sub- mitted, etc.
Q: You begin your book with the observation that history and the human sciences have been inversely trans- formed. Instead of searching for the events that would consti- tute the ruptures, history now searches for continuities, whereas the human sciences search for discontinuities.
? MF: Indeed, historians today--and I am thinking of course of the Annales school, Marc Bloch, Lucien Febvre, Ferdnand Braudel--have tried to enlarge the periodizations that historians usually make. Braudel, for example, has suc- ceeded in defining a notion of material civilization that would have an extremely slow evolution: the material universe of European peasants from the end of the Middle Ages to the 18th century--the landscape, techniques, tools and crafted ob- jects, their customs--^has been modified in an extremely slow manner; one might say that it has developed on a very gradual incline. These great blocks, much more massive than the events one ordinarily isolates, have now become part of the objects that historians can describe. Thus one sees large conti- nuities appearing that until this work had never been isolated. On the other hand, the historians of ideas and of the sciences, who used to speak above all in terms of the continuous prog- ress of reason, of the progressive advent of rationalism, etc. , now insist on discontinuities and ruptures. For example, the break between Aristotelian and Galilean physics, the absolute eruption represented by the birth of chemistry at the end of the 18th century. It's from this paradox that I started: the regular historians were revealing continuities, while the historians of ideas were liberating discontinuities. But I believe that they are two symmetrical and inverse effects of the same methodo- logical renewal of history in general.
? 48 The Archeology of Knowledge
Q: Which is to say that when you attack those who mythologize history, by showing that they are attaching themselves again to the traditional philosophy of transcenden- tal consciousness, of man as sovereign, you attack them on their own ground, which is that of history. Whereas the stru- cturalists, who attack them equally, do it on another terrain.
MF: I don't believe that the structuralists have ever attacked the historians, but a certain historicism, a certain reaction and historicist mistrust with which their work col- lided. A certain number of traditional thinkers have been fiightened by structural analysis. Not, to be sure, because one began to analyze the formal relations among indifferent elements; that was done a long time ago, and there was no cause for alarm. But these traditional thinkers felt very strongly that what was in question was the status of the sub- ject. If it is true that language and the unconscious can be analyzed in structural terms, then what is there of this famous speaking subject, this man reputed to put language to work, to speak it, to transform it, to make it live! What is there of this man, reputed to have an unconscious, capable of becoming conscious of this unconscious, of assuming its burden and making a history of his fate! I believe that the belligerence or in any case the bad feelings that structuralism raised among the traditionalists was linked to the fact that they felt that the status of the subject had been put back into question.
? And they sought refuge on a terrain that appeared for their cause, infinitely more solid, that of history. And they said: let's admit that a language, considered outside its histori- cal evolution, outside of its development, consists in effect of a set of relations; let's admit that the unconscious in an indi- vidual functions Uke a structure or set of structures, that the unconscious can be located starting ft-om structural facts; there is at least one thing on which the structure will never catch:
? The Archeology of Knowledge 49
? that's history. For there is a becoming (devenir) that structural analysis will never account for, a progress which on the one hand is made of a continuity, whereas the structure by defini- tion is discontinuous, and on the other hand is made by a subject: man himself, or humanity, or consciousness, or rea- son, it matters little. For them, there is an absolute subject of history that makes history, that assures its continuity, that is the author and guarantor of this continuity. As for the struc- tural analyses, they can never take place but in the synchronic cross section cut out from this continuity of history subject to man's sovereignty.
? When one tries to put into question the primacy of the subject in the very domain of history, then there is a new panic amongst all the old faithfiil, for that was their line of defense, the point from which they could limit structural analysis--stop the "cancer"--by restricting the power of its disturbance. If, in regard to history, and precisely in regard to the history of knowledge (savoir) or of reason, one manages to show that it doesn't at all obey the same model as conscious- ness; if one succeeds in showing that the time of knowledge or of discourse is not at all organized or laid out like the time of lived experience, that it presents discontinuities and specific transformations; if finally, one shows that there is no need to pass through the subject, through man as subject, in order to analyze the history of knowledge (connaissance), one raises great difficulties, but one touches perhaps on an important problem.
? Q: As a result, you were led to challenge the philoso- phy of the last two hundred years, or, what is worse for it, to leave it aside.
? MF: Indeed, at present this whole philosophy, which since Descartes has given primacy to the subject, is falling apart before our eyes.
? 50 The Archeology of Knowledge
Q: And do you date the onset of this decline from Nietzsche?
MF: It seems to me that one could fix this moment starting from Marx, Nietzsche and Freud.
Q: In addition, in your book, you denounce the an- thropologizing interpretation of Marx and the interpretation of Nietzsche in terms of a transcendental consciousness as a re- fusal to take into consideration what is new in their contri- butions.
MF: Exactly.
Q: I quote the following passage irom your introduc- tion; "To make of historical analysis the discourse of continu- ity and to make of human consciousness the originary subject of all progress and of every practice are two phases of the same system of thought, where time is conceived in terms of totalization and revolutions are never but the assumptions of consciousness. " Aren't you directly attacking Sartre there, all the more as the assumption of consciousness and totalization belong especially to his vocabulary?
MF: In using those words Sartre only takes up a general style of analysis that one can find in the work of Lucien Goldmann, Georg Luka? cs, Dilthey and the Hegelians of the 19th century. The words are certainly not specific to Sartre.
? Q: Sartre would simply be one of the end points of this transcendental philosphy that is falling apart?
MF: That's right.
? ? The Archeology of Knowledge 51
? Q; But apart from the structuralists, who find them- selves in a position analogous to your own, there are few philosophers who are conscious of the end of transcendental philosophy.
MF: On the contrary, I believe there are many, among whom I would put Gilles Deleuze in the first rank. '
Q: When, in The Order of Things, you wrote that man is to be cast aside, you unleashed "diverse movements. " Yet, in The Archeology of Knowledge, you say that not only things but even words are to be cast aside.
? MF: That's what I meant. My title The Order of Things (Les mots et les choses) was perfecdy ironic. No one saw it clearly; doubtlessly because there wasn't enough play in my text for the irony to be sufficiently visible. There is a problem: how can it happen that real things, things that are perceived, can come to be articulated by words within a dis- course. Is it that words impose on us the outline of things, or is it that things, through some operation of the subject, come to be transcribed on the surface of words. That's not at all the old problem that I wanted to treat in The Order of Things. I wanted to displace it: to analyze the discourses themselves, that is, these discursive practices that are intermediary between words and things; these discursive practices starting from which one can define what are the things and mark out the usage of words. Let's take a very simple example. In the
17th century the naturalists multiplied the descriptions of plants and animals. One can write a history of these descrip- tions in two ways. Either by starting with things and saying: the animals being what they are, the plants being such as we see them, how is it that the peo pie of the 17th and 18th centu- ries saw them and described them? What did they observe?
? 52 The Archeology of Knowledge
What did they omit? What have they seen, what have they not seen? Or one can do the analysis in the inverse direction, by establishing the semantic field of the 17th and 18th centuries, by seeing what words and consequently what concepts they then had available, what the rules of usage for these words were, and starting from there, determining what grille or pat- tern was placed over the whole set of plants and animals. These are the two traditional analyses.
I have tried to do something else, to show that in a discourse, as in natural history, there were rules of formation for objects (which are not the rules of utilization for words), rules of formation for concepts (which are not the laws of syntax), rules of formation for theories (which are neither deductive nor rhetorical rules). These are the rules put into operation through a discursive practice at a given moment that explain why a certain thing is seen (or omitted); why it is envisaged under such an aspect and analyzed at such a level; why such a word is employed with such a meaning and in such a sentence. Consequendy, the analysis starting from things and the analysis starting from words appear at this moment as secondary in relation to a prior analysis, which would be the discursive analysis.
In my book there are no analyses of words and no analyses of things. And a number of people--the oafs and hedgehoppers--^have said it's scandalous, that in a book called Les mots et les choses there are no "things. " And the more subtle ones have said that there is no semantic analysis. Well, to be sure: I didn't want to do either.
? Q: Since your scientific trajectory begins with a sort of empirical groping, how did you arrive--^by what itinerary-- at this completely theoretical book which is The Archeology of Knowledge?
? ? The Archeology of Knowledge 53
? MF; Yes, of course, it started with empirical research on madness, sickness and mental illness, on medicine in the 18th and 19th centuries, and on the set of discipUnes (natural history, general grammar, and the exchange of money) that I treated in The Order of Things. Why has this research led me to construct the theoretical machinery of The Archeology of Knowledge, which seems to me to be a rather difficult book for the reader? I encountered several problems: when one did a history of the sciences one treated in a privileged, almost exclusive fashion the beautifiil, very formal sciences like mathematics arid theoretical physics. But when one broached disciplines like the empirical sciences, one was very con- stricted, most often being content with a sort of inventory of discoveries; it was said that these disciplines were only in sum a mix of truths and errors; in these knowledges that are so imprecise, the minds of men, their prejudices, mental habits and the influences to which they submit, the images in their heads, their dreams--^all that prevents them from acceding to the truth; and the history of these sciences was finally only the history of the mixture of these massive and numerous errors with some nuggets of truth, the problem being to know how one day someone had discovered a nugget.
Such a description bothers me for several reasons. First because, in the real historical life of men, these famous empirical sciences that the historians or the epistemologists neglect have a colossal importance. The progress of medicine has had consequences for human life, for the human species, for the eonomy of societies, and for the social organization certainly as great as those that the discoveries of theoretical physics have had. I regretted that these empirical sciences had not been studied.
? On the other hand, it seemed interesting to me to study these empirical sciences insofar as they are more closely linked to social practices than the theoretical sciences are. For
? ? 54 The Archeology of Knowledge
example, medicine or political economy are disciplines per- haps lacking a high degree of scientificity, compared to mathematics; but their articulations onto social practices are very numerous and that's precisely what interested me. The Archeology that I just described is a kind of theory for a his- tory of empirical knowledge (savoir).
Q: Hence your choice, for example, of a history of madness (Madness and Civilization).
MF: Exactly.
Q; The advantage of your method, among others, is thus to function in two dimensions: diachronically and syn- chronically. For example, for Madness and Civilization (His- toire de lafolie) you go back in time and study the modifica- tions, whereas in the case of natural history in the 17th and 18th centuries, in The Order of Things, you study this science in a state that is not completely static, but more immobile.
? MF: Not exactly immobile. I tried to define the transformations: to show the discoveries, inventions, changes of perspective and theoretical upheavals that could occur start- ing from a certain system of regularities. One can show for ex- ample what makes possible the appearance of the idea of evo- lution in the 18th century in the discursive practice of natural history; or what makes possible the emergence of a theory of the organism, which was unknown to the first naturalists. Thus when certain people, happily very few in number, accused me of only describing states of knowledge and not the transforma- tions, it was simply because they hadn't read the book. If they had, if only leafing through it in a cursory fashion, they would have seen that it deals only with transformations and with the order in which these transformations occur.
? The Archeology of Knowledge 55
? Q: Your method studies the practice of discourse, a method that you base, in The Archeology of Knowledge, on the statement, which you distinguish radically from the grammatical sentence and the logical proposition. What do you mean by the statement (e? nonce? )!
MF: The sentence is a grammatical unity of ele- ments linked together by Unguistic rules. What the logicians call a proposition is a set of symbols constructed such that one can say if it is true or false, correct or not. What I call a state- ment is a set of signs that can be a sentence or a proposition, but envisaged at the level of its existence.
Q: You deny being a structuralist even if for the common consciousness you are part of the group. But your methodology has two points in common with the structural method: the refusal of an anthropological discourse and the absence of a speaking subject. Insofar as what is in question is the place and status of man, that is, of the subject, don't you align yourself automatically on the side of the structuralists?
? MF: I think that structuralism is inscribed today within a great transformation of knowledge (savoir) in the human sciences, and that this transformation is directed less toward the analysis of structures than toward the putting into question of the anthropological status, the status of the subject, and the privileges of man. And my method is inscribed within the framework of this transformation in the same way that structuralism is--along side of the latter but not in it.
? Q: You speak of structuralism's "legitimate limits. " Yet, one has the impression that structuralism tends to absorb everything: myths with Le? vi-Strauss, the unconscious with La- can, then hterary criticism--^all the human sciences pass through it.
? 56 The Archeology of Knowledge
? MF: I don't have to speak for the structuralists. But it seems to me that one could say this in response to your question: structuralism is a method of which the field of appU- cation is not defined a priori. What is defined at the start are the rules of the method and the level at which one inserts one- self in order to apply them. It may very well be that one can do structural analyses in domains that are absolutely unfore- seen at this point. I don't believe that one can set a priori limits to the expanse of this research. A
? Translated by John Johnston
? Note
? 'Gilles Deleuze is the author (with Fe? lix Guattari) of Capital- ism and Schizophrenia: Anti-Oedipus, trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem, Helen R. Lane (New York; Viking, 1977), and A Thousand Plateaus, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis; Univ. of Minnesota Press, 1987). See also On the Line and Nomadology: The War Machine (New York; Semiotext(e) Foreign Agents Series, 1983 and 1987.
? 5
The Birth of a World
? Q; Michel Foucault, you are known today as one of the great theoreticians of the immense field of investigations constituted by epistemology, and above all as the author of two books enthusiastically received by a vast pubHc: Madness and Civilization and The Order of Things. You just recently published The Archeology of Knowledge. If you are willing I would like for you to try to specify what unites them.
? MF: The three books that I wrote before this last one--Madness and Civilization, The Order of Things and The Birth of the Clinic--I wrote in a state of happy semi-con- sciousness, with a great deal of naivete and a little innocence. At the last moment, while editing The Order of Things, I real- ized that these three series of studies were not unrelated and that, moreover, they raised a large number of problems and difficulties, so much in fact that even before finishing The Order of Things I felt obliged to write another book which would clarify the unity of the preceding ones and which would attempt to resolve the problems raised. When I became aware of this I was very disappointed. When writing one always thinks that it's the last time, but in fact it's not true. The ques- tions posed and the objections made have forced me to go
? 58 The Birth of a World
? back to work, reasonably stimulated, either out of amusement or interest, and sometimes out of irritation. This book. The Archeology of Knowledge, is at once a resumption of what I have already attempted, motivated by the desire to correct the inaccuracies and carelessness contained in the precedent books, and an attempt to trace in advance the path of a later work that I really hope never to write, owing to unforeseen circumstances!
Q: Could you clarify this concept of archeology which is essential to your undertaking?
MF: I have used it as a play on words to designate something that would be the description of the archive and not at all the discovery of a beginning or the bringing to light of the bones of the past.
By the archives, I intend first the mass of things spoken in a culture, conserved, valorized, re-used, repeated and transformed. In brief, this whole verbal mass that has been fashioned by men, invested in their techniques and in their institutions and woven into their existence and their history. I envisage this mass of things said not on the side of language and the linguistic system that they put to work, but on the side of the operations which give it birth. My problem could be stated as follows: How does it happen that at a given period one could say this and that something else has never been said? It is, in a word, the analysis of the historical conditions that account for what one says or of what one rejects, or of what one transforms in the mass of spoken things.
The "archive" appears then as a kind of great practice of discourse, a practice which has its rules, its conditions, its functioning and its effects.
The problems posed by the analysis of this practice are the following:
? ? The Birth of a World 59
? ? What are the different particular types of discursive practice that one can find in a given period?
? ? What are the relationships that one can establish be- tween these different practices?
? ? What relationships do they have with non-discur- sive practices, such as political, social or economic practices?
? ? What are the transformations of which these prac- tices are susceptible?
? Q: You have been reproached--I am thinking of Sartre in particular--^for wanting to substitute archeology for history, for replacing "the cinema with the magic lantern" (Sartre). Is your vision the opposite of a historical and dialec- tical thought like Sartre's? How does it contradict the latter's?
? MF: I am completely opposed to a certain concep- tion of history which takes for its model a kind of great con- tinuous and homogenous evolution, a sort of great mythic life.
?
Historians now know very well that the mass of his- toric documents can be combined according to different modes which have neither the same traits nor the same kind of evolution. The history of material civilization (fanning tech- niques, habitat, domestic tools, means of transport) doesn't un- fold in the same marmer as the history of political institutions or as the history of monetary flows. What March Bloch, Febvre and Braudel have shown for history tout court can be shown, I think, for the history of ideas, of knowledge (connaissance), and of thought in general. Thus it is possible to write a history of general paralysis, the history of Pasteur's thought; but one can also, at a level that has been rather ne- glected until the present, undertake the analysis of medical discourse in the 19th century or in the modem era. This his-
tory will not be one of discoveries and of errors, it will not be one of influences and originalities, but the history of condi-
? 60 The Birth of a World
? tions that make possible the appearance, the functioning and the transformation of medical discourse.
? I am also opposed to a form of history which assumes change as a given and which proposes itself as the task of discovering its cause. I believe that there is a preliminary task for the historian, more modest if you like, or more radical, which consists in posing the question of what this change constitutes exactly. This means:
? Are there not between several levels of change cer- tain modifications that are immediately visible, that leap to the eye as highly individualized events, and certain others, very exact however, that are located at buried levels where they appear much less evident? In other words, the first task is to distinguish different types of events. The second is to define the transformations that have actually been produced, the sys- tem according to which certain variables have remained con- stant while others have been modified. For the great myth- ology of change, evolution and the perpetuum mobile we must substitute a serious description of types of events and systems of transformation, and the establishment of series and series of series. Obviously this is not cinema.
? Q: Your work has often been brought together with the research of Claude Le? vi-Strauss and Jacques Lacan under the label of "structuralism. " To what extent do you accept this grouping? Is there a real convergence in your different re- searches?
? MF: It's for those who use the label to designate very diverse works to say what makes us "structuralists. " You know the joke: what's the difference between Bernard Shaw
and Charlie Chaplin? There is no difference, since they both have a beard, with the exception of Chaplin of course.
? The Birth of a World 61
? Q: In The Order of Things you speak of the "death of man," which has provoked vivid emotional reactions and innu- merable controversies among our good humanists. What do you think of all this?
? MF: The death of man is nothing to get particularly excited about. It's one of the visible forms of a much more general decease, if you like. I don't mean by it the death of god but the death of the subject, of the Subject in capital letters, of the subject as origin and foundation of Knowledge (savoir), of Liberty, of Language and History.
One can say that all of Western civilization has been subjugated (assujettie), and philosophers have only certified the fact by referring all thought and all truth to consciousness, to the Self, to the Subject. In the rumbling that shakes us today, perhaps we have to recognize the birth of a world where the subject is not one but split, not sovereign but de- pendent, not an absolute origin but a function ceaselessly modified. ?
? Rituals of Exclusion
? Q: Mr. Foucault, it's been said that you've given us a new way of studying events. You've formulated an archeology of knowledge, the sciences of man, objectifying literary, or non-literary, documents of a period, and treating them as "ar- chives. " And you're also interested in current politics. How do you live out your science; how do you apply it to what's going on today? In other words, how do you uncover today's dis- course? How do you perceive changes taking place at this moment?
? MF; In the first place, I am not at all sure that I have invented a new method, as you were so kind to assert; what I am doing is not so different from many other contemporary endeavors, American, English, French, German. I claim no originality. It is true, though, that I have dealt especially with phenomena of the past; the system of exclusion and the con- finement of the insane in European civilization from the six- teenth to the nineteenth century, the establishment of medical science and practice at the beginning of the nineteenth cen- tury, the organization of sciences of man in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. But I was interested in them--^in fact, profoundly interested--^because I saw in them ways of think- ing and behaving that are still with us.
? 64 Rituals of Exclusion
I try to show, based upon their historical establish- ment and formation, those systems which are still ours today and within which we are trapped. It is a question, basically, of presenting a critique of our own time, based upon retrospec- tive analyses.
Q: In terms of what's been happening in higher edu- cation around the world, do you see us, yourself, all of us, im- prisoned in some kind of system?
? MF: The form in which societies pass on knowledge is determined by a complex system: it hasn't yet been fully analyzed, but it seems to me that the system is being shattered; more under the influence of a revolutionary movement, in fact, than of mere theoretical or speculative criticism. There's a sig- nificant difference between the insane and the sick on the one hand, and students on the other, in this respect: in our society it is difficult for the insane who are confined or the sick who are hospitalized to make their own revolution; so we have to question these systems of exclusion of the sick and the insane from the outside, through a technique of critical demolition. The university sytstem, however, can be put into question by the students themselves. At that point criticism coming from the outside, from theoreticians, historians or archivists, is no longer enough. And the students become their own archivists.
? Q: Several years ago, a document appeared here called The Student as Nigger. Are there parallels aside from the m^ter-slave relationship between the student as an ex- cluded figure and the madman? And are there other "pariahs" defmed and set by society in order to maintain its own ration- ality and cohesion?
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? MF: Your question is far-reaching and difficult to answer. At any rate, it concerns me greatly because it points essentially in the same direction as my work. Until now, it seems to me that historians of our own society, of our own civilization, have sought especially to get at the inner secret of our civilization, its spirit, the way it estabUshes its identity, the things it values. On the other hand, there has been much less study of what has been rejected from our civilization. It seemed to me intersting to try to understand our society and civilization in terms of its sytems of exclusion, of rejection, of refusal, in terms of what it does not want, its limits, the way it is obliged to suppress a certain number of things, people, proc- esses, what it must let fall into oblivion, its repression-sup- pression system. I know very well that many thinkers--though if only since Freud--have already tackled the problem. But I think there are exclusions other than the suppression of sexual- ity that have not been analyzed. There's the exclusion of the insane. There is, up to a certain point, the exclusion whereby we short-circuit those who are sick and reintegrate them in a sort of marginal circuit, the medical circuit. And there is the student: to a certain extent he is caught similarly inside a circuit which possesses a dual function. First, a function of exclusion. The student is put outside of society, on a campus.
Furthermore, he is excluded while being transmitted a knowl- edge traditional in nature, obsolete, "academic" and not di- rectly tied to the needs and problems of today. This exclusion is underscored by the organization, around the student, of so- cial mechanisms which are fictitious, artificial and quasi-theat- rical (hierarchic relationships, academic exercises, the "court" of examination, evaluation). Finally, the student is given a gamelike way of life; he is offered a kind of distraction, amusement, freedom which, again, has nothing to do with real life; it is this kind of artificial, theatrical society, a society of cardboard, that is being built around him; and thanks to this.
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? young people from 18 to 25 are thus, as it were, neutralized by and for society, rendered safe, ineffective, socially and politi- cally castrated. There is the first function of the university: to put students out of circulation. Its second function, however, is one of integration. Once a student has spent six or seven years of his life within this artificial society, he becomes "absorb- able": society can consume him. Insidiously, he will have re- ceived the values of this society. He will have been given socially desirable models of behavior, so that this ritual of exclusion will finally take on the value of inclusion and recu- peration or reabsorption. In this sense, the university is no doubt little different from those systems in so-called primitive societies in which the young men are kept outside the village during their adolescence, undergoing rituals of initiation which separate them and sever all contact between them and real, active society. At the end of the specified time, they can be entirely recuperated or reabsorbed.
Q: Could you then study the university the way you studied hospitals? Hasn't the system of the university changed somewhat? For example, are there not in recent history, and for various reasons, exclusions that were initiated by the ex- cluded themselves?
? MF: What I have just said is obviously only a very rough outline: it needs to be tightened up, for the mode of exclusion of students was certainly different in the nineteenth from that in the twentieth century. In the nineteenth century, higher education was only for the children of the bourgeoisie, or that fiinge of the petite-bourgeoisie which the higher eche- lon needed for its industry, its scientific development, its tech- nical skills, etc. Universities now have a greater number of students from poorer groups of the petite-bourgeoisie. Thus we have, inside the university, explosive conflicts between, on
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? the one hand, a lower-middle class which finds itself politi- cally and socially more and more proletarianized by the very development of this higher bourgeoisie, for its development depends upon technology and science, that is, upon those con- tributions to it that are made by students and scientists sought from the ranks of the lower-middle class. This end result is that the upper-middle class, in its universities, recruits and enrolls, in order to make them scientists or technicians, people already undergoing a proletarian conversion and who conse- quently arrive at the university bearing a revolutionary poten- tial: the enemy is within the gates.
? So the status of the university becomes problemati- cal. The upper-middle class must see to it that universities remain environments of exclusion where students are cut off from their real milieu, that is, from one which is undergoing a proletarian change. Concomitantly, universities must increas- ingly provide rituals of inclusion inside a system of capitalistic norms. Thus we have the strengthening of the old traditional university, with its character of both theatricality and initia- tion. However, as soon as they enter the system, students un- derstand that they are being played with, that someone is trying to tum them against their true origins and surroundings; there follows a political awareness, and the revolutionary ex- plosion.
? Q: Aesthetics aside, do you see in what's happening in the university a parallel with Peter Weiss's play, MaratSade^--there also is a director-producer who sought to put on a play acted out by mental patients who try to tum the play against the spectators?
MF: That's a very interesting reference. I believe that play tells what is happening now better than many theo- retical essays. When Sade was an inmate at Charenton, he
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? wanted to have plays acted by the inmates. In Sade's mind, his plays were to question his own confinement; in fact, what happened was that the inmates acting out his plays questioned not only the system of confinement, but the system of oppres- sion, the values which Sade enforced upon them as he made them act out his plays. To a certain extent, Sade plays today's professor, the liberal professor who says to his students, "Well, why don't you just question all the bourgeois values they want to impose upon you," and the students, acting out this theater of academic liberalism, end up questioning the professor himself.
? Q: This is just what I wanted to ask you about the relation between faculty and students: are not professors in a way themselves excluded? After all, professors and adminis- trators live in the university community as well as students. Of course, one could say that administrators are only representa- tives of society, but in most cases, they are professors who have become administrators, and often temporarily. Are there differences between faculty and students?
? MF: I don't know the American university system well enough to give you even the beginning of an answer. In France, a professor is a public official and therefore is a part of the state apparatus. Whatever personal opinions he may hold, the professor, as a public official, maintains the system of transmission of knowledge required by the government, that is, by the bourgeois class whose interests are represented by the government. In the United States, it is probably different because of the open market for professors. I don't know whether the American academic is more threatened, more ex- ploited, or more ready to accept the values imposed upon him. The position of professor is almost untenable at the present, as is perhaps that of the lower-middle class: are not professors
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? the most striking manifestation of this class which, in the nine- teenth century, at least in France, succeeded in having the upper-middle class delegate to it the right to exercise power? There existed what has been called a republic of professors, and the political framework of the Third Republic was bor- rowed directly from the teaching profession, or from profes- sions of the same type, physicians, lawyers, etc. Now that the Republic is functioning in a quite different framework, the lower-middle class in France is losing all control of the state apparatus. Therein lies its sense of misfortune, and its simulta- neous wavering between the temptation to join the students and their revolutionary struggle, and the temptation to regain power, to seduce once more that upper-middle class which no longer is willing to accept it except in a role as technician.
? Q: Before coming to Buffalo, you were teaching at Vincennes, an avant-garde university, talked about by some as being in complete chaos, seeking to adapt itself to the process you just described. You were saying that the position of pro- fessor is becominf untenable--from this perspective, on com- ing from Vincennes to Buffalo, did you find yourself in a strange, exotic land?
? MF: When I arrived in Buffalo, I thought that I still was in Vincennes: in spite of relatively superficial differences in behavior, dress, gestures and speech, it seemed to me that the same struggle was being waged in France and the United States. However, I believe that, as far as tactics and political strategy are concerned, American students are in a much dif- ferent position from their French counterparts. French stu- dents, in fact, have to deal with a large, organized working class which, through its unions and political organizations, clamors its allegiance to Marxism: French workers are perhaps ready to listen to students and understand their struggle, but at
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? the same time, French students have to fight the conservative influence of the Communist Party and the C. G. T. ^ The situ- ation of American students appears very different: it seems to me that the working class in America relates less easily to the students' cause. It must be more difficult for an American student to militate together with workers. On the other hand, the advantage in America is that there are no great conserva- tive forces like the Communist Party and the C. G. T. In prohib- iting and prosecuting the Communist Party for so many years,
? I think that the American government rendered, in a sense, a sort of service to the revolutionary cause; it kept open the possibility of ties between the students and the workers. Obvi- ously, there is also in America a specific stress point, the racial problem that we also have in France, but on a much smaller scale (one must not forget that there is in France a rather sizable group of African, Algerian or black workers constitut- ing a numerically important subproletariat).
? Q: Has there been an intensified chauvinism in France in the last few years, an increased refusal of anything that comes from the outside? It's true that America is a melt- ing pot; does it make a difference?
? MF: Well, it seems to me that, at least in intellectual circles, one does not encounter in America the unbearable chauvinism one finds in France. One must not forget that we are a small country caught between the two great models, the United States on the one hand and the Soviet Union on the other. We had to struggle for a long time against these two models. It was the Communist Party which suggested and im- posed the Russian one, and the struggle against the Party's conservative influence brought a somewhat systematic refusal of the Soviet model; on the other hand, a certain liberal bour- geoisie tied up with American interests never stopped putting
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? forward the American model, against which it was also neces- sary to struggle. At that moment, I think, the mechanisms of chauvinism appeared inside the French Left. These are mecha- nisms that are not always conscious; they manifest themselves by a game of exclusion, of refusal and oversight. American literature, for instance, is very httle read in France. One does not read American philosophy, history and criticism at all; American books are translated after an enormous delay. One must not allow the struggle against American economic influ- ence and relations to affect relations with American intellectu- als. We must have a selective nationalism. I believe that a small country like France is necessarily bound to be somewhat nationalistic in its politics and economy if it wants to preserve some degree of independence; on the other hand, we must understand that a struggle which today is ideological but will become some day openly revolutionary is tuming up in every comer of the world. Cultural chauvinism must be abandoned.
? Q: This has been your first trip to America, your first teaching assignment in an American university. In relation to the cultural change which you just spoke about, how will these two months affect you?
? MF: My problem is essentially the definition of the implicit systems in which we find ourselves prisoners; what I would like to grasp is the system of limits and exclusion which we practice without knowing it; I would like to make the cultural unconscious apparent. Therefore, the more I travel, the more I remove myself from my natural and hibitual centers of gravity, the greater my chance of grasping the foundations I am obviously standing on. To that extent any trip--not of course in the sense of a sightseeing trip nor even a survey-- any movement away from my original frame of reference, is fiiiitful. It is always good for me to change language and
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? country. A simple example; in New York I was struck, as any foreigner would be, by the immediate contrast between the "good sections" and the poverty, even the misery, that sur- round them on the right and the left. North and South. I well know that one finds that same contrast in Europe, and that you too, when in Europe, are certainly shocked by the great misery in the poor sections of Paris, Hamburg or London, it doesn't matter where. Having lived in Europe for years, I had lost a sense of this contrast and had ended up believing that there had been a general rise in the standard of living of the whole population; I wasn't far from imagining that the proletariat was becoming middle class, that there were really no more poor people, that the social struggle, the struggle between classes, consequently, was coming to an end. Well, seeing New York, perceiving again suddenly this vivid contrast that exists everywhere but which was blotted out of my eyes by familiar forms of it, that was for me a kind of second revela- tion; the class struggle still exists, it exists more intensely. A
? Notes
? ' Peter Weiss, The Persecution and Assassination of Jean- Paul Marat, as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton, under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade, Translated by Geoffrey Skelton and Adrian Mitchell, (New York; Atheneum, 1966).
? 2 The C. G. T. (General Confederation of Workers) is a power- ful trade-union very close to the French Communist Party. Cf. A. Beiden Fields, Trotskyism and Maoism: Theory and Practice in France and the United States (New York; Au- tonomedia, 1988).
? 7
An Historian of Culture
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