No More Learning

? They began either to incarcerate homosexuals in as; lums or attempted to cure them. They were formerly perceive as libertines and sometimes as delinquents (from this resulte condenmations which could be very severe--with burning ; the stake still occurring in the eighteenth century, althoug very rarely). In the future we'll all see them in a global kinshi with the insane, suffering from sickness of the sexual instinc But taking such discourses literally, and thereby even tumiii them around, we see responses appearing in the form of def ance: "All right, we are what you say we are, whether b nature or sickness or perversion, as you wish. And so if w are, let it be, and if you want to know what we are, we can te you better than you can. " An entire hterature of homosexua ity, very different from libertine narratives, appeared at tl end of the nineteenth century: think of Oscar Wilde and Gid It is the strategic return of a "same" will to truth.
? Q: That's what is happening in fact for all minoritie women, youths, black Americans. . .
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? MF: Yes, of course. For a long time they tried to pin women to their sexuality. They were told for centuries: "You are nothing other than your sex. " And this sex, doctors added, is fragile, almost always sick and always inducing sickness. "You are the sickness of man. " And towards the eighteenth century this very ancient movement quickened and ended up as the pathologization of woman: the female body became the medical object par excellence. I will try later to write the his- tory of this "gynecology" in the largest sense of the term.
But the feminist movements have accepted the chal- lenge. Are we sex by nature? Well then, let it be but in its singularity, in its irreducible specificity. Let us draw the con- sequences from it and reinvent our own type of political, cul- tural and economic existence. . . Always the same movement: take off from this sexuality in which movements can be colo- nized, go beyond them in order to reach other affirmations.
Q: This strategy of double detente which you are describing, is it still a strategy of Uberation in the classic sense? Or shouldn't it rather be said that to liberate sex is henceforth to hate it and go beyond it?
? MF: A movement is taking shape today which seems to me to be reversing the trend of "always more sex," of "al- ways more truth in sex," a trend which has doomed us for centuries: it's a matter, I don't say of rediscovering, but rather of fabricating other forms of pleasure, of relationships, coexis- tences, attachments, loves, intensities. I have the impression of hearing today an "anti-sex" grumbling (I'm not a prophet, at most a diagnostician), as if a thorough effort were being made to shake this great "sexography" which makes us decipher sex as the universal secret.
Q: Some symptoms for this diagnosis?
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? MF: Only one anecdote. A young writer, Herve? Guibert, had written some children's stories. No editor wanted them. He wrote another text, moreover very remarkable and apparently very "sexy. " This was the condition for being heard and published (the book is La Mort Propagande^). Read it: it seems to me to be the opposite of the sexographic writing that has been the rule in pornography and sometimes in good lit- erature: to move progressively roward mentioning what is most unmentionable in sex. Herve? Guibert opens with the worst extreme--^"You want us to speak about it, well then, let's go, and you will hear more about it than you ever have before"--and with this infamous material he constructs bod- ies, mirages, castles, fusions, acts of tenderness, races, intoxi- cations. . . The entire heavy coefficient of sex has been volatil- ized. But this here is only one example of the "anti-sex" chal- lenge, of which many other symptoms can be found. It is perhaps the end of this dreary dessert of sexuality, the end of the monarchy of sex.
? Q: Provided that we aren't devoted or chained to sex as if to a fatal destiny. And since early childhood, as they say. . .
MF: Exacdy. Look at what is happening as far as children are concemed. Some say: children's Ufe is their sex life. From the bottle to puberty, that's all it is. Behind the desire to leam to read or the taste for comic strips, there is stiU and will always be sexuality. Well, are you sure that this type of discourse is actually liberating? Are you sure that it doesn't lock children into a sort of sexual insularity? And what after all if they just couldn't care less? If the liberty of not being an adult consisted exacdy in not being enslaved to the law of sexuality, to its principles, to its commonplace, would it be so boring after all? If it were possible to have polymorphic rela-
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tionships with things, people and bodies, wouldn't that be childhood? To reassure themselves, adults call this polymor- phism perversity, coloring it thus with the monotonous mono- chrome of their own sexuality.
Q: Children are oppressed by the very ones who claim to liberate them?
MF: Read the book by Scherer and Hocquenghem:^ it shows very well that the child has a flow of pleasure for which the "sex" grid is a veritable prison.
Q; Is this a paradox?
MF: This ensues from the idea that sexuality is fun- damentally feared by power; it is without a doubt more a means through which power is exerted.
Q: Look at authoritarian states however. Can we say that there power is exerted not against but through sexuality?
MF: Two recent facts, apparently contradictory. About ten months ago, China began a campaign against children's masturbation, along exactly the same lines as that carried out in eighteenth century Europe (masturbation pre- vents work, causes blindness, leads to the degeneration of the species. . . ). On the other hand, before the year is out, the Soviet Union is going to host a congress of psychoanalysts for the first time (the Soviet Union has to host them, since they have none of their own). Liberalization? A thaw on the side of the subconscious? Springtime of the Soviet libido against the moral bourgeoisification of the Chinese?
In Peking's antiquated stupidities and the Soviet Union's new curiosities, I see mainly a double recognition of
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? the fact that, formulated and prohibited, spoken and forbidden, sexuality is a relay station which no modem system of power can do without. We shold greatly fear socialism with a sexual face.
Q; In other words, power is no longer necessarily that which condemns and encloses?
? MF: In general terms, I would say that the interdic- tion, the refusal, the prohibition, far from being essential forms of power, are only its limits: the frustrated or extreme forms of power. The relations of power are, above all, produc- tive.
Q: This is a new idea compared with your previous books.
? MF: If I wanted to pose and drape myself in a sUghdy fictive coherence, I would tell you that this has always been my problem: effects of power and the production of "truth. " I have always felt ill at ease with this ideological notion which has been used so much in recent years. It has been used to explain errors or illusions, shaded representa- tions--^in short, everything that impedes the formation of true discourses. It has also been used to show the relationship be- tween what goes on in peoples' heads and their place in the relations of production. In all, the economy of untruth. My problem is the poUtics of truth. I have taken a lot of time in realizing it.
? Q: Why?
? MF: For several reasons. First, because power in the West is what diplays itself the most, and thus what hides itself
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? best. What we have called "political life" since the nineteenth century is (a bit like the court in the age of monarchy) the manner in which power gives itself over to representation. Power is neither there, nor is that how it functions. The rela- tions of power are perhaps among the most hidden things in the social body.
On the other hand, since the nineteenth century, the critique of society has been essentially carried out, starting with the effectively determining nature of the economy. Cer- tainly a healthy reduction of "pohtics," but also with the ten- dency to neglect the relations of elementary power that could be constitutive of economic relations.
The third reason is the tendency, which is itself com- mon to institutions, political parties, and an entire current of revolutionary thought and action, which consists in not seeing power in any other form than that of the state apparatus.
? All of which leads, when one turns to individuals, to finding power only in their heads (under the form of represen- tation, acceptation, or interiorization).
? Q: And what did you want to do in the face of this?
MF: Four things: investigate what might be most hidden in power relations; anchor them in their economic in- frastructures; trace them not only in their governmental forms but also in their infra-govemmental or para-govemmental ones; and recuperate them in their material play.
? Q: At what point did you begin this type of study?
? MF: If you want a bibliographical reference, it was in Discipline and Punish. But I would rather say that it began with a series of events and experiences since 1968 concerning psychiatry, delinquency, the schools, etc. But I believe that
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? these elements themselves would never have been able to take their direction and intensity if there had not been those two gigantic shadows of fascism and Stalinism behind them. If proletarian misery--this sub-existence--caused political thought of the nineteenth century to revolve around the econ- omy, then these super-powers fascism and Stalinism induce political anxiety about our present-day societies.
Hence two problems. Power--how does it work? Is it enough that it imposes strong prohibitions in order to function effectively? And does it always move from above to below and from the center to the periphery?
Q: I saw this in The History of Sexuality, this shift- ing, this essential sliding. This time you made a clean break with the diffuse naturalism that haunts your previous books. . .
MF: What you call "naturalism" designates two things, I believe. A certain theory, the idea that underneath power with its acts of violence and its artifice we should be able to recuperate things themselves in their primitive vivac- ity: behind the asylum walls, the spontaneity of madness; through the penal system, the generous fever of delinquence; under the sexual interdiction, the freshness of desire. And also a certain aesthetic and moral choice: power is evil, it's ugly, poor, sterile, monotonous, dead; and what power is exercised upon is right, good, rich.
Q: Yes. And finally the theme common to the ortho- dox Marxist and to the New Left: "Under the cobblestones lies the beach. "
MF: If you like. There are moments when such sim- phfications are necessary. Such a dualism is provisionally useful to change the scenery from time to time and move from pro to contra.
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? Q: And then comes the time to stop, the moment of reflection and of regaining equilibrium?
? MF: On the contrary. The moment of new mobility and displacement must follow. Because these reversals of pro to contra are quickly blocked, unable to do anything except repeat themselves and form what Jacques Ranciere calls the "Leftist doxa. " As soon as we repeat indefinitely the same refrain of the anti-repressive ditty, things remain in place-- anyone can sing the tune, without anyone paying attention. This reversal of values and of truths, which I was speaking about a while ago, has been important to the extent that it does not stop with simple cheers (long live insanity, delinquency, sex), but it permits new strategies. You see, what often bothers me today, in fact, what really troubles me, is that all the work done in the past fifteen years or so, often under hardship and solitude, functions only for some as a sign of belonging on the "good side" of insanity, children, delinquency, sex.
? Q: There is no good side?
MF: One must pass to the other side--the "good side"--but in order to extract oneself from these mechanisms which make two sides appear, in order to dissolve the false unity, the illusory "nature" of this other side with which we have taken sides. This is where the real work begins, that of the historian of the present.
Q: You have already several times defined yourself as an historian. What does it mean? Why "historian" and not "philosopher? "
? MF: Under a form as naive as a child's tale, I will say that the question of philosophy has been for a long time:
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? "In this world where all perishes, what doesn't pass away? Where are we, we who must die, in relation to that which doesn't? " It seems to me that, since the nineteenth century, philosophy has not ceased asking itself the same question: "What is happening right now, and what are we, we who are perhaps nothing more than what is happening at this mo- ment? " Philosophy's question is the question of this present age which is ourselves. This is why philosophy is today en- tirely political and entirely historical. It is the politics imma- nent in history and the history indispensable for politics.
Q: But isn't there also a return today to the most classical, metaphysical kind of philosophy?
MF; I don't believe in any form of return. I would say only this, and only half-seriously. The thinking of the first Christian centuries would have had to answer the question: "What is actually going on today? What is this age in which we live? When and how will this promised retum of God take place? What can we do with this intervening time which is superfluous? And what are we, we who are in this transition?
One could say that on this slope of history, where the revolution is supposed to hold back and has not yet come, we ask the same question: "Who are we, we who are superfluous in this age where what should happen is not happening? " All modem thought, like all politics, has been dominated by this question of revolution.
Q; Do you continue for your part to pose this ques- tion of revolution and reflect upon it? Does it remain in your eyes the question par excellence?
? MF: If politics has existed since the nineteenth cen- tury, it's because there was revolution. The current one is not a
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? variant or a sector of that one. It's politics that always situates itself in relation to revolution. When Napoleon said, "The modem form of destiny is pohtics," he was only drawing the consequences from this truth, for he came after the revolution and before the eventual retum of another one.
? The retum of revolution--that is surely our problem. It is certain that without it's retum, the question of Stalinism would be only an academic one--a mere problem of the or- ganization of societies or of the validity of the Marxist scheme of things. But it's really quite another question concerning Stalinism. You know very well what it is: the very desirabiUty of the revolution is the problem today.
Q: Do you want the revolution? Do you want some- thing more than the simple ethical duty to stmggle here and now, at the side of one or another group of mental patients and prisoners, oppressed and miserable?
? MF: I have no answer. But I believe that to engage in politics---aside from party politics--is to try to know with the greatest possible honesty whether or not the revolution is de- sirable.
It is in exploring this terrible molehill that politics runs the danger of caving in.
? Q: If the revolution were no longer desirable, would politics remain what you say it is?
MF: No, I don't beheve so. It would be necessary to invent another one or something which could be a substitute for it. We are perhaps living the end of politics. For it's true that politics is a field which was opened by the existence of the revolution, and if the question of revolution can no longer be asked in these terms, then politics risks disappearing.
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? Q: Let's return to your politics in The History of Sexuality. You say: "Where there is power, there is resis- tance. " Are you not thus bringing back this nature which a while back you wanted to dismiss?
? MF: I don't think so, because this resistance I am speaking of is not a substance. It is not anterior to the power which it opposes. It is coextensive with it and absolutely its contemporary.
Q: The inverse of power? That would come to the same thing. Always the cobblestones under the beach. . .
MF: It isn't that either. For if it were only that, it wouldn't resist. To resist, it would have to operate like power. As inventive, mobile and productive power. Like power, it would have to organize, coagulate, and solidify itself. Like power, it would have to come from "underneath" and distrib- ute itself strategically.
Q: "Where there is power, there is resistance. " It's almost a tautology, consequently. . .
MF: Absolutely. I am not positing a substance of resistance in the face of power. I am simply saying: as soon as there is a power relation, there is the possibility of resistance. We are never trapped by power: we can always modify its grip in determinate conditions and according to a precise strategy.
Q: Power and resistance. . . tactics and strategy. . . Why this stock of military metaphors? Do you think that power from now on must be thought of in the form of war?
? MF: For the moment, I really don't know. One thing seems certain to me; it is that to analyze the relationships of
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? power, we have at present only two models at our disposal: the one proposed by law (power as law, interdiction, the institu- tion) and the military or strategic model in terms of power relations. The first has been much used and has proven its inadequate character, I believe. We know very well that law does not describe power.
? I know that the other model is also much discussed. But we stop with words: we use ready-made ideas or meta- phors ("war of all against all," "struggle for life"), or again formal schemata (strategies are very much in fashion among certain sociologists or economists, especially Americans). I believe that this analysis of power relations should be tight- ened up.
Q: This military conception of power relations, was it already used by the Marxists?
? MF: What strikes me about Marxist analyses is that it's always a question of "class struggle," but there is one word in the expression to which less attention is paid, namely "struggle. " Here again qualifications must be made. The great- est of the Marxists (starting with Marx himself) insisted a great deal on "mihtary" problems (the army as an instrument of the state, armed insurrection, revolutionary war). But when they speak of "class struggle" as the mainspring of history, they worry especially about defining this class, where it is situated, who it encompasses, but never concretely about the nature of the struggle. With one exception, however: Marx's own non-theoretical, historical texts, which are better in this regard.
? Q: Do you think that your book can fill such a gap?
? MF: I don't make any such claim. In a general way, I think that intellectuals--^if this category exists, if it should
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? exist at all, which is not certain nor perhaps even desirable-- are renouncing their old prophetic function.
? And by that I'm not thinking only of their claim to say what is going to happen, but also of the legislative func- tion which they've aspired to for so long: "See what must be done, see what is good, follow me. In the turmoil you're all in, here is the pivotal point, it's where I am. " The Greek sage, the Jewish prophet, and the Roman legislator are still models that haunt those who practice today the profession of speaking and writing. I dream of the intellectual destroyer of evidence and universalities, the one who, in the inertias and constraints of the present, locates and marks the weak points, the openings, the lines of power, who incessantly displaces himself, doesn't know exactly where he is heading nor what he'll think tomor- row because he is too attentive to the present; who, in passing, contributes the posing of the question of knowing whether the revolution is worth it, and what kind (I mean what kind of revolution and what effort), it being understood that they alone who are willing to risk their lives to bring it about can answer the question.
? As for all the questions of classification and program- ming that we are asked: "Are you a Marxist? " "What would you do if you had power? " "Who are your allies and where are your sympathies? "--these are truly secondary questions com- pared with the one that I have just indicated. That is the ques- tion of today. A
? Translated by Dudley M. Marchi Notes
' La Mort propagande (Paris: R. Deforges, 1977). ^ Co-ire (Paris: Recherches, 1976).
? 14
? The Anxiety of Judging
? Jean Laplanche: The death penalty is absolute, in the sense that it abolishes the criminal at the same time as the crime. ' Yet we no longer have the theological certainty, the blind faith, that would authorize us to pronounce such a penalty. For me it would be enough to know that, out of a thousand condemned to death there was a single innocent one, to make the abolition of the death penalty essential. When the court makes a mistake, there's no way to make reparations, since its "object"--^the condemned man--^no longer exists. I am therefore personally and unambiguously in favor of the suppression of the death penalty.
That said, my article was bom of a disturbing aston- ishment. I perceived that in this great debate there was a tacit agreement to refer only to utilitarian arguments. To me that was particularly shocking on the part of people who, claiming to be mostly on the left, consider themselves partisans of the abolition of the death penalty. Before the deluge of statistics "showing" that the death penalty doesn't discourage crime and that it has no dissuasive power, I asked myself: how can something so serious be discussed by considering it only from the point of view of the fear it provokes, even if it is to try to show that the latter is ineffective? And if other statistics were to "demonstrate" that the penalty is dissuasive? Your convic- tion wouldn't change a bit!
? 158 The Anxiety of Judging
? Robert Badinter: In your article you alluded to the role of the defense in the jury trial and you reproach me for using "utilitarian" arguments. There's much to say about that! But, before everything, I must make clear that for me a plea for the defense is dead the very moment it's uttered. It's an action, not a reflection. It can't be dissociated from the trial of which it is part. I had a stenographer record all the debates in Patrick Henry's trial. I thought, like everyone, that it was going to end with his death sentence. I wanted--and this will not surprise Michel Foucault--^the debates to remain, as an historic document. Had Henry been condemned to death, I would have published this text immediately.
? Michel Foucault: You just said something very important: no one really knows what happens in the course of a trial. Which is surprising if nothing else, insofar as it's a public procedure, in principle. Because of the distrust of the secret and the written word--which were the two principles of penal justice under the monarchy--our trials since 1794 have supposedly been oral and public. The indictments of the prose- cution are only preparatory documents. All must be played out in a theater with the public supposedly present. Yet, con- cretely, only fifty people, some journalists, a hurried judge, and an overwhelmed jury participate. There is no doubt that in France justice is a secret. And, after the verdict, it remains as such. It is nevertheless extraordinary that every day dozens of indictments are pronounced in the name of the "French people," who are essentially ignorant of them.
? A debate like the one at Troyes was extremely impor- tant. For months Patrick Henry's crime was made the object of an unprecedented dramatization in all the press. And then, and I don't know if we should be congratulating ourselves, during the trial the history of the death penalty became involved in the issue. Yet, in spite of all that, no one really knows what
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? was said about it, what argument hit home. In my opinion the uncensored publication of the debates is indispensable, what- ever your reserves.
RB: What you just said encourages me to ask Jean Laplanche a preliminary question, a minor but very important question: Have you ever witnessed a great criminal trial?
JL: No, never.
RB: You neither, Michel Foucault?
MF: Never a big criminal trial. And The Nouvel Observateur never asked me to cover the Troyes trial, which I regret. . .
RB: Jean Laplanche has only seen artifice and clev- erness where all those who were present at the trial felt exactly the contrary. In fact, for me it was only a matter of leading the jury to a state of lucidity about what the death penalty repre- sented for them as human beings.
? I said to myself: the true problem for the jury member is his personal, secret relationship to death. I wanted to make them feel that they represented, finally, only themselves, fac ing a man seated very close to them. And that they had the aberrant and exorbitant power to prohibit this man from con- tinuing to live. Of course I spoke of the man "cut in two. " But, contrary to what Jean Laplanche imagines, this was not done out of a taste for oratorical effect. I am horrified by every rhetorical exploitation of the guillotine and torture. It was ex- actly to avoid description that I sought the barest image to represent the decapitation of a man. And however you inter- pret it, at the end of the execution this man is in two pieces in the court of Sante. That's all. So, instead of going into a wealth
? 160 The Anxiety of Judging
of disturbing details--they're going to cut off his head and put it into a basket--chose extreme bareness.
That this image evokes fundamental notions like cas- tration for a psychoanalyst is possible. But in what concerns me, it's the opposite of rhetorical artifice. That's why this ar- ticle shocked and wounded me.
JL: Badinter seems to think that I reproached him for techniques and "effects. " But it's not the sincerity of the law yer that's in question. At bottom, it hardly matters whether or not I was present at the trial. The trials like the one at Troyes
are spectator trials: all citizens, not just the audience, are sum- moned to them.
? And this leads to my second remark: you arenecessar- ily in a compromised position between your function as a defender of a man and your mission as reformer of a law. I very much admired your book L'Execution^ where you show that the defense of a man can be only an absolute witnessing, body to body, that no longer has to be concemed with justice. It's a redoubtable and admirable position. Assuming you have used certain "effects" to this end, I see nothing more to add. But your position is untenable when, at the same moment, you intend to take action against the death penalty. One of two things: either you still situate yourself in reference to the law and to justice--but tiiat impedes your absolute defense; or it's the very notion of penalty that you contest; yet tiie critic of tiie death penalty who emphasizes its "efficacity" presupposes that
justice has only the administration of the best possible rela- tionships between men as its object.
? RB: But finally the problem of the death penahy is not posed only in itself, abstractiy! It is first posed very con- cretely at the moment when a man is there next to you, at risk of being condemned to death. It takes on all its meaning, be-
? ? ? ? The Anxiety of Judging 161
? lieve me, only at the last bloody minute in the court of Sante. There's nothing theoretical about it, alas!
? JL: You tell us that each jury member finally re- presents only himself. But one can claim the same thing for every pronouncement of a penalty, whatever it is! Let's sup- pose that the death penalty is abolished. Isn't it the same situ- ation? Isn't the jury member then the person who slides the bolt on the prison cell? Don't we retum, as in the case of the death penalty, to a "man-to-man" situation where no decision can be conceived but the one of vengeance? That's very much the reason why justice is only possible when rendered "in the name of. . . " If you suppress this reference that transcends the individual you suppress justice. But what is substituted for it is not liberty, but the obligatory administration of men, with its multiple faces: technical, psychiatric, the police, etc.
? RB: At no moment in his life does a man dispose of a power comparable to the one when he says: "What am I going to do with him? Am I going to send him to prison for five years? Ten years? " And from that moment of course a lawyer's first duty is to recall to the jury the immensity of those five years. But, in the case of a prison term, which can easily be changed, nothing is really definitive. The trial will proceed in the shadow or within the framework of detention, sometimes a pardon or conditional freedom, etc. When it's a matter of death the choice is radical: it changes nature. After the decision--except for the possibility of pardon--^it's all over. When the jurors have to pronounce sentence, it's death that looks them in the face. And it is conjured away, erased, masked by the whole judicial ceremony.
? JL: The ceremony is ridiculous and absolute only when deprived of its symbolic significance, of its reference "in
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? the name of. . .