I can indeed define the classical age in its own con-
figuration
through the double difference that opposes it to the 16th century on one hand and to the 19th on the other.
Foucault-Live
16 The Discourse of History
? MF: In what is called the history of ideas one de- scribes change in general by making things easy in two ways:
? (1) One uses concepts which appear to me to be a little magical, like influence, crisis, the coming to conscious- ness {la prise de conscience), the interest taken in a problem, etc. All utilitarian, they do not appear to me to be operating.
? (2) When one encounters a difficulty, one passes from the level of analysis which is that of the statements them- selves to another which is exterior to it. Thus, when con- fronted with a change, a contradiction or an incoherence, one resorts to an explanation in terms of social conditions, mental- ity, vision of the world, etc.
? I wanted, through a methodological move, to do without all that; consequently, I have striven to describe state- ments, entire groups of statements, by making the relations of implication, of opposition and exclusion which could link them appear.
? I am told for example that I have admitted or in- vented an absolute break between the end of the 18th centmry and the beginning of the 19th. In fact, when one carefully examines the scientific discourse of the end of the 18th cen- tury, one notices a very rapid and in truth a very enigmatic change. I wanted to describe this change very precisely, in other words to establish the transformations necessary and suf- ficient for passing from the initial form of scientific disourse, that of the 18th century, to its final form, that of the 19th. The set for transformations that I have defined maintains a certain number of theoretical elements, displaces certain others, sees old ones, disappear and new ones arise; all that allows me to define the rule of passage in the domains 1 have focused upon. What I have wanted to establish is the very contrary of a discontinuity, since I have made manifest the very form of passage from one state to another.
? The Discourse of History 17
? ? ? (2) One can very well reconsider these texts, and the material itself that I have treated, in a description that would
have another periodization and would be situated at another
level. When one makes an archeology of historical knowledge (savoir) for example, it will be necessary to utihze again the
texts on language and to relate them to exegetical techniques,
the criticism of sources, and to all knowledge (savoir) con-
cerning the holy scriptures and the historic tradition; their de- scription will then be different. But these descriptions, if they
are exact, must be such that one can define the transformations
that permit one to pass from one to the other.
In one sense description is therefore infinite, in an- other it is closed, to the extent that it tends to establish a
? Q: I wonder if the equivocation doesn't derive from the difficulty of thinking side by side the terms of the change and passage on the one hand, and the picture and the descrip- tion on the other.
MF: All the same, it's been more than fifty years since we perceived that the task of description was essential in domains like those of history, ethnology and language. After all, mathematical language since Galileo and Newton doesn't function as an explanation of nature but as a description of a process. I don't see why one should contest the attempt of non-formalized disciplines like history to undertake for them- selves the first task of description.
Q: How do you conceive the methodological orienta- tion of this first task?
MF: (1) One must be able, if what I have said is true, to account for and analyze exactly the texts I've discussed according to the same schemes by bringing to them several supplementary transformations.
? ? 18 The Discourse of History
? theoretical model capable of accounting for relations that exist between the discourse studied.
? Q: It would seem that it is precisely this double character of description that by its very nature creates the reti- cence or the bewilderment, since histoiy thus finds itself at once directly grafted onto the infinity of its archives, therefore onto the non-sense proper to every infinity, and mastered in the models whose formal character challenges in its very logic the non-sense belonging to every closure of an internal charac- ter. And the effect is all the more powerful as your book observes an absolute distance towards what one could call "living history," where the practice, whatever the theoretical level at which one sohcits it and the models in which its inde- fatigable diversity can be enclosed, turns the non-sense into a sort of familiarity in a "natural" world of actions and institu- tions. How do you understand this break on which The Order of Things is established?
? MF: In wanting to engage in a rigorous description of the statements themselves, it appeared to me that the do- main of statements very much obeyed certain formal laws, that one could for example discover a single theoretical model for different epistemological domains and that one could, in this sense, infer an autonomy of discouse. But there is no reason for describing this autonomous layer of discourse except to the extent that one can relate it to other layers, practices, institu- tions, social and political relations, etc. It is this relationship that has always haunted me, and in Madness and Civilization and The Birth of the Clinic I wanted precisely to define the different relationships between these different domains. I took for example the epistemological domain of medicine and that of the institutions of repression, of hospitalization, of aid to the unemployed, of administrative control over public health.
? The Discourse of History 19
? etc. But I perceived that things were more complicated than I had believed in the first two works, that the discursive do- mains didn't always obey the structures that had common practical domains and associated institutions, that they obeyed on the other hand structures common to other epistemological domains, that there was something like an isomorphism of discourses for a given period. In such a way that one finds oneself before two axes of perpendicular description: that of theoretical models common to several discourses, and that of relationships between a discursive domain and a non-discur- sive domain. In The Order of Things I traversed the hori- zontal axis, in Madness and Civilization and The Birth of the Clinic the vertical dimension of the figure.
? For the first, let someone undertake to show me, us- ing texts as a basis, that such a theoretical coherence among discourses doesn't exist and a real discussion could begin. As for minimizing the domain of practice, my preceding books are there to show that I am far fi'om doing that; for their relationship I'll refer to an illustrative example. When Du- me? zil demonstrates that the Roman reUgion has an isomorphic relationship with Scandinavian or Celtic legends or some Ira- nian rite, he doesn't mean that Roman religion doesn't have its place within Roman history, that the history of Rome doesn't exist, but that one cannot describe the history of Roman reli- gion, its relationships with institutions, social classes and eco- nomic conditions except by taking into account its internal morphology. In the same way, to demonstrate that the scien- tific discourses of a period stem from a common theoretical model does not mean that they escape history and float in the air as if disembodied and isolated, but that one cannot write the history and the analysis of the functioning of the role of this knowledge (savoir), the conditions that give rise to it, and the manner in which it is rooted in the society without taking into account the force and consistency of these isomorphisms.
? 20 The Discourse of History
? Q: This objectivity that you accord to theoretical models in view of an extensive analysis of history as a science and, for the constitution of these models, to the descriptive logic as such, obliges us to investigate the point of departure of this description, its source in some sense, which amounts in the case of a book as personal as yours to trying to understand the relationship of the author and his text, what place exactly it can, wants to, and must occupy.
? MF: I can't respond to that without plunging into the book itself. If the style of analysis that I tried to formulate in it is admissible, one should be able to define the theoretical model to which not only my book, but those which belong to the same configuration of knowledge (savoir) also belong. No doubt it is one that permits us today to treat history as a set of statements actually articulated, to treat language as an object of description and as a set of relationships in reference to discourse and to statements which make up the object of inter- pretation. It is our period and it alone that makes possible the appearance of this set of texts that treat grammar, natural his- tory and political economy as so many objects.
? So much in fact that the author, in that and only in that, constitutes that of which he speaks. My book is a pure and simple "fiction": it's a novel, but it's not I who invented it; it is the relationship between our period and its epistemo- logical configuration and this mass of statements. So much that the subject is indeed present in the totality of the book, but he is the anonymous "one" who speaks today in all that is said.
? Q: How do you understand the status of this anon- ymous "one"?
MF: Perhaps we are undoing little by little, and not without great difficulty, the great distrust in allegory. I mean
? ? The Discourse of History 21
? by that the simple idea that consists in demanding from a text nothing but what the text says truly beneath what it really says. No doubt that's the heritage of an ancient exegetical tra- dition: underneath everything said, we suspect that another thing is being said. The laic version of this allegorical mistrust has had the effect of assigning to every commentator the task of discovering everywhere the true thought of the author, what he said without saying it, meant without succeeding to say it, wanted to hide and yet allowed to appear. One perceives that today there are many other possibilities for dealing with lan- guage. Thus the contemporary critic--and this is what distin- guishes him from what was done still very recently--^is formu- lating, according to the diverse texts that he smdies, his object- texts, a sort of new combinatory. Instead of reconstituting its immanent secret, he grasps the text as a set of elements (words, metaphors, literary forms, a set of narratives) among which one can make absolutely new relations appear insofar as they have not been mastered by the writer's project and are made possible only through the work as such. The formal relations that one thus discovers were not present in the mind of anyone, they do not constitute the latent content of state- ments, their indiscreet secret; they are a construction, but an exact construction as long as the relations thus described can actually be assigned to the materials treated. We have learned to put the words of men into yet unformulated relationships
stated by us for the first time, and yet objectively exact.
? Thus the contemporary critic is abandoning the great yth of interiority: intimior intimio ejus. He finds himself tally displaced from the old themes of locked enclosures, of e treasure in the box that he habitually sought in the depth of e work's container. Placing himself at the exterior of the xt, he constitutes a new exterior for it, writing texts out of xts.
m to th th te te
? 22 The Discourse of History
? Q: In terms of that description it seems to me that modem literary criticism, in its very richness and multiple contributions, is guilty of marking in one sense a curious regression in relation to one in whom it found the essential of its demands: I mean Maurice Blanchot. For if Blanchot, under the name of "Literature," actually won for the space of modem thought the imperious exteriority of the text, he in no way attributed to himself this facility that tends to avoid the violence of the work as place of the name and of a biography whose secret, precisely, is to be diversely traversed by the irreducible and abstract force of the literamre whose vigorous itinerary Blanchot retraces, in each case, without caring to describe it as such in the logic of its forms, as a more learned critic would want to.
? MF: It's true that it is Blanchot who has made all discourse on hterature possible. First of all because he's the one who has shown above all that works are linked to one another through this exterior face of their language where "lit- erature" appears. Literature is thus what constitutes the outside of every work, what ploughs up every written language and leaves on every text an empty claw mark. It is not a mode of language, but a hollow that traverses like a great movement all literary languages. By making this instance of literature appear as a "common place," an empty space where works come to lodge themselves, I believe that he has assigned to the contem- porary critic what must be his object, what makes his work both of exactitude and invention possible.
? One can affirm on the other hand that Blanchot has made it possible by instituting between the author and the work a mode of relationship that had remained unsuspected. We now know that the work does not belong to the author's project, nor even to the one of his existence, that it maintains with him relationships of negation and destruction, that it is
? The Discourse of History 23
? for him the flowing of an eternal outside, and that yet there exists beween them this primordial function of the name. It is through the name that in a work a modality irreducible to the anonymous murmur of all other languages is marked. It is certain that the contemporary literary critic has not yet really investigated this existence of the name that Blanchot has pro- posed for him. He really ought to deal with it, since the name marks for the work its relations of opposition, of difference with other works, and since it characterizes absolutely the mode of being of the literary work in a culture and in institu- tions like ours. After all, it's now been five or six centuries since the anonymous, apart from exceptional cases, has disap- peared completely from literary language and its functioning.
? Q: It's for that reason, I think, that the lesson of Blan- chot, compared with the technical critiques towards which he maintains an equal distance, finds a more accurate echo in an interpretation of the psychoanalytic type, which maintains it- self by definition in the space of the subject, than in the lin- guistic type of interpretation, where often the risk of mechani- cal abstraction arises.
? What is precisely important and problematic in cer- tain research of the "scientific" type like yours is a somewhat new relationship of familiarity that they appear to maintain with the more explicitly "subjective" works of hterature.
? MF: It would be very interesting to know of what the designatable, "nameable" individuality of a scientific work consists; those of Abel or Lagrange for example are marked by characteristics of writing that individualize them, as surely as a painting by Titian or page of Chateaubriand. And simi- larly for the philosophic or descriptive writings of Linnaeus or Buffon. They are caught up however in the network of all those who speak of "the same thing," who are contemporary to
? 24 The Discourse of History
? them or follow them: this network that envelopes them out- lines these great figures without a social identity that one calls "mathematics," "history," or "biology. "
? The problem of the singularity or the relation be- tween the name and the network is an old problem, but in former times there existed certain kinds of channels and marked paths that separated literary works, works on physics or mathematics and historical works from one another; each one evolved on its own level and in some way in the territory where it was assigned, in spite of a whole set of overlappings, borrowings and resemblances. One can note today that all this dividing up, this separation, is being effaced or being reconsti- tuted in another mode altogether. Thus the relations between linguistics and literary works, between music and mathemat- ics, the discourse of historians and economists are no longer simply of an order of borrowing, imitation or involuntary anal- ogy, nor even of structural isomorphism; these works and pro- gressions are formed in relation to one another and exist for one another. There is a literature of linguistics and not an influence of grammarians on the grammar and the vocabulary of novelists. In the same way, mathematics is not applicable to the construction of musical language, as at the end of the 17th century and the beginning of the 19th; it actually constitutes the formal universe of the musical work itself. In such a way that one is witness to a general and vertiginous effacement of the old distribution of languages.
? One says gladly that nothing else today interests us but language and that it has become the universal object. We must not make a mistake there: this sovereignty is the provi- sional, equivocal, precarious sovereignty of a tribe in migra- tion. Of course we are interested in language; yet it's not that we have finally entered into its possession, but rather that it escapes us more than ever before. Its boundaries have col- lapsed and its calm universe has entered into fusion; and if we
? The Discourse of History 25
? are submerged, it is not so much through its intemporal vigor as through the movement today of its wave.
Q: How do you situate yourself personally in this mutation that pulls the most demanding works of knowledge (savoir) into a sort of novehstic adventure?
MF: In conttast to those whom one calls structural- ists, I am not so interested in the formal possibilities offered by a system like language. Personally I am rather haunted by the existence of discourse, by the fact that particular words have been spoken; these events have functioned in relation to their original situation, they have left traces behind them; they subsist and exercise, in this subsistence even within history, a certain number of manifest or secret functions.
Q: Thus you yield to the passion proper to the histo- rian who wants to respond to the infinite rumor of the ar- chives.
MF: Yes, for my object is not language but the ar- chive, that is to say the accumulated existence of discourse. Archeology, such as I intend it, is kin neither to geology (as analysis of the sub-soil), nor to genealogy (as descriptions of beginnings and sequences); it's the analysis of discourse in its modality of archive.
A nightmare has pursued me since childhood: I have under my eyes a text that I can't read, or of which only a tiny part can be deciphered; I pretend to read it, but I know that I'm inventing; then the text suddenly blurs completely, I can no longer read anything or even invent, my throat constricts and I wake up.
? I don't know what tiiere can be of the personal in this obsession with language, which exists everywhere and escapes
? 26 The Discourse of History
? us in its very survival. It survives by turning its look away from us, its face inclined toward a night of which we know nothing.
? How justify these discourses on discourse that I un- dertake? What status do we give them? One begins to per- ceive, above all on the side of logicians and the students of Russell and Wittgenstein, that language can be analyzed in terms of its formal properties only on the condition of taking account of its concrete functioning. Language is very much a set of structures, but discourses are unities of function, and the analysis of language in its totality cannot fail to confront this essential demand. To this extent what I do is located in the general anonymity of all the research which today turns around language, that is to say not only the language that permits us to speak, but the discourses that have been spoken.
? Q: More precisely, what do you mean by this idea of the anonymous?
? MF: I wonder if we're not discovering again today, in the relationship of the name to the anonymous, a certain transposition of the old classic problem of the individual and the truth, or of the individual and beauty. How is it that an individual bom at a given moment, having such a history and such a face, can discover, by himself and for the first time, some truth, perhaps even the truth? That's the question to which Descartes responds in the Meditations: how could I discover the tmth? And many years later we find it again in the romantic theme of the genius; How can an individual lodged in a fold of history discover the forms of beauty in which the whole trath of a period or of a civilization is ex- pressed? The problem today is no longer posed in these terms: we are no longer in the truth but in the coherence of discourse, no longer in beauty, but in the complex relations of forms. It's
? The Discourse of History 27
? a question now of knowing how an individual, a name, can be the support of an element or group of elements that, in being integrated into the coherence of discourses or the indefinite network of forms, comes to efface or at least to render empty and useless this name, this individuality of which he bears however to a certain point, for a certain time and in certain respects, the mark. We have to conquer the anonymous, to justify for ourselves the enormous presumption of one day finally becoming anonymous, a littie like the classics had to justify for themselves the enormous presumption of having found the truth, and of attaching their names to it. The prob- lem in the past for the one who wrote was to tear himself out of the anonymity of everything; nowadays, it's to succeed in effacing one's own name and of coming to lodge one's voice in this great anonymous murmur of discourses held today.
Q: Does it not seem to you however that it's there, as soon as the movement is pushed to the extreme, that we enter into the double game of affirmation and effacement of the word and silence, of which Blanchot makes the essence of the literary act, when he assigns to the work the chosen function of a rich abode of silence facing the insupportable immensity of speech without which, however, it would not exist? When Le? vi-Strauss says of The Raw and the Cooked:^ "Thus this book on myths, is, in its way, a myth" he has seen the sover- eign impersonality of myth, and yet few books, from this very fact, are as personal as his Mythologies. You are, in a very different way, in a similar situation in relation to history.
MF: What gives books like those which have no other pretension than to be anonymous so many marks of sin- gularity and individuality are not the privileged signs of a style, nor the mark of a singular or individual interpretation, but the rage to apply the eraser by which one meticulously
? 28 The Discourse of History
? effaces all that could refer to a written individuality. Between writers and people who write (e? crivants) there are the effac- ers. (R)
? Bourbaki is at bottom the model. The dream for all of us would be, each in his own domain, to make something like this Bourbaki, where mathematics is elaborated under the ano- nymity of a fantastic name. Perhaps the irreducible difference between research in mathematics and our activities is that the eraser marks intended to attain the anonymous indicate more surely the signature of a name than the ostentatious penholder. And yet one could say that Bourbaki has his style and very much his own way of being anonymous.
? Q: Like your reference to the classic relation of the individual, this leads me to think that the author's position in this kind of research seems like a doubling of that of the philosopher, always ambiguous, between science and litera- ture. In this sense, what do you think is the modem status of philosophy?
MF: It seems to me that philosophy no longer exists; not that it has disappeared, but it has been disseminated into a great number of diverse activities. Thus the activities of the axiomatician, the linguist, the anthropologist, the historian, the revolutionary, the man of politics can be forms of philosophi- cal activity. In the 19th century the reflection that investigated the condition of possibility of objects was philosophical; today philosophy is every activity that makes a new object appear for knowledge or practice--rwhether this activity stems from mathematics, linguistics, anthropology or history.
? Q; Nevertheless, in the last chapter of The Order of Things, where you deal with the human sciences today, you accord to history a privilege over all other disciplines. Would
? The Discourse of History 29
? it therefore be a new way of rediscovering this power of syn- thetic legislation that used to be the proper privilege of philo- sophic thought, and that Heidegger already recognized not as that of traditional philosophy, but as "history of philosophy"?
? MF; Indeed, history does retain, in relation to my investigation, a privileged position. It's because in our culture, at least for several centuries, discourse has been linked to- gether through history as a mode: we receive things which have been spoken as if they come from a past where they succeeded one another, were opposed, influenced, replaced, engendered and accumulated. The cultures "without history" are obviously not those where there was neither event, nor evolution, nor revolution, but where discourses were not added together according history as a mode; they are juxta- posed; they replace one another; they are forgotten; they are transformed. On the other hand, in a culture like ours, every discourse appears against the background of the disappearance of every event.
That's why in studying a set of theoretical discourses concerning language, economy and living beings I did not want to establish a priori the possibilities or impossibilities of such knowledges--this is an element of birth, that of survival, etc. I wanted to do an historian's work by showing the simul- taneous functioning of these discourses and the transforma- tions which accounted for their visible changes.
? But history for all that does not have to play the role of a philosophy of philosophy, to pride itself in being the language of languages, as the historicism which tended to pass to the account of history the legislative and critical power of philosophy wanted it in the 19th century. If history possesses a privilege, it would be rather to the extent to which it would play the role of an internal ethnology of our culture and of our rationality, and would consequently incarnate the very possi- bility of every ethnology.
? 30 The Discourse of History
? Q: I would like, after this long detour, to return to the book, and to ask you the reason for this gap that one senses in your position when one passes from the analysis of the 17th and 18th centuries to that of the 19th and 20th centuries, a gap which has been the object of some of the most lively reserva- tions formulated towards your work.
? MF; Yes, something seems to change with the 19th century in the arrangement of the book. The same thing oc- curred in Madness and Civilization: people assumed that I wanted to attack modem psychiatry and in The Order of Things that I was being polemical towards the thought of the 19th century. In fact there is a very big difference in the two analyses.
I can indeed define the classical age in its own con- figuration through the double difference that opposes it to the 16th century on one hand and to the 19th on the other. On the other hand, I can define the modem age in its singularity only by opposing it to the 17th century on one hand and to us on the other; it is necessary, therefore, in order to be able to continuously establish the division, to make the difference that separates us from them surge up under each one of our sen- tences. From this modem age which begins around 1790-1810 and goes to around 1950, it's a matter of detaching onself, whereas for the classical age it's only a matter of describing it.
? The apparently polemical character stems from the fact that it's a question of hollowing out the whole mass of discourse that's accumulated under our feet. One can discover from a gradual movement the old latent configurations; but as soon as it's a matter of determining the system of discourse within which we are still living, at the moment we are obliged to put into question the words that still resonate in our ears and which are indistinguishable from those we are trying to speak, then the archeologist, like the Nietzschean philosopher, is forced to resort to the blows of the hammer.
? The Discourse of History 31
? Q: The unique and enthusiastic status that you ac- cord to Nietzsche--^is it not the most manifest sign of this irre- mediable gap?
? MF: If I had to begin again this book that I finished two years ago, I would try not to give Nietzsche this ambig- uous status, absolutely privileged and meta-historical, that I gave him out of weakness. It is due to the fact that no doubt my archeology owes more to the Nietzschean genealogy than to structuralism properly called.
? Q: But how, in this case, can you render Nietzsche to the archeologist without the risk of being as false towards the one as towards the other? It seems that there is in the very fact an insurmountable contradiction. I see it, in your book, in the figured form of a conflict in principle between Nietzsche and Las Meninas. For, without resorting to a facile play on your predilection for spatial metaphors, it is clear that the painting proves to be the privileged place, as it is, in one sense, for all structuralism: it is there, I think, that you compare the ano- nymity of the present with that of the 17th century, in the name of an idea of reading that can arrange history in a paint- ing as well as in the Borges text on the Chinese encyclopedia where your book has its "place of birth," in the very move- ment of historical evolution. That's why the 19th century, where history is invented in the form of a gap between signs and men, is the object of debate, and our period the hope of a new resolution through an attempt to re-integrate the historical subject into,the space of the painting in a new anonymity.
? Is not Nietzsche precisely the place where all the signs converge in the irreducible dimension of a subject, an- onymous by dint of being himself, anonymous by dint of in- corporating the totality of voices in the form of a fragmentary
? 32 The Discourse of History
? discourse; and is it not in that the extreme and exemplary form of thought and of all expression as autobiography without re- mainder, which is always lacking in the space of the painting just as in the time of history, where it is and is not, for one cannot say it but in the sense of its own madness and not through recourse to an exterior law? Thus the fact that Nietzsche, and with him a certain truth of literature, escapes your book, which owes him so much and brings so much to him, doesn't this fact bear witness of the impossibility of all discourse at the same level? And even that, in the form of your presence in the book, is it not to the exact measure of the impossible anonymity you don, which to be total, can only signify today a world without the written word or, to the point of madness, the circular literalness of Nietzsche?
? MF: It is difficult to respond to this question; for it is from it, at bottom, that all your questions come, and as a consequence our whole dialogue; it is what supports the pas- sionate interest, a little aloof, that you bring to all that is hap- pening around you, and to the generations that precede you; from this question comes your desire to write and to ask ques- tions. Here then begins the interview with Raymond Bellour conducted by Michel Foucault, an interview that has gone on for several years and from which perhaps one day Les Lettres
franc? aises will publish a fragment. A
? Translated by John Johnston
? The Discourse of History 33
? Notes
Georges Dume? zil inaugurated a new era in the study of Indo- European mythologies and religions.
? Fernand Braudel, Franc? ois Furet, Denis Richet and Emmanuel Leroy-Ladurie belong to the Annales school of French histo- rians, founded by Marc Bloch and Lucien Febvre in 1929, which champions the study of "total history". See Braudel's The Mediterranean and the Mediterranen World in the Age of Philip II (New York: Harper & Row, 1976), and Leroy- Ladurie's The Mind and Method of the Historian (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1981),
? Louis Althusser, Reading Capital (London: New Left Books, 1979).
? The epistemological break is a concept introduced into the philosophy of science by Gaston Bachelard, and employed by Althusser in his reading of Marx.
? Claude Le? vi-Strauss, The Raw and the Cooked (New York: Octagon, 1979).
? The distinction between writers and e? crivants (people who use writing for other purposes) was introduced by Roland Barthes in Critical Essays (Chicago: Northwestern Univ. Press, 1972).
? 3
? Foucault Responds to Sartre
? Q; Michel Foucault, it is said, perhaps against your will, that you are a philosopher. What is philosophy for you?
? MF: There was the great period of contemporary philosophy, that of Sartre and Merleau-Ponty, in which a philosophical text, a theoretical text, finally had to tell you what life, death, and sexuality were, if God existed or not, what liberty consisted of, what one had to do in political life, how to behave in regard to others, and so forth. One has the impression that this kind of philosophy is now obsolete, that philosophy if you like has if not vanished has at least been dis- persed, and that there is a theoretical work that somehow joins together in the plural. Theory, the philosophic activity, is being produced in different domains that are separate from one other. There is a theoretical activity produced in the field of mathematics, a theoretical activity that manifests itself in the domain of linguistics or mythology or the history of religion, or simply in the domain of history itself. Finally, it is in this kind of plurality of theoretical work that a philosophy is being carried out which has not yet found its unique thinker and its unity of discourse.
? 36 Foucault Responds to Sartre
? Q: When did this rupture between the two moments occur?
MF; It was around 1950-55, at a time moreover exactly when Sartre himself renounced, I believe, what one could call philosophical speculation properly speaking, and when finally he invested his own philosophical activity in be- havior that was pohtical.
Q; You wrote in the conclusion of your work The Order of Things that man is neither the oldest nor the most constant problem that has been posed to human knowledge (savoir). Man, you say, is an invention of which the archeol- ogy of our thought shows the recent date and perhaps the coining end. It's one of the sentences that has stirred up read- ers the most. In your opinion what is man's date of birth in the space of knowledge?
MF: The 19th century was the century when a cer- tain number of very important things were invented, microbi- ology and electromagnetism for example; it's also the century when the human sciences were invented. To invent the human sciences apparently me^t to make of man the object of a possible knowledge (savoir). It was to constitute man as an object of knowledge (connaissance). Yet, in this same 19th century one hoped, one dreamed the great eschatological myth of the 19th century, which was somehow to make this knowl- edge (connaissance) of man exist so that man could be liber- ated by it from his alienations, liberated from all the determi- nations of which he was not the master, so that he could, thanks to this knowledge of himself, become again or for the first time master of himself, self-possessed. In other words, one made of man an object of knowledge so that man could become subject of his own liberty and of his own existence.
? Foucault Responds to Sartre 37
? Yet what happened--and for this reason one can say that man was bom in the 19 th century--was that insofar as these investigations into man as a possible object of knowl- edge (savoir) were deployed, something very serious was dis- covered: that this famous man, this human nature, this human essence or this essential human feature (ce propre de I'homme) was never discovered. When one analyzed for ex- ample the phenomena of madness or neurosis, what was dis- covered was an unconscious, an unconscious completely trav- ersed by impulses and instincts, an unconscious that func- tioned according to mechanisms and according to a topologi- cal space which had absolutely nothing to do with what one could expect of the human essence, of freedom or human exis- tence, an unconscious that functioned like a language, as has been said recently. And consequently, insofar as man was sought out in his depths, to that extent he disappeared. The further one went, the less one found. And similarly for lan- guage. From the beginning of the 19 th century the human languages had been investigated in order to try and discover some of the great constants of the human mind. It was hoped that, by studying the life of words, the evolution of grammars, by comparing languages to one another, somehow man him- self would be revealed, either in the unity of his face or in his different profiles. Yet, by penetrating into language, what did one find? One found structures, correlations, a system that is in some way quasi-logical, and man, in his liberty, in his exis- tence, there again had disappeared.
? Q: Nietzsche announced the death of God. You fore- see, it would seem, the death of his murderer, man. It's a just tum of things. Isn't the disappearance of man contained in the disappearance of god?
? 38 Foucault Responds to Sartre
? MF: This disappearance of man at the very moment that we sought him in his roots doesn't mean that the human sciences will disappear. I never said that, but rather that the human sciences will now be deployed within a space whose horizon is no longer closed or defined by this humanism. Man disappears in philosophy, not as object of knowledge (savoir) but as subject of freedom and existence. Yet, man as subject of his own consciousness and of his own liberty is really a sort of correlative image of god. Man of the 19th century is god in- carnated in humanity. There was a kind of theologizing of man, a re-descent of god to earth in which god became 19th century man theologized. When Feuerbach said that "we must recuperate on earth the treasures that have been spent in the heavens," he placed in the heart of man the treasures that man had formerly attributed to god. And Nietzsche was the one who by denouncing the death of god at the same time de- nounced this divinized man that the 19th century never ceased to dream. And when Nietzsche armounced the coming of the
superman, what he announced was not the coming of a man who would resemble a god more than a man, but rather the coming of a man who would no longer have any relation with this god whose image he continued to bear.
? Q: Is this the reason that when you speak of the end of this recent invention, you say "perhaps"?
? MF: Of course. I am sure of all this only insofar as it's a matter of doing (of my doing) a diagnosis of the present.
? You were asking me a while ago how and in what way philosophy had changed. Well, perhaps one could say this: philosophy from Hegel to Sartre has essentially been a to- talizing enterprise, if not of the world or of knowledge (sa- voir), at least of human experience. I would say that perhaps if there is now an autonomous philosophical activity, if there can
? Foucault Responds to Sartre 39
? be a philosophy that is not simply a sort of theoretical activity within mathematics or linguistics or ethnology or political economy, if there is a philosophy free or independent of all these domains, then one could define it as a diagnostic activ- ity. To diagnose the present is to say what the present is, and how our present is absolutely different from all that is not it, that is to say, from our past. Perhaps this is the task for phi- losophy now.
Q: How do you define structuralism today?
? MF: When you ask those who are classified under the rubric of "structuralism"--like Le? vi-Strauss, Lacan, Althusser and the linguists, etc. --they answer that they have nothing in common with one another, or very little in common. Structu- ralism is a category that exists for others, for those who are not structuraHsts. It's from the outside that one can say that so and so are structuralists. You must ask Sartre who the structuralists are, since he thinks that Le? vi-Strauss, Althusser, Dume? zil, La- can and me constitute a coherent group, a group constituting some kind of unity that we ourselves don't perceive.
? Q: Well then, how would you define your work?
? MF: My own work? As you know, it's very limited. Very schematically, it consists of trying to discover in the history of science and of human knowledge {des connais- sances et du savoir humain) something that would be like its unconscious. My working hypothesis is roughly this: the his- tory of science and of knowledge (des connaissances) doesn't simply obey the general law of reason's progress; it's not hu- man consciousness or human reason that somehow possesses the laws of its history. Underneath what science itself knows there is something it does not know; and its history, its prog-
? 40 Foucault Responds to Sartre
ress {devenir), its periods and accidents obey a certain number of laws and determinations. These laws and determinations are what I have tried to bring to light. I have tried to unearth an autonomous domain that would be the unconscious of science, the unconscious of knowledge (savoir), that would have its own laws, just as the individual human unconscious has its own laws and determinations.
? Q; You just alluded to Sartre. You have saluted his magnificent efforts, efforts which you have said are those of a man of the 19th century trying to think in the 20th. He was even, you have said, the last Marxist. Since then Sartre has re- sponded to you. He reproaches the structuralists for constitut- ing a new ideology, which he calls the last barrier the bour- geoisie can still erect against Marx. What do you think of this?
? MF: I would say two things in response. First, Sartre is a man with too much important work to do--^literary, philo- sophical, political--to have the time to read my book. In fact, he hasn't read it. Consequently, what he says about it can't seem very pertinent to me. Secondly, I'll confess something to you. I was in the Communist Party some time ago for a few months, or a little more than several months, and at that time Sartre was defined for us as the last rampart of bourgeois im- perialism, the last stone of the edifice, etc. So it's with amused astonishment that I find this phrase coming fi-om Sartre's pen now, fifteen years later. Let's say that he and I have turned around the same axis.
? Q: You don't find any originality there?
MF: No, it's a phrase that's been around for twenty years; he uses it, that's his right. He's giving back change for money we once passed to him___
? ? Foucault Responds to Sartre 41
? Q: Sartre reproaches you, and other philosophers as well, for neglecting and showing contempt for history. Is it true?
MF; No historian has ever reproached me for this. There is a sort of myth of History for philosophers. Philoso- phers are generally very ignorant of all other disciplines out- side their own. There is a mathematics for philosophers, a bi- ology for philosophers, and also a History. For philosophers. History is a kind of grand and extensive continuity where the liberty of individuals and economic and social determinations come to be intertwined. If you touch one of these great themes --continuity, the effective exercise of human freedom, the ar- ticulation of individual liberty with social determinations-- then right away these grave gentleman begin to cry rape, and that history has been assassinated. In fact, it was some time ago that people as important as Marc Block, Lucien Fevre and the English historians put an end to this myth of History. They write history in a completely different mode. The philosophi- cal myth of History, this philosophical myth that I am accused
of having murdered, well, I would be delighted if I have killed it, since that was exactly what I wanted to do. But not at all history in general. One doesn't murder history, but history for philosophy. That's what I wanted to kill.
Q: Who are the thinkers, scholars and philosophers who have marked or influenced your intellectual formation?
? MF: I belong to a generation of people for whom the horizon of reflection was defined by Husserl in a general way, Sartre more precisely and Merleau-Ponty even more pre- cisely. It's clear that around 1950-55, for reasons that are equally political, ideological and scientific, and very difficult to straighten out, this horizon toppled for us. Suddenly it van-
? 42 Foucault Responds to Sartre
ished and we found ourselves before a sort of great empty space inside which developments became much less ambi- tious, much more limited and regional. It's clear that linguis- tics in the manner of Jakobson, the history of religions and mythologies in the manner of Dume? zil, were for us invaluable points of support.
Q: How could your position in regard to action and politics be defined?
MF: The French left has lived on a myth of sacred ignorance. What has changed is the idea that political thought can be politically correct only if it is scientifically rigorous. And in this sense, I think that the whole effort made today by a group of communist intellectuals to re-evaluate Marx's con- cepts, to finally grasp them at their roots in order to analyze them and to define the use that one can and must make of them, I think this whole effort is both political and scientific. And the idea that to devote oneself as we are doing now to properly theoretical and speculative activities is to tum away from politics strikes me as completely false. It's not because we are tuming away from politics that we are occupied with such stricdy and meticulously defined theoretical problems, but rather because we realize that every form of political ac- tion can only be articulated in the strictest manner with a rigorous theoretical reflection.
? Q: A philosophy like existentialism encouraged people to action and engagement. You are reproached for hav- ing the opposite attitude.
? MF: Well, that is a reproach. It's normal. But once again, the difference is not that we have now separated politics from theory, but rather to the contrary: insofar as we bring
? Foucault Responds to Sartre 43
? theory and politics more closely together, we refiise this poli- tics of learned ignorance that I believe characterizes the one that is called engagement.
Q: Is it a language or vocabulary that today sepa- rates the philosophers and scholars from the great public and the people with whom they live as contemporaries?
M. ; It seems to me, on the contrary, that today more than ever the transmission of knowledge (savoir) is extensive and efficacious. Knowledge in the 14th and 15th centuries, for example, was defined in a social space that was circular and restricted. Knowledge was a secret, and the authenticity of knowledge was at the same time guaranteed and protected by the fact that this knowledge didn't circulate or circulated only among a stricdy defined number of people; as soon as knowl- edge was made public, it ceased to be knowledge and conse- quently ceased to be true.
? Today we are at a very developed stage of a mutation that began in the 17th and 18 th centuries when knowledge finally became a kind of public thing. To know was to see clearly what every individual placed in the same conditions could see and verify.
? MF: In what is called the history of ideas one de- scribes change in general by making things easy in two ways:
? (1) One uses concepts which appear to me to be a little magical, like influence, crisis, the coming to conscious- ness {la prise de conscience), the interest taken in a problem, etc. All utilitarian, they do not appear to me to be operating.
? (2) When one encounters a difficulty, one passes from the level of analysis which is that of the statements them- selves to another which is exterior to it. Thus, when con- fronted with a change, a contradiction or an incoherence, one resorts to an explanation in terms of social conditions, mental- ity, vision of the world, etc.
? I wanted, through a methodological move, to do without all that; consequently, I have striven to describe state- ments, entire groups of statements, by making the relations of implication, of opposition and exclusion which could link them appear.
? I am told for example that I have admitted or in- vented an absolute break between the end of the 18th centmry and the beginning of the 19th. In fact, when one carefully examines the scientific discourse of the end of the 18th cen- tury, one notices a very rapid and in truth a very enigmatic change. I wanted to describe this change very precisely, in other words to establish the transformations necessary and suf- ficient for passing from the initial form of scientific disourse, that of the 18th century, to its final form, that of the 19th. The set for transformations that I have defined maintains a certain number of theoretical elements, displaces certain others, sees old ones, disappear and new ones arise; all that allows me to define the rule of passage in the domains 1 have focused upon. What I have wanted to establish is the very contrary of a discontinuity, since I have made manifest the very form of passage from one state to another.
? The Discourse of History 17
? ? ? (2) One can very well reconsider these texts, and the material itself that I have treated, in a description that would
have another periodization and would be situated at another
level. When one makes an archeology of historical knowledge (savoir) for example, it will be necessary to utihze again the
texts on language and to relate them to exegetical techniques,
the criticism of sources, and to all knowledge (savoir) con-
cerning the holy scriptures and the historic tradition; their de- scription will then be different. But these descriptions, if they
are exact, must be such that one can define the transformations
that permit one to pass from one to the other.
In one sense description is therefore infinite, in an- other it is closed, to the extent that it tends to establish a
? Q: I wonder if the equivocation doesn't derive from the difficulty of thinking side by side the terms of the change and passage on the one hand, and the picture and the descrip- tion on the other.
MF: All the same, it's been more than fifty years since we perceived that the task of description was essential in domains like those of history, ethnology and language. After all, mathematical language since Galileo and Newton doesn't function as an explanation of nature but as a description of a process. I don't see why one should contest the attempt of non-formalized disciplines like history to undertake for them- selves the first task of description.
Q: How do you conceive the methodological orienta- tion of this first task?
MF: (1) One must be able, if what I have said is true, to account for and analyze exactly the texts I've discussed according to the same schemes by bringing to them several supplementary transformations.
? ? 18 The Discourse of History
? theoretical model capable of accounting for relations that exist between the discourse studied.
? Q: It would seem that it is precisely this double character of description that by its very nature creates the reti- cence or the bewilderment, since histoiy thus finds itself at once directly grafted onto the infinity of its archives, therefore onto the non-sense proper to every infinity, and mastered in the models whose formal character challenges in its very logic the non-sense belonging to every closure of an internal charac- ter. And the effect is all the more powerful as your book observes an absolute distance towards what one could call "living history," where the practice, whatever the theoretical level at which one sohcits it and the models in which its inde- fatigable diversity can be enclosed, turns the non-sense into a sort of familiarity in a "natural" world of actions and institu- tions. How do you understand this break on which The Order of Things is established?
? MF: In wanting to engage in a rigorous description of the statements themselves, it appeared to me that the do- main of statements very much obeyed certain formal laws, that one could for example discover a single theoretical model for different epistemological domains and that one could, in this sense, infer an autonomy of discouse. But there is no reason for describing this autonomous layer of discourse except to the extent that one can relate it to other layers, practices, institu- tions, social and political relations, etc. It is this relationship that has always haunted me, and in Madness and Civilization and The Birth of the Clinic I wanted precisely to define the different relationships between these different domains. I took for example the epistemological domain of medicine and that of the institutions of repression, of hospitalization, of aid to the unemployed, of administrative control over public health.
? The Discourse of History 19
? etc. But I perceived that things were more complicated than I had believed in the first two works, that the discursive do- mains didn't always obey the structures that had common practical domains and associated institutions, that they obeyed on the other hand structures common to other epistemological domains, that there was something like an isomorphism of discourses for a given period. In such a way that one finds oneself before two axes of perpendicular description: that of theoretical models common to several discourses, and that of relationships between a discursive domain and a non-discur- sive domain. In The Order of Things I traversed the hori- zontal axis, in Madness and Civilization and The Birth of the Clinic the vertical dimension of the figure.
? For the first, let someone undertake to show me, us- ing texts as a basis, that such a theoretical coherence among discourses doesn't exist and a real discussion could begin. As for minimizing the domain of practice, my preceding books are there to show that I am far fi'om doing that; for their relationship I'll refer to an illustrative example. When Du- me? zil demonstrates that the Roman reUgion has an isomorphic relationship with Scandinavian or Celtic legends or some Ira- nian rite, he doesn't mean that Roman religion doesn't have its place within Roman history, that the history of Rome doesn't exist, but that one cannot describe the history of Roman reli- gion, its relationships with institutions, social classes and eco- nomic conditions except by taking into account its internal morphology. In the same way, to demonstrate that the scien- tific discourses of a period stem from a common theoretical model does not mean that they escape history and float in the air as if disembodied and isolated, but that one cannot write the history and the analysis of the functioning of the role of this knowledge (savoir), the conditions that give rise to it, and the manner in which it is rooted in the society without taking into account the force and consistency of these isomorphisms.
? 20 The Discourse of History
? Q: This objectivity that you accord to theoretical models in view of an extensive analysis of history as a science and, for the constitution of these models, to the descriptive logic as such, obliges us to investigate the point of departure of this description, its source in some sense, which amounts in the case of a book as personal as yours to trying to understand the relationship of the author and his text, what place exactly it can, wants to, and must occupy.
? MF: I can't respond to that without plunging into the book itself. If the style of analysis that I tried to formulate in it is admissible, one should be able to define the theoretical model to which not only my book, but those which belong to the same configuration of knowledge (savoir) also belong. No doubt it is one that permits us today to treat history as a set of statements actually articulated, to treat language as an object of description and as a set of relationships in reference to discourse and to statements which make up the object of inter- pretation. It is our period and it alone that makes possible the appearance of this set of texts that treat grammar, natural his- tory and political economy as so many objects.
? So much in fact that the author, in that and only in that, constitutes that of which he speaks. My book is a pure and simple "fiction": it's a novel, but it's not I who invented it; it is the relationship between our period and its epistemo- logical configuration and this mass of statements. So much that the subject is indeed present in the totality of the book, but he is the anonymous "one" who speaks today in all that is said.
? Q: How do you understand the status of this anon- ymous "one"?
MF: Perhaps we are undoing little by little, and not without great difficulty, the great distrust in allegory. I mean
? ? The Discourse of History 21
? by that the simple idea that consists in demanding from a text nothing but what the text says truly beneath what it really says. No doubt that's the heritage of an ancient exegetical tra- dition: underneath everything said, we suspect that another thing is being said. The laic version of this allegorical mistrust has had the effect of assigning to every commentator the task of discovering everywhere the true thought of the author, what he said without saying it, meant without succeeding to say it, wanted to hide and yet allowed to appear. One perceives that today there are many other possibilities for dealing with lan- guage. Thus the contemporary critic--and this is what distin- guishes him from what was done still very recently--^is formu- lating, according to the diverse texts that he smdies, his object- texts, a sort of new combinatory. Instead of reconstituting its immanent secret, he grasps the text as a set of elements (words, metaphors, literary forms, a set of narratives) among which one can make absolutely new relations appear insofar as they have not been mastered by the writer's project and are made possible only through the work as such. The formal relations that one thus discovers were not present in the mind of anyone, they do not constitute the latent content of state- ments, their indiscreet secret; they are a construction, but an exact construction as long as the relations thus described can actually be assigned to the materials treated. We have learned to put the words of men into yet unformulated relationships
stated by us for the first time, and yet objectively exact.
? Thus the contemporary critic is abandoning the great yth of interiority: intimior intimio ejus. He finds himself tally displaced from the old themes of locked enclosures, of e treasure in the box that he habitually sought in the depth of e work's container. Placing himself at the exterior of the xt, he constitutes a new exterior for it, writing texts out of xts.
m to th th te te
? 22 The Discourse of History
? Q: In terms of that description it seems to me that modem literary criticism, in its very richness and multiple contributions, is guilty of marking in one sense a curious regression in relation to one in whom it found the essential of its demands: I mean Maurice Blanchot. For if Blanchot, under the name of "Literature," actually won for the space of modem thought the imperious exteriority of the text, he in no way attributed to himself this facility that tends to avoid the violence of the work as place of the name and of a biography whose secret, precisely, is to be diversely traversed by the irreducible and abstract force of the literamre whose vigorous itinerary Blanchot retraces, in each case, without caring to describe it as such in the logic of its forms, as a more learned critic would want to.
? MF: It's true that it is Blanchot who has made all discourse on hterature possible. First of all because he's the one who has shown above all that works are linked to one another through this exterior face of their language where "lit- erature" appears. Literature is thus what constitutes the outside of every work, what ploughs up every written language and leaves on every text an empty claw mark. It is not a mode of language, but a hollow that traverses like a great movement all literary languages. By making this instance of literature appear as a "common place," an empty space where works come to lodge themselves, I believe that he has assigned to the contem- porary critic what must be his object, what makes his work both of exactitude and invention possible.
? One can affirm on the other hand that Blanchot has made it possible by instituting between the author and the work a mode of relationship that had remained unsuspected. We now know that the work does not belong to the author's project, nor even to the one of his existence, that it maintains with him relationships of negation and destruction, that it is
? The Discourse of History 23
? for him the flowing of an eternal outside, and that yet there exists beween them this primordial function of the name. It is through the name that in a work a modality irreducible to the anonymous murmur of all other languages is marked. It is certain that the contemporary literary critic has not yet really investigated this existence of the name that Blanchot has pro- posed for him. He really ought to deal with it, since the name marks for the work its relations of opposition, of difference with other works, and since it characterizes absolutely the mode of being of the literary work in a culture and in institu- tions like ours. After all, it's now been five or six centuries since the anonymous, apart from exceptional cases, has disap- peared completely from literary language and its functioning.
? Q: It's for that reason, I think, that the lesson of Blan- chot, compared with the technical critiques towards which he maintains an equal distance, finds a more accurate echo in an interpretation of the psychoanalytic type, which maintains it- self by definition in the space of the subject, than in the lin- guistic type of interpretation, where often the risk of mechani- cal abstraction arises.
? What is precisely important and problematic in cer- tain research of the "scientific" type like yours is a somewhat new relationship of familiarity that they appear to maintain with the more explicitly "subjective" works of hterature.
? MF: It would be very interesting to know of what the designatable, "nameable" individuality of a scientific work consists; those of Abel or Lagrange for example are marked by characteristics of writing that individualize them, as surely as a painting by Titian or page of Chateaubriand. And simi- larly for the philosophic or descriptive writings of Linnaeus or Buffon. They are caught up however in the network of all those who speak of "the same thing," who are contemporary to
? 24 The Discourse of History
? them or follow them: this network that envelopes them out- lines these great figures without a social identity that one calls "mathematics," "history," or "biology. "
? The problem of the singularity or the relation be- tween the name and the network is an old problem, but in former times there existed certain kinds of channels and marked paths that separated literary works, works on physics or mathematics and historical works from one another; each one evolved on its own level and in some way in the territory where it was assigned, in spite of a whole set of overlappings, borrowings and resemblances. One can note today that all this dividing up, this separation, is being effaced or being reconsti- tuted in another mode altogether. Thus the relations between linguistics and literary works, between music and mathemat- ics, the discourse of historians and economists are no longer simply of an order of borrowing, imitation or involuntary anal- ogy, nor even of structural isomorphism; these works and pro- gressions are formed in relation to one another and exist for one another. There is a literature of linguistics and not an influence of grammarians on the grammar and the vocabulary of novelists. In the same way, mathematics is not applicable to the construction of musical language, as at the end of the 17th century and the beginning of the 19th; it actually constitutes the formal universe of the musical work itself. In such a way that one is witness to a general and vertiginous effacement of the old distribution of languages.
? One says gladly that nothing else today interests us but language and that it has become the universal object. We must not make a mistake there: this sovereignty is the provi- sional, equivocal, precarious sovereignty of a tribe in migra- tion. Of course we are interested in language; yet it's not that we have finally entered into its possession, but rather that it escapes us more than ever before. Its boundaries have col- lapsed and its calm universe has entered into fusion; and if we
? The Discourse of History 25
? are submerged, it is not so much through its intemporal vigor as through the movement today of its wave.
Q: How do you situate yourself personally in this mutation that pulls the most demanding works of knowledge (savoir) into a sort of novehstic adventure?
MF: In conttast to those whom one calls structural- ists, I am not so interested in the formal possibilities offered by a system like language. Personally I am rather haunted by the existence of discourse, by the fact that particular words have been spoken; these events have functioned in relation to their original situation, they have left traces behind them; they subsist and exercise, in this subsistence even within history, a certain number of manifest or secret functions.
Q: Thus you yield to the passion proper to the histo- rian who wants to respond to the infinite rumor of the ar- chives.
MF: Yes, for my object is not language but the ar- chive, that is to say the accumulated existence of discourse. Archeology, such as I intend it, is kin neither to geology (as analysis of the sub-soil), nor to genealogy (as descriptions of beginnings and sequences); it's the analysis of discourse in its modality of archive.
A nightmare has pursued me since childhood: I have under my eyes a text that I can't read, or of which only a tiny part can be deciphered; I pretend to read it, but I know that I'm inventing; then the text suddenly blurs completely, I can no longer read anything or even invent, my throat constricts and I wake up.
? I don't know what tiiere can be of the personal in this obsession with language, which exists everywhere and escapes
? 26 The Discourse of History
? us in its very survival. It survives by turning its look away from us, its face inclined toward a night of which we know nothing.
? How justify these discourses on discourse that I un- dertake? What status do we give them? One begins to per- ceive, above all on the side of logicians and the students of Russell and Wittgenstein, that language can be analyzed in terms of its formal properties only on the condition of taking account of its concrete functioning. Language is very much a set of structures, but discourses are unities of function, and the analysis of language in its totality cannot fail to confront this essential demand. To this extent what I do is located in the general anonymity of all the research which today turns around language, that is to say not only the language that permits us to speak, but the discourses that have been spoken.
? Q: More precisely, what do you mean by this idea of the anonymous?
? MF: I wonder if we're not discovering again today, in the relationship of the name to the anonymous, a certain transposition of the old classic problem of the individual and the truth, or of the individual and beauty. How is it that an individual bom at a given moment, having such a history and such a face, can discover, by himself and for the first time, some truth, perhaps even the truth? That's the question to which Descartes responds in the Meditations: how could I discover the tmth? And many years later we find it again in the romantic theme of the genius; How can an individual lodged in a fold of history discover the forms of beauty in which the whole trath of a period or of a civilization is ex- pressed? The problem today is no longer posed in these terms: we are no longer in the truth but in the coherence of discourse, no longer in beauty, but in the complex relations of forms. It's
? The Discourse of History 27
? a question now of knowing how an individual, a name, can be the support of an element or group of elements that, in being integrated into the coherence of discourses or the indefinite network of forms, comes to efface or at least to render empty and useless this name, this individuality of which he bears however to a certain point, for a certain time and in certain respects, the mark. We have to conquer the anonymous, to justify for ourselves the enormous presumption of one day finally becoming anonymous, a littie like the classics had to justify for themselves the enormous presumption of having found the truth, and of attaching their names to it. The prob- lem in the past for the one who wrote was to tear himself out of the anonymity of everything; nowadays, it's to succeed in effacing one's own name and of coming to lodge one's voice in this great anonymous murmur of discourses held today.
Q: Does it not seem to you however that it's there, as soon as the movement is pushed to the extreme, that we enter into the double game of affirmation and effacement of the word and silence, of which Blanchot makes the essence of the literary act, when he assigns to the work the chosen function of a rich abode of silence facing the insupportable immensity of speech without which, however, it would not exist? When Le? vi-Strauss says of The Raw and the Cooked:^ "Thus this book on myths, is, in its way, a myth" he has seen the sover- eign impersonality of myth, and yet few books, from this very fact, are as personal as his Mythologies. You are, in a very different way, in a similar situation in relation to history.
MF: What gives books like those which have no other pretension than to be anonymous so many marks of sin- gularity and individuality are not the privileged signs of a style, nor the mark of a singular or individual interpretation, but the rage to apply the eraser by which one meticulously
? 28 The Discourse of History
? effaces all that could refer to a written individuality. Between writers and people who write (e? crivants) there are the effac- ers. (R)
? Bourbaki is at bottom the model. The dream for all of us would be, each in his own domain, to make something like this Bourbaki, where mathematics is elaborated under the ano- nymity of a fantastic name. Perhaps the irreducible difference between research in mathematics and our activities is that the eraser marks intended to attain the anonymous indicate more surely the signature of a name than the ostentatious penholder. And yet one could say that Bourbaki has his style and very much his own way of being anonymous.
? Q: Like your reference to the classic relation of the individual, this leads me to think that the author's position in this kind of research seems like a doubling of that of the philosopher, always ambiguous, between science and litera- ture. In this sense, what do you think is the modem status of philosophy?
MF: It seems to me that philosophy no longer exists; not that it has disappeared, but it has been disseminated into a great number of diverse activities. Thus the activities of the axiomatician, the linguist, the anthropologist, the historian, the revolutionary, the man of politics can be forms of philosophi- cal activity. In the 19th century the reflection that investigated the condition of possibility of objects was philosophical; today philosophy is every activity that makes a new object appear for knowledge or practice--rwhether this activity stems from mathematics, linguistics, anthropology or history.
? Q; Nevertheless, in the last chapter of The Order of Things, where you deal with the human sciences today, you accord to history a privilege over all other disciplines. Would
? The Discourse of History 29
? it therefore be a new way of rediscovering this power of syn- thetic legislation that used to be the proper privilege of philo- sophic thought, and that Heidegger already recognized not as that of traditional philosophy, but as "history of philosophy"?
? MF; Indeed, history does retain, in relation to my investigation, a privileged position. It's because in our culture, at least for several centuries, discourse has been linked to- gether through history as a mode: we receive things which have been spoken as if they come from a past where they succeeded one another, were opposed, influenced, replaced, engendered and accumulated. The cultures "without history" are obviously not those where there was neither event, nor evolution, nor revolution, but where discourses were not added together according history as a mode; they are juxta- posed; they replace one another; they are forgotten; they are transformed. On the other hand, in a culture like ours, every discourse appears against the background of the disappearance of every event.
That's why in studying a set of theoretical discourses concerning language, economy and living beings I did not want to establish a priori the possibilities or impossibilities of such knowledges--this is an element of birth, that of survival, etc. I wanted to do an historian's work by showing the simul- taneous functioning of these discourses and the transforma- tions which accounted for their visible changes.
? But history for all that does not have to play the role of a philosophy of philosophy, to pride itself in being the language of languages, as the historicism which tended to pass to the account of history the legislative and critical power of philosophy wanted it in the 19th century. If history possesses a privilege, it would be rather to the extent to which it would play the role of an internal ethnology of our culture and of our rationality, and would consequently incarnate the very possi- bility of every ethnology.
? 30 The Discourse of History
? Q: I would like, after this long detour, to return to the book, and to ask you the reason for this gap that one senses in your position when one passes from the analysis of the 17th and 18th centuries to that of the 19th and 20th centuries, a gap which has been the object of some of the most lively reserva- tions formulated towards your work.
? MF; Yes, something seems to change with the 19th century in the arrangement of the book. The same thing oc- curred in Madness and Civilization: people assumed that I wanted to attack modem psychiatry and in The Order of Things that I was being polemical towards the thought of the 19th century. In fact there is a very big difference in the two analyses.
I can indeed define the classical age in its own con- figuration through the double difference that opposes it to the 16th century on one hand and to the 19th on the other. On the other hand, I can define the modem age in its singularity only by opposing it to the 17th century on one hand and to us on the other; it is necessary, therefore, in order to be able to continuously establish the division, to make the difference that separates us from them surge up under each one of our sen- tences. From this modem age which begins around 1790-1810 and goes to around 1950, it's a matter of detaching onself, whereas for the classical age it's only a matter of describing it.
? The apparently polemical character stems from the fact that it's a question of hollowing out the whole mass of discourse that's accumulated under our feet. One can discover from a gradual movement the old latent configurations; but as soon as it's a matter of determining the system of discourse within which we are still living, at the moment we are obliged to put into question the words that still resonate in our ears and which are indistinguishable from those we are trying to speak, then the archeologist, like the Nietzschean philosopher, is forced to resort to the blows of the hammer.
? The Discourse of History 31
? Q: The unique and enthusiastic status that you ac- cord to Nietzsche--^is it not the most manifest sign of this irre- mediable gap?
? MF: If I had to begin again this book that I finished two years ago, I would try not to give Nietzsche this ambig- uous status, absolutely privileged and meta-historical, that I gave him out of weakness. It is due to the fact that no doubt my archeology owes more to the Nietzschean genealogy than to structuralism properly called.
? Q: But how, in this case, can you render Nietzsche to the archeologist without the risk of being as false towards the one as towards the other? It seems that there is in the very fact an insurmountable contradiction. I see it, in your book, in the figured form of a conflict in principle between Nietzsche and Las Meninas. For, without resorting to a facile play on your predilection for spatial metaphors, it is clear that the painting proves to be the privileged place, as it is, in one sense, for all structuralism: it is there, I think, that you compare the ano- nymity of the present with that of the 17th century, in the name of an idea of reading that can arrange history in a paint- ing as well as in the Borges text on the Chinese encyclopedia where your book has its "place of birth," in the very move- ment of historical evolution. That's why the 19th century, where history is invented in the form of a gap between signs and men, is the object of debate, and our period the hope of a new resolution through an attempt to re-integrate the historical subject into,the space of the painting in a new anonymity.
? Is not Nietzsche precisely the place where all the signs converge in the irreducible dimension of a subject, an- onymous by dint of being himself, anonymous by dint of in- corporating the totality of voices in the form of a fragmentary
? 32 The Discourse of History
? discourse; and is it not in that the extreme and exemplary form of thought and of all expression as autobiography without re- mainder, which is always lacking in the space of the painting just as in the time of history, where it is and is not, for one cannot say it but in the sense of its own madness and not through recourse to an exterior law? Thus the fact that Nietzsche, and with him a certain truth of literature, escapes your book, which owes him so much and brings so much to him, doesn't this fact bear witness of the impossibility of all discourse at the same level? And even that, in the form of your presence in the book, is it not to the exact measure of the impossible anonymity you don, which to be total, can only signify today a world without the written word or, to the point of madness, the circular literalness of Nietzsche?
? MF: It is difficult to respond to this question; for it is from it, at bottom, that all your questions come, and as a consequence our whole dialogue; it is what supports the pas- sionate interest, a little aloof, that you bring to all that is hap- pening around you, and to the generations that precede you; from this question comes your desire to write and to ask ques- tions. Here then begins the interview with Raymond Bellour conducted by Michel Foucault, an interview that has gone on for several years and from which perhaps one day Les Lettres
franc? aises will publish a fragment. A
? Translated by John Johnston
? The Discourse of History 33
? Notes
Georges Dume? zil inaugurated a new era in the study of Indo- European mythologies and religions.
? Fernand Braudel, Franc? ois Furet, Denis Richet and Emmanuel Leroy-Ladurie belong to the Annales school of French histo- rians, founded by Marc Bloch and Lucien Febvre in 1929, which champions the study of "total history". See Braudel's The Mediterranean and the Mediterranen World in the Age of Philip II (New York: Harper & Row, 1976), and Leroy- Ladurie's The Mind and Method of the Historian (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1981),
? Louis Althusser, Reading Capital (London: New Left Books, 1979).
? The epistemological break is a concept introduced into the philosophy of science by Gaston Bachelard, and employed by Althusser in his reading of Marx.
? Claude Le? vi-Strauss, The Raw and the Cooked (New York: Octagon, 1979).
? The distinction between writers and e? crivants (people who use writing for other purposes) was introduced by Roland Barthes in Critical Essays (Chicago: Northwestern Univ. Press, 1972).
? 3
? Foucault Responds to Sartre
? Q; Michel Foucault, it is said, perhaps against your will, that you are a philosopher. What is philosophy for you?
? MF: There was the great period of contemporary philosophy, that of Sartre and Merleau-Ponty, in which a philosophical text, a theoretical text, finally had to tell you what life, death, and sexuality were, if God existed or not, what liberty consisted of, what one had to do in political life, how to behave in regard to others, and so forth. One has the impression that this kind of philosophy is now obsolete, that philosophy if you like has if not vanished has at least been dis- persed, and that there is a theoretical work that somehow joins together in the plural. Theory, the philosophic activity, is being produced in different domains that are separate from one other. There is a theoretical activity produced in the field of mathematics, a theoretical activity that manifests itself in the domain of linguistics or mythology or the history of religion, or simply in the domain of history itself. Finally, it is in this kind of plurality of theoretical work that a philosophy is being carried out which has not yet found its unique thinker and its unity of discourse.
? 36 Foucault Responds to Sartre
? Q: When did this rupture between the two moments occur?
MF; It was around 1950-55, at a time moreover exactly when Sartre himself renounced, I believe, what one could call philosophical speculation properly speaking, and when finally he invested his own philosophical activity in be- havior that was pohtical.
Q; You wrote in the conclusion of your work The Order of Things that man is neither the oldest nor the most constant problem that has been posed to human knowledge (savoir). Man, you say, is an invention of which the archeol- ogy of our thought shows the recent date and perhaps the coining end. It's one of the sentences that has stirred up read- ers the most. In your opinion what is man's date of birth in the space of knowledge?
MF: The 19th century was the century when a cer- tain number of very important things were invented, microbi- ology and electromagnetism for example; it's also the century when the human sciences were invented. To invent the human sciences apparently me^t to make of man the object of a possible knowledge (savoir). It was to constitute man as an object of knowledge (connaissance). Yet, in this same 19th century one hoped, one dreamed the great eschatological myth of the 19th century, which was somehow to make this knowl- edge (connaissance) of man exist so that man could be liber- ated by it from his alienations, liberated from all the determi- nations of which he was not the master, so that he could, thanks to this knowledge of himself, become again or for the first time master of himself, self-possessed. In other words, one made of man an object of knowledge so that man could become subject of his own liberty and of his own existence.
? Foucault Responds to Sartre 37
? Yet what happened--and for this reason one can say that man was bom in the 19 th century--was that insofar as these investigations into man as a possible object of knowl- edge (savoir) were deployed, something very serious was dis- covered: that this famous man, this human nature, this human essence or this essential human feature (ce propre de I'homme) was never discovered. When one analyzed for ex- ample the phenomena of madness or neurosis, what was dis- covered was an unconscious, an unconscious completely trav- ersed by impulses and instincts, an unconscious that func- tioned according to mechanisms and according to a topologi- cal space which had absolutely nothing to do with what one could expect of the human essence, of freedom or human exis- tence, an unconscious that functioned like a language, as has been said recently. And consequently, insofar as man was sought out in his depths, to that extent he disappeared. The further one went, the less one found. And similarly for lan- guage. From the beginning of the 19 th century the human languages had been investigated in order to try and discover some of the great constants of the human mind. It was hoped that, by studying the life of words, the evolution of grammars, by comparing languages to one another, somehow man him- self would be revealed, either in the unity of his face or in his different profiles. Yet, by penetrating into language, what did one find? One found structures, correlations, a system that is in some way quasi-logical, and man, in his liberty, in his exis- tence, there again had disappeared.
? Q: Nietzsche announced the death of God. You fore- see, it would seem, the death of his murderer, man. It's a just tum of things. Isn't the disappearance of man contained in the disappearance of god?
? 38 Foucault Responds to Sartre
? MF: This disappearance of man at the very moment that we sought him in his roots doesn't mean that the human sciences will disappear. I never said that, but rather that the human sciences will now be deployed within a space whose horizon is no longer closed or defined by this humanism. Man disappears in philosophy, not as object of knowledge (savoir) but as subject of freedom and existence. Yet, man as subject of his own consciousness and of his own liberty is really a sort of correlative image of god. Man of the 19th century is god in- carnated in humanity. There was a kind of theologizing of man, a re-descent of god to earth in which god became 19th century man theologized. When Feuerbach said that "we must recuperate on earth the treasures that have been spent in the heavens," he placed in the heart of man the treasures that man had formerly attributed to god. And Nietzsche was the one who by denouncing the death of god at the same time de- nounced this divinized man that the 19th century never ceased to dream. And when Nietzsche armounced the coming of the
superman, what he announced was not the coming of a man who would resemble a god more than a man, but rather the coming of a man who would no longer have any relation with this god whose image he continued to bear.
? Q: Is this the reason that when you speak of the end of this recent invention, you say "perhaps"?
? MF: Of course. I am sure of all this only insofar as it's a matter of doing (of my doing) a diagnosis of the present.
? You were asking me a while ago how and in what way philosophy had changed. Well, perhaps one could say this: philosophy from Hegel to Sartre has essentially been a to- talizing enterprise, if not of the world or of knowledge (sa- voir), at least of human experience. I would say that perhaps if there is now an autonomous philosophical activity, if there can
? Foucault Responds to Sartre 39
? be a philosophy that is not simply a sort of theoretical activity within mathematics or linguistics or ethnology or political economy, if there is a philosophy free or independent of all these domains, then one could define it as a diagnostic activ- ity. To diagnose the present is to say what the present is, and how our present is absolutely different from all that is not it, that is to say, from our past. Perhaps this is the task for phi- losophy now.
Q: How do you define structuralism today?
? MF: When you ask those who are classified under the rubric of "structuralism"--like Le? vi-Strauss, Lacan, Althusser and the linguists, etc. --they answer that they have nothing in common with one another, or very little in common. Structu- ralism is a category that exists for others, for those who are not structuraHsts. It's from the outside that one can say that so and so are structuralists. You must ask Sartre who the structuralists are, since he thinks that Le? vi-Strauss, Althusser, Dume? zil, La- can and me constitute a coherent group, a group constituting some kind of unity that we ourselves don't perceive.
? Q: Well then, how would you define your work?
? MF: My own work? As you know, it's very limited. Very schematically, it consists of trying to discover in the history of science and of human knowledge {des connais- sances et du savoir humain) something that would be like its unconscious. My working hypothesis is roughly this: the his- tory of science and of knowledge (des connaissances) doesn't simply obey the general law of reason's progress; it's not hu- man consciousness or human reason that somehow possesses the laws of its history. Underneath what science itself knows there is something it does not know; and its history, its prog-
? 40 Foucault Responds to Sartre
ress {devenir), its periods and accidents obey a certain number of laws and determinations. These laws and determinations are what I have tried to bring to light. I have tried to unearth an autonomous domain that would be the unconscious of science, the unconscious of knowledge (savoir), that would have its own laws, just as the individual human unconscious has its own laws and determinations.
? Q; You just alluded to Sartre. You have saluted his magnificent efforts, efforts which you have said are those of a man of the 19th century trying to think in the 20th. He was even, you have said, the last Marxist. Since then Sartre has re- sponded to you. He reproaches the structuralists for constitut- ing a new ideology, which he calls the last barrier the bour- geoisie can still erect against Marx. What do you think of this?
? MF: I would say two things in response. First, Sartre is a man with too much important work to do--^literary, philo- sophical, political--to have the time to read my book. In fact, he hasn't read it. Consequently, what he says about it can't seem very pertinent to me. Secondly, I'll confess something to you. I was in the Communist Party some time ago for a few months, or a little more than several months, and at that time Sartre was defined for us as the last rampart of bourgeois im- perialism, the last stone of the edifice, etc. So it's with amused astonishment that I find this phrase coming fi-om Sartre's pen now, fifteen years later. Let's say that he and I have turned around the same axis.
? Q: You don't find any originality there?
MF: No, it's a phrase that's been around for twenty years; he uses it, that's his right. He's giving back change for money we once passed to him___
? ? Foucault Responds to Sartre 41
? Q: Sartre reproaches you, and other philosophers as well, for neglecting and showing contempt for history. Is it true?
MF; No historian has ever reproached me for this. There is a sort of myth of History for philosophers. Philoso- phers are generally very ignorant of all other disciplines out- side their own. There is a mathematics for philosophers, a bi- ology for philosophers, and also a History. For philosophers. History is a kind of grand and extensive continuity where the liberty of individuals and economic and social determinations come to be intertwined. If you touch one of these great themes --continuity, the effective exercise of human freedom, the ar- ticulation of individual liberty with social determinations-- then right away these grave gentleman begin to cry rape, and that history has been assassinated. In fact, it was some time ago that people as important as Marc Block, Lucien Fevre and the English historians put an end to this myth of History. They write history in a completely different mode. The philosophi- cal myth of History, this philosophical myth that I am accused
of having murdered, well, I would be delighted if I have killed it, since that was exactly what I wanted to do. But not at all history in general. One doesn't murder history, but history for philosophy. That's what I wanted to kill.
Q: Who are the thinkers, scholars and philosophers who have marked or influenced your intellectual formation?
? MF: I belong to a generation of people for whom the horizon of reflection was defined by Husserl in a general way, Sartre more precisely and Merleau-Ponty even more pre- cisely. It's clear that around 1950-55, for reasons that are equally political, ideological and scientific, and very difficult to straighten out, this horizon toppled for us. Suddenly it van-
? 42 Foucault Responds to Sartre
ished and we found ourselves before a sort of great empty space inside which developments became much less ambi- tious, much more limited and regional. It's clear that linguis- tics in the manner of Jakobson, the history of religions and mythologies in the manner of Dume? zil, were for us invaluable points of support.
Q: How could your position in regard to action and politics be defined?
MF: The French left has lived on a myth of sacred ignorance. What has changed is the idea that political thought can be politically correct only if it is scientifically rigorous. And in this sense, I think that the whole effort made today by a group of communist intellectuals to re-evaluate Marx's con- cepts, to finally grasp them at their roots in order to analyze them and to define the use that one can and must make of them, I think this whole effort is both political and scientific. And the idea that to devote oneself as we are doing now to properly theoretical and speculative activities is to tum away from politics strikes me as completely false. It's not because we are tuming away from politics that we are occupied with such stricdy and meticulously defined theoretical problems, but rather because we realize that every form of political ac- tion can only be articulated in the strictest manner with a rigorous theoretical reflection.
? Q: A philosophy like existentialism encouraged people to action and engagement. You are reproached for hav- ing the opposite attitude.
? MF: Well, that is a reproach. It's normal. But once again, the difference is not that we have now separated politics from theory, but rather to the contrary: insofar as we bring
? Foucault Responds to Sartre 43
? theory and politics more closely together, we refiise this poli- tics of learned ignorance that I believe characterizes the one that is called engagement.
Q: Is it a language or vocabulary that today sepa- rates the philosophers and scholars from the great public and the people with whom they live as contemporaries?
M. ; It seems to me, on the contrary, that today more than ever the transmission of knowledge (savoir) is extensive and efficacious. Knowledge in the 14th and 15th centuries, for example, was defined in a social space that was circular and restricted. Knowledge was a secret, and the authenticity of knowledge was at the same time guaranteed and protected by the fact that this knowledge didn't circulate or circulated only among a stricdy defined number of people; as soon as knowl- edge was made public, it ceased to be knowledge and conse- quently ceased to be true.
? Today we are at a very developed stage of a mutation that began in the 17th and 18 th centuries when knowledge finally became a kind of public thing. To know was to see clearly what every individual placed in the same conditions could see and verify.
