Q; You thus situate
yourself
deliberately as an histo- rian.
Foucault-Live
.
.
.
.
317
? References and Acknowledgements. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 333
? ? Foucault Live
? 1
The Order of Things
? ? Q: How is The Order of Things related to Madness and Civilization?
? MF: Madness and Civilization, roughly speaking, was the history of a division, the history above all of a certain break that every society found itself obliged to install. On the other hand, in this book I wanted to write a history of order, to state how a society reflects upon resemblances among things and how differences between things can be mastered, organ- ized into networks, sketched out according to rational schemes. Madness and Civilization is the history of difference. The Order of Things the history of resemblance, sameness, and identity.
? Q: In the sub-title that you have given the book one again encounters this word "archeology," which appeared in the sub-title of The Birth of the Clinic and again in the Preface to Madness and Civilization.
MF; By archeology I would like to designate not exactly a discipline, but a domain of research, which would be the following:
? ? 2 The Order of Things
? In a society, different bodies of learning, philosophi- cal ideas, everyday opinions, but also institutions, commercial practices and police activities, mores--all refer to a certain implicit knowledge (savoir) special to this society. ' This knowledge is profoundly different from the bodies of learning that one can find in scientific books, philosophical theories, and religious justifications, but it is what makes possible at a given moment the appearance of a theory, an opinion, a prac- tice. Thus, in order for the big centers of internment to be opened at the end of the 17th century, it was necessary that a certain knowledge of madness be opposed to non-madness, of order to disorder, and it's this knowledge (savoir) that I wanted to investigate, as the condition of possibility of knowl- edge (connaissance), of institutions, of practices.
? This style of research has for me the following inter- est: it permits me to avoid every problem concerning the an- teriority of theory in relation to practice, and the inverse. In fact, I deal with practices, institutions and theories on the same plane and according to the same isomorphisms, and I look for the underlying knowledge (savoir) that makes them possible, the stratum of knowledge that constitutes them historically. Rather than try to explain this knowledge from the point of view of the practico-inert, I try to formulate an analysis from the position of what one could call the "theoretico-active. "^
? Q: You find yourself therefore confronting a double problem; of history and formalization.
? MF; All these practices, then, the`se institutions and theories, I take at the level of traces, that is, almost always at the level of verbal traces. The ensemble of these traces consti- tutes a sort of domain considered to be homogeneous; one doesn't establish any differences a priori. The problem is to find common traits between these traces of sufficiently
? The Order of Things 3
? different orders in order to constitute what logicians call classes, aestheticians call forms, men of science call struc- tures, and which are the invariants common to a certain num- ber of traces.
Q: How have you posed the problem of choice and non-choice?
? MF: I will respond by saying that in fact there must not be any privileged choice. One must be able to read every- thing, to know all the institutions and all the practices. None of the values traditionally recognized in the history of ideas and philosophy must be accepted as such. One is dealing with a field that will ignore the differences and traditionally impor- tant things. Which means that one will take up Don Quixote, Descartes, and a decree by Pomponne de Belierre about houses of internment in the same stroke. One will perceive that the grammarians of the 18 th century have as much impor- tance as the recognized philosphers of the same period.
? Q; It is in this sense that you say, for example, that Curier and Ricardo have taught you as much or more than Kant and Hegel. But then the question of information becomes the pressing one: how do you read everything?
MF: One can read all the grammarians, and all the economists. For The Birth of the Clinic I read every medical work of importance for methodology of the period 1780-1820. The choices that one could make are inadmissable, and shouldn't exist. One ought to read everything, study every- thing. In other words, one must have at one's disposal the general archive of a period at a given moment. And archeol- ogy is, in a strict sense, the science of this archive.
? ? 4 The Order of Things
? Q: What determines the choice of historic period (here, as in Madness and Civilization, it's from the Renais- sance to the present), and its relationship with the "archeologi- cal" perspective that you adopt?
? MF: This kind of research is only possible as the analysis of our own sub-soil. It's not a defect of these retro- spective disciplines to find their point of departure in our own actuality. There can be no doubt that the problem of the divi- sion between reason and unreason became possible only with Nietzsche and Artaud. And it's the sub-soil of our modem consciousness of madness that I have wanted to investigate. If there were not something like a fault line in this soil archeol- ogy would not have been possible or necessary. In the same way, if the question of meaning and of the relation between meaning and the sign had not appeared in European culture with Freud, Saussure^ and Husserl, it is obvious that it would not have been necessary to investigate the sub-soil of our con- sciousness of meaning. In the two cases these are the critical analyses of our own condition.
? Q; What has pushed you to adopt the three axes that orient your whole analysis?
? MF; Roughly this. The human sciences that have appeared since the end of the 19th century are caught as it were in a double obligation, a double and simultaneous postu- lation: that of hermeneutics, interpretation, or exegesis: one must understand a hidden meaning; and the other: one must formalize, discover the system, the structural invariant, the network of simultaneities. Yet these two questions seemed to confront each other in a privileged fashion in the human sci- ences, to the point that one has the impression that it is neces- sary that they be one or the other, interpretation or formali-
? The Order of Things 5
? zation. What I understood was precisely the archeological re- search of what had made this ambiguity possible. I wanted to find the branch that bore this fork.
Thus I had to respond to a double question concern- ing the classic period: that of the theory of, signs, and that of the empirical order, of the constitution of empirical orders.
It appeared to me that in fact the classical age, usu- ally considered as the age of the radical mechanization of nature, of the mathematization of the living, was in reality something entirely different, that there existed a very impor- tant domain that included general grammar, natural history and the analysis of wealth; and that this empirical domain is based on the project of an ordering of things, and this thanks not to mathematics and geometry but to a systematic of signs, a sort of general and systematic taxonomy of things.
Q: It's thus a return to the classical age that has determined the three axes. How then is the passage in these three domains from the classical age to the 19 th century ef- fected?
MF: It revealed one thing that came to me as a complete surprise: that man didn't exist within classical knowledge {savoir). What existed in the place where we now discover man was the power special to discourse, to the verbal order, to represent the order of things. In order to study the grammar or the system of wealth, there was no need to pass through a science of man, but through discourse.
? Q: Yet, apparently, if ever a literature seemed to speak of man, it was our literature of the 17th century.
MF: Insofar as what existed in classical knowledge were representations ordered in a discourse, all the notions
? ? 6 The Order of Things
? that are fundamental for our conception of man, like those of life, work, and language, had no basis in that period, and no place.
At the end of the 17th century, discourse ceased to play the organizing role that it had in classical knowledge. There was no longer any transparence between the order of things and the representations that one could have of them; things were folded somehow onto their own thickness and onto a demand exterior to representation, and it's for this rea- son that languages with their history, hfe with its organization and its autonomy, and work with its own capacity for produc- tion appeared. In the face of that, in the lacuna left by dis- course, man constituted himself, a man who is as much one who hves, who speaks and who works, as one who experi- ences life, language and work, as one finally who can be known to the extent that he lives, speaks and works.
Q: Against this background how does our situation today present itself?
? MF: At the moment we find ourselves in a very ambiguous situation. Man has existed since the beginning of the 19th century only because discourse ceased to have the force of law over the empirical world. Man has existed there where discourse was silenced. Yet with Saussure, Freud and Hegel, at the heart of what is most fundamental in the knowl- edge of man, the problem of meaning and the sign reappeared. Now one can wonder if this return of the great problem of the sign and meaning, of the order of signs, constitutes a kind of superimposition in our culture over what had constituted the classical age and modernity, or rather if it's a question of omens announcing that man is disappearing, since until the present the order of man and that of signs have in our culture been incompatible with each other. Man would die from the
? The Order of Things 7
? signs that were bom in him--that's what Nietzsche, the first one to see this, meant.
Q: It seems to me that this idea of an incompatability between the OTder of signs and the order of man must have a certain number of consequences.
MF; Yes. For example;
1. It makes an idle fancy of the idea of a science of
man that would be at the same time an analysis of signs.
2. It announces the first deterioration in European history of the anthropological and humanist episode that we experienced in the 19th century, when one thought that the sciences of man would be at the same time the liberation of man, of the human being in his plenitude. Experience has shown that in their development the sciences of man lead to
the disappearance of man rather than to his apotheosis.
? 3. Literature, whose status changed in the 19th cen- tury when it ceased to belong to the order of discourse and became the manifestation of language in its thickness, must no doubt now assume another status, is assuming another status, and the hesitation that it manifests between the vague human- isms and the pure formalism of language is no doubt only one of the manifestations of this phenomenon that is fundamental for us and which makes us oscillate between interpretation and formalization, man and signs.
Q; Thus one sees clearly the great determinations of French literature since the classical age take form; in particu- lar, the scheme that leads from a first humanism, that of Ro- manticism, to Flaubert, then to this literature of the subject incarnated in the generation of the Nouvelle Revue Franc? aise, to the new humanism of before and after the war, and today to the formation of the nouveau roman. Yet German literature
? ? 8 The Order of Things
? holds this kind of evolutionary scheme in check, however one envisages it.
MF; Perhaps insofar as German classicism was con- temporary with this age of history and interpretation, German literature found itself from its origins in this confrontation that we are experiencing today. That would explain why Nietzsche didn't do anything but become aware of this situation, and now he's the one who serves as a Hght for us.
Q; That would explain why he can appear through- out your book as the exemplary figure, the non-archeologiz- able subject (or not yet), since it is starting from what he opened that the question is posed in all its violence.
? MF; Yes, he is the one who through German culture understood that the rediscovery of the dimension proper to language is incompatible with man. From that point Nietzsche has taken a prophetic value for us. And then on the other hand it is necessary to condemn with the most complete severity all the attempts to dull the problem. For example, the use of the most familiar notions of the 18th century, the schemes of re- semblance and contiguity, all of that which is used to build the human sciences, to found them, all that appears to me to be a form of intellectual cowardice that serves to confirm what Nietzsche signified to us for almost a century, that where there is a sign, there man cannot be, and that where one makes signs speak, there man must fall silent.
What appears to me to be deceiving and naive in reflections on and analyses of signs is that one supposes them to be always already there, deposited on the figure of the world, or consituted by men, and that one never investigates their being. What does it mean, the fact that there are signs and marks of language? One must pose the problem of the
? ? The Order of Things 9
? being of language as a task, in order not to fall back to a level of reflection which would be that of the 18th century, to the level of empiricism.
Q: One thing in your book struck me very sharply, the perfect singularity of its position towards philosophy, the philosophical tradition and history on the one hand, and on the other towards the history of ideas, methods and concepts.
MF: I was shocked by the fact that there existed on one side a history of philosophy which gave itself as a privileged object the philosophical edifices that the tradition signaled as important (at the very most one accepted, when one was a little trendy, to relate them to the birth of industrial capitalism), and on the other side a history of ideas, that is to say sub-philosophies, which took for their privileged object the texts of Montesquieu, Diderot or FonteneUe.
? If one adds to that the histories of the sciences, one cannot fail to be struck by the impossibility for our culture to pose the problem of the history of its own thought. It's why I have tried to make, obviously in a rather particular style, the history not of thought in general but of all that "contains thought" in a culture, of all in which there is thought. For there is thought in philosophy, but also in a novel, in jurisprudence, in law, in an administrative system, in a prison. A
? Translated by John Johnston
? 10 The Order of Things
? Notes
? 'In the case of Foucault's use of the terms savoir and connais- sance, I have retained the French in parantheses in order to preserve a distinction not available in English. (Translator)
? ^The "practico-inert" is a historical category developed by Jean-Paul Sartre in Critique de la raison dialectique (Paris: Gallimard, 1960). The practico-inert field is a structure that unifies individuals from without (e. g. , common interest).
? 'Ferdinand de Saussure's Course in General Linguistics (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1966), first published in 1916, is at the origin of the modem science of signs, or semiotics.
? 2
The Discourse of History
? Q: The double reception given to your book--criti- cal and public, enthusiastic and reticent--prompts a follow-up interview to the one you gave more than a year ago, where you laid out the nature and the field of your research. Which ap- pears to you to be the most striking reaction raised by The Order of Things?
? MF: I was struck by the following fact: professional historians recognized it as a work of history, and many others, who think of history as an old idea and no doubt feel it to be very outmoded today, cried out at the murder of history.
? Q: Does it not seem to you that the form of the book--mean by that as much the absence of detailed notes and bibliographies, accumulated and acknowledged refer- ences, customary for this kind of work, as the mirror play con- stituted by Las Meninas and your style itself--has not this form helped to mask its nature?
? MF; No doubt the presentation of the book is not indifferent to these things, but above all I believe that certain people are ignorant of the very important mutation in
? 12 The Discourse of History
? historical knowledge (savoir) already more than twenty years old. One knows that the books of Dume? zil,' Le? vi-Strauss and Lacan count among the major books of our time, but is it simi- larly known that, among the works that assure a new adven- ture in knowledge today, one must put the books of Braudel, Furet and Denis Richet, Leroy-Ladurie, the research of the Cambridge historical school and of the Soviet school? ^
?
Q; You thus situate yourself deliberately as an histo- rian. To what do you attribute this ignorance?
? MF: History, I believe, has become the object of a curious sacralization. For many intellectuals, a distant respect for history, uninformed and traditionalist, was the simplest way of reconciling their political conscience and their activity as researchers or writers. Under the sign of the cross of his- tory, every discourse became a prayer to the God of just causes. There is next a more technicd reason. One must rec- ognize that in domains like linguistics, anthropology, history of religion and sociology, the concepts, formed in the 19th century and of a dialectical order, one can say, have been for the most part abandoned. Yet, in the eyes of certain people, history as a discipline constituted the last refuge of the dialec- tical order: in it one could save the reign of rational contradic- tion. Thus, for these two reasons and against all likelihood, a conception of history organized on the narrative model as a great sequence of events caught up in a hierarchy of determi- nations: individuals are grasped at the interior of this totality which transcends them and plays with them but of which they are perhaps at the same time the badly conscious authors. To the point that this history, simultaneously an individual project and a totality, has for some become untouchable: to refuse such a form of historical statement would be to attack the great cause of the revolution.
? The Discourse of History 13
? Q: The novelty of the historical works you allude to consists in what exactly?
MF: One can characterize them a little schematically as follows:
? 1. These historians are posing the very difficult prob- lem of periodization. They have perceived that the manifest periodization highlighted by political revolutions was not al- ways methodologically the best way possible to mark things out.
? 2. Each periodization marks out in history a certain level of events, and, inversely, each layer of events calls for its own periodization. There lies a delicate set of problems, since, according to the level one chooses, one will have to delimit different periodizations, and according to the periodization that one is given, one will attain different levels. Thus one accedes to a complex methodology of discontinuity.
? 3. The old traditional opposition between the human sciences and history (the first studying the synchronic and the non-evolutionary, the second analyzing the dimension of ceaseless great changes) disappears; change can be the object of analysis in terms of structure, and historical discourse is populated with analyses borrowed from ethnology, sociology, and the human sciences.
4. One introduces into historical analysis many more types of relationship and modes of linkage than the universal relation of causality through which one had formerly wanted to define historical method.
Thus, for the first time perhaps, one has the possibil- ity of analyzing as an object a set of materials which have been deposited in the course of time in the form of signs, traces, institutions, practices and works, etc. In all these changes there are two essential manifestations:
? 14 The Discourse of History
(a) On the historians' side, the works of Braudel, the Cambridge school, the Russian school, etc.
(b) The very remarkable critique and analysis of the notion of history developed by Althusser at the beginning of Reading Capital. '^
Q: Thus you mark a direct kinship between your works and those of Althusser?
MF: Having been his student and owing him much, perhaps I tend to place under his sign an effort that he might challenge, so much that I can't respond to what concerns him. But all the same, I would say: open Althusser's books.
There remains, however, between Althusser and my- self, an obvious difference: he employs the word epistemo- logical break in relation to Marx, while I affirm that Marx does not represent such a break. "
Q: Is not this difference over Marx precisely the most manifest sign of what has appeared to be arguable in your analysis of the structural mutations of knowledge {sa- voir) in the course of the 19th century?
MF: What I said a propos of Marx concerns the precise epistemological domain of political economy. What- ever the importance of the modifications Marx brings to Ricardo's analysis, I do not believe that his economic analyses escape the epistemological space inaugurated by Ricardo. On the other hand, one can suppose that Marx introduced into the historical and political consciousness of men a radical break and that the Marxist theory of society inaugurated an entirely new epistemological field.
? My book bears the sub-title "An archeology of the human sciences": that itself supposes another, which would be
? The Discourse of History 15
? precisely the analysis of knowledge (savoir) and of historical consciousness in the West since the 16th century. And even before having advanced very far in this work, it seemed to me that the great break has to be situated at the level of Marx. Here we are led back to what I was saying earlier: the periodi- zation of domains of knowledge (connaissance) cannot be made in the same way according to the levels where one is positioned. One finds oneself before a kind of superimposition of bricks and the interesting thing, the strange and curious thing, will be to know precisely how and why the epistemo- logical break for the life sciences, economy and language is situated at the beginning of the 19th century, and at the middle of the 19th century for the theory of history and pohtics.
Q: But that's to break deliberately with the tendency to privilege history as the harmonic science of the totality as the Marxist tradition transmits it to us.
? MF: In my opinion this widespread idea is not really to be found in Marx. But I will respond, since in this domain where one is still only broaching possible principles, it is still way too early to pose the problem of the reciprocal determina- tions of these layers. It is not at all impossible that one can discover forms of determination such that all the levels line up and move together in a great regimented step on the bridge of historical progress. But that's only an hypothesis.
? Q: In the articles that attack your book one notices the words "to freeze history," which return like a leitmotif and seem to formulate the more fundamental accusation, which puts into question as much your conceptual scheme as the narrative technique it implies, in fact the very possibility, as you intend to do it, of formulating a logic of mutation. What do you think of this objection?
? 7
? ? 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?
? References and Acknowledgements. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 333
? ? Foucault Live
? 1
The Order of Things
? ? Q: How is The Order of Things related to Madness and Civilization?
? MF: Madness and Civilization, roughly speaking, was the history of a division, the history above all of a certain break that every society found itself obliged to install. On the other hand, in this book I wanted to write a history of order, to state how a society reflects upon resemblances among things and how differences between things can be mastered, organ- ized into networks, sketched out according to rational schemes. Madness and Civilization is the history of difference. The Order of Things the history of resemblance, sameness, and identity.
? Q: In the sub-title that you have given the book one again encounters this word "archeology," which appeared in the sub-title of The Birth of the Clinic and again in the Preface to Madness and Civilization.
MF; By archeology I would like to designate not exactly a discipline, but a domain of research, which would be the following:
? ? 2 The Order of Things
? In a society, different bodies of learning, philosophi- cal ideas, everyday opinions, but also institutions, commercial practices and police activities, mores--all refer to a certain implicit knowledge (savoir) special to this society. ' This knowledge is profoundly different from the bodies of learning that one can find in scientific books, philosophical theories, and religious justifications, but it is what makes possible at a given moment the appearance of a theory, an opinion, a prac- tice. Thus, in order for the big centers of internment to be opened at the end of the 17th century, it was necessary that a certain knowledge of madness be opposed to non-madness, of order to disorder, and it's this knowledge (savoir) that I wanted to investigate, as the condition of possibility of knowl- edge (connaissance), of institutions, of practices.
? This style of research has for me the following inter- est: it permits me to avoid every problem concerning the an- teriority of theory in relation to practice, and the inverse. In fact, I deal with practices, institutions and theories on the same plane and according to the same isomorphisms, and I look for the underlying knowledge (savoir) that makes them possible, the stratum of knowledge that constitutes them historically. Rather than try to explain this knowledge from the point of view of the practico-inert, I try to formulate an analysis from the position of what one could call the "theoretico-active. "^
? Q: You find yourself therefore confronting a double problem; of history and formalization.
? MF; All these practices, then, the`se institutions and theories, I take at the level of traces, that is, almost always at the level of verbal traces. The ensemble of these traces consti- tutes a sort of domain considered to be homogeneous; one doesn't establish any differences a priori. The problem is to find common traits between these traces of sufficiently
? The Order of Things 3
? different orders in order to constitute what logicians call classes, aestheticians call forms, men of science call struc- tures, and which are the invariants common to a certain num- ber of traces.
Q: How have you posed the problem of choice and non-choice?
? MF: I will respond by saying that in fact there must not be any privileged choice. One must be able to read every- thing, to know all the institutions and all the practices. None of the values traditionally recognized in the history of ideas and philosophy must be accepted as such. One is dealing with a field that will ignore the differences and traditionally impor- tant things. Which means that one will take up Don Quixote, Descartes, and a decree by Pomponne de Belierre about houses of internment in the same stroke. One will perceive that the grammarians of the 18 th century have as much impor- tance as the recognized philosphers of the same period.
? Q; It is in this sense that you say, for example, that Curier and Ricardo have taught you as much or more than Kant and Hegel. But then the question of information becomes the pressing one: how do you read everything?
MF: One can read all the grammarians, and all the economists. For The Birth of the Clinic I read every medical work of importance for methodology of the period 1780-1820. The choices that one could make are inadmissable, and shouldn't exist. One ought to read everything, study every- thing. In other words, one must have at one's disposal the general archive of a period at a given moment. And archeol- ogy is, in a strict sense, the science of this archive.
? ? 4 The Order of Things
? Q: What determines the choice of historic period (here, as in Madness and Civilization, it's from the Renais- sance to the present), and its relationship with the "archeologi- cal" perspective that you adopt?
? MF: This kind of research is only possible as the analysis of our own sub-soil. It's not a defect of these retro- spective disciplines to find their point of departure in our own actuality. There can be no doubt that the problem of the divi- sion between reason and unreason became possible only with Nietzsche and Artaud. And it's the sub-soil of our modem consciousness of madness that I have wanted to investigate. If there were not something like a fault line in this soil archeol- ogy would not have been possible or necessary. In the same way, if the question of meaning and of the relation between meaning and the sign had not appeared in European culture with Freud, Saussure^ and Husserl, it is obvious that it would not have been necessary to investigate the sub-soil of our con- sciousness of meaning. In the two cases these are the critical analyses of our own condition.
? Q; What has pushed you to adopt the three axes that orient your whole analysis?
? MF; Roughly this. The human sciences that have appeared since the end of the 19th century are caught as it were in a double obligation, a double and simultaneous postu- lation: that of hermeneutics, interpretation, or exegesis: one must understand a hidden meaning; and the other: one must formalize, discover the system, the structural invariant, the network of simultaneities. Yet these two questions seemed to confront each other in a privileged fashion in the human sci- ences, to the point that one has the impression that it is neces- sary that they be one or the other, interpretation or formali-
? The Order of Things 5
? zation. What I understood was precisely the archeological re- search of what had made this ambiguity possible. I wanted to find the branch that bore this fork.
Thus I had to respond to a double question concern- ing the classic period: that of the theory of, signs, and that of the empirical order, of the constitution of empirical orders.
It appeared to me that in fact the classical age, usu- ally considered as the age of the radical mechanization of nature, of the mathematization of the living, was in reality something entirely different, that there existed a very impor- tant domain that included general grammar, natural history and the analysis of wealth; and that this empirical domain is based on the project of an ordering of things, and this thanks not to mathematics and geometry but to a systematic of signs, a sort of general and systematic taxonomy of things.
Q: It's thus a return to the classical age that has determined the three axes. How then is the passage in these three domains from the classical age to the 19 th century ef- fected?
MF: It revealed one thing that came to me as a complete surprise: that man didn't exist within classical knowledge {savoir). What existed in the place where we now discover man was the power special to discourse, to the verbal order, to represent the order of things. In order to study the grammar or the system of wealth, there was no need to pass through a science of man, but through discourse.
? Q: Yet, apparently, if ever a literature seemed to speak of man, it was our literature of the 17th century.
MF: Insofar as what existed in classical knowledge were representations ordered in a discourse, all the notions
? ? 6 The Order of Things
? that are fundamental for our conception of man, like those of life, work, and language, had no basis in that period, and no place.
At the end of the 17th century, discourse ceased to play the organizing role that it had in classical knowledge. There was no longer any transparence between the order of things and the representations that one could have of them; things were folded somehow onto their own thickness and onto a demand exterior to representation, and it's for this rea- son that languages with their history, hfe with its organization and its autonomy, and work with its own capacity for produc- tion appeared. In the face of that, in the lacuna left by dis- course, man constituted himself, a man who is as much one who hves, who speaks and who works, as one who experi- ences life, language and work, as one finally who can be known to the extent that he lives, speaks and works.
Q: Against this background how does our situation today present itself?
? MF: At the moment we find ourselves in a very ambiguous situation. Man has existed since the beginning of the 19th century only because discourse ceased to have the force of law over the empirical world. Man has existed there where discourse was silenced. Yet with Saussure, Freud and Hegel, at the heart of what is most fundamental in the knowl- edge of man, the problem of meaning and the sign reappeared. Now one can wonder if this return of the great problem of the sign and meaning, of the order of signs, constitutes a kind of superimposition in our culture over what had constituted the classical age and modernity, or rather if it's a question of omens announcing that man is disappearing, since until the present the order of man and that of signs have in our culture been incompatible with each other. Man would die from the
? The Order of Things 7
? signs that were bom in him--that's what Nietzsche, the first one to see this, meant.
Q: It seems to me that this idea of an incompatability between the OTder of signs and the order of man must have a certain number of consequences.
MF; Yes. For example;
1. It makes an idle fancy of the idea of a science of
man that would be at the same time an analysis of signs.
2. It announces the first deterioration in European history of the anthropological and humanist episode that we experienced in the 19th century, when one thought that the sciences of man would be at the same time the liberation of man, of the human being in his plenitude. Experience has shown that in their development the sciences of man lead to
the disappearance of man rather than to his apotheosis.
? 3. Literature, whose status changed in the 19th cen- tury when it ceased to belong to the order of discourse and became the manifestation of language in its thickness, must no doubt now assume another status, is assuming another status, and the hesitation that it manifests between the vague human- isms and the pure formalism of language is no doubt only one of the manifestations of this phenomenon that is fundamental for us and which makes us oscillate between interpretation and formalization, man and signs.
Q; Thus one sees clearly the great determinations of French literature since the classical age take form; in particu- lar, the scheme that leads from a first humanism, that of Ro- manticism, to Flaubert, then to this literature of the subject incarnated in the generation of the Nouvelle Revue Franc? aise, to the new humanism of before and after the war, and today to the formation of the nouveau roman. Yet German literature
? ? 8 The Order of Things
? holds this kind of evolutionary scheme in check, however one envisages it.
MF; Perhaps insofar as German classicism was con- temporary with this age of history and interpretation, German literature found itself from its origins in this confrontation that we are experiencing today. That would explain why Nietzsche didn't do anything but become aware of this situation, and now he's the one who serves as a Hght for us.
Q; That would explain why he can appear through- out your book as the exemplary figure, the non-archeologiz- able subject (or not yet), since it is starting from what he opened that the question is posed in all its violence.
? MF; Yes, he is the one who through German culture understood that the rediscovery of the dimension proper to language is incompatible with man. From that point Nietzsche has taken a prophetic value for us. And then on the other hand it is necessary to condemn with the most complete severity all the attempts to dull the problem. For example, the use of the most familiar notions of the 18th century, the schemes of re- semblance and contiguity, all of that which is used to build the human sciences, to found them, all that appears to me to be a form of intellectual cowardice that serves to confirm what Nietzsche signified to us for almost a century, that where there is a sign, there man cannot be, and that where one makes signs speak, there man must fall silent.
What appears to me to be deceiving and naive in reflections on and analyses of signs is that one supposes them to be always already there, deposited on the figure of the world, or consituted by men, and that one never investigates their being. What does it mean, the fact that there are signs and marks of language? One must pose the problem of the
? ? The Order of Things 9
? being of language as a task, in order not to fall back to a level of reflection which would be that of the 18th century, to the level of empiricism.
Q: One thing in your book struck me very sharply, the perfect singularity of its position towards philosophy, the philosophical tradition and history on the one hand, and on the other towards the history of ideas, methods and concepts.
MF: I was shocked by the fact that there existed on one side a history of philosophy which gave itself as a privileged object the philosophical edifices that the tradition signaled as important (at the very most one accepted, when one was a little trendy, to relate them to the birth of industrial capitalism), and on the other side a history of ideas, that is to say sub-philosophies, which took for their privileged object the texts of Montesquieu, Diderot or FonteneUe.
? If one adds to that the histories of the sciences, one cannot fail to be struck by the impossibility for our culture to pose the problem of the history of its own thought. It's why I have tried to make, obviously in a rather particular style, the history not of thought in general but of all that "contains thought" in a culture, of all in which there is thought. For there is thought in philosophy, but also in a novel, in jurisprudence, in law, in an administrative system, in a prison. A
? Translated by John Johnston
? 10 The Order of Things
? Notes
? 'In the case of Foucault's use of the terms savoir and connais- sance, I have retained the French in parantheses in order to preserve a distinction not available in English. (Translator)
? ^The "practico-inert" is a historical category developed by Jean-Paul Sartre in Critique de la raison dialectique (Paris: Gallimard, 1960). The practico-inert field is a structure that unifies individuals from without (e. g. , common interest).
? 'Ferdinand de Saussure's Course in General Linguistics (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1966), first published in 1916, is at the origin of the modem science of signs, or semiotics.
? 2
The Discourse of History
? Q: The double reception given to your book--criti- cal and public, enthusiastic and reticent--prompts a follow-up interview to the one you gave more than a year ago, where you laid out the nature and the field of your research. Which ap- pears to you to be the most striking reaction raised by The Order of Things?
? MF: I was struck by the following fact: professional historians recognized it as a work of history, and many others, who think of history as an old idea and no doubt feel it to be very outmoded today, cried out at the murder of history.
? Q: Does it not seem to you that the form of the book--mean by that as much the absence of detailed notes and bibliographies, accumulated and acknowledged refer- ences, customary for this kind of work, as the mirror play con- stituted by Las Meninas and your style itself--has not this form helped to mask its nature?
? MF; No doubt the presentation of the book is not indifferent to these things, but above all I believe that certain people are ignorant of the very important mutation in
? 12 The Discourse of History
? historical knowledge (savoir) already more than twenty years old. One knows that the books of Dume? zil,' Le? vi-Strauss and Lacan count among the major books of our time, but is it simi- larly known that, among the works that assure a new adven- ture in knowledge today, one must put the books of Braudel, Furet and Denis Richet, Leroy-Ladurie, the research of the Cambridge historical school and of the Soviet school? ^
?
Q; You thus situate yourself deliberately as an histo- rian. To what do you attribute this ignorance?
? MF: History, I believe, has become the object of a curious sacralization. For many intellectuals, a distant respect for history, uninformed and traditionalist, was the simplest way of reconciling their political conscience and their activity as researchers or writers. Under the sign of the cross of his- tory, every discourse became a prayer to the God of just causes. There is next a more technicd reason. One must rec- ognize that in domains like linguistics, anthropology, history of religion and sociology, the concepts, formed in the 19th century and of a dialectical order, one can say, have been for the most part abandoned. Yet, in the eyes of certain people, history as a discipline constituted the last refuge of the dialec- tical order: in it one could save the reign of rational contradic- tion. Thus, for these two reasons and against all likelihood, a conception of history organized on the narrative model as a great sequence of events caught up in a hierarchy of determi- nations: individuals are grasped at the interior of this totality which transcends them and plays with them but of which they are perhaps at the same time the badly conscious authors. To the point that this history, simultaneously an individual project and a totality, has for some become untouchable: to refuse such a form of historical statement would be to attack the great cause of the revolution.
? The Discourse of History 13
? Q: The novelty of the historical works you allude to consists in what exactly?
MF: One can characterize them a little schematically as follows:
? 1. These historians are posing the very difficult prob- lem of periodization. They have perceived that the manifest periodization highlighted by political revolutions was not al- ways methodologically the best way possible to mark things out.
? 2. Each periodization marks out in history a certain level of events, and, inversely, each layer of events calls for its own periodization. There lies a delicate set of problems, since, according to the level one chooses, one will have to delimit different periodizations, and according to the periodization that one is given, one will attain different levels. Thus one accedes to a complex methodology of discontinuity.
? 3. The old traditional opposition between the human sciences and history (the first studying the synchronic and the non-evolutionary, the second analyzing the dimension of ceaseless great changes) disappears; change can be the object of analysis in terms of structure, and historical discourse is populated with analyses borrowed from ethnology, sociology, and the human sciences.
4. One introduces into historical analysis many more types of relationship and modes of linkage than the universal relation of causality through which one had formerly wanted to define historical method.
Thus, for the first time perhaps, one has the possibil- ity of analyzing as an object a set of materials which have been deposited in the course of time in the form of signs, traces, institutions, practices and works, etc. In all these changes there are two essential manifestations:
? 14 The Discourse of History
(a) On the historians' side, the works of Braudel, the Cambridge school, the Russian school, etc.
(b) The very remarkable critique and analysis of the notion of history developed by Althusser at the beginning of Reading Capital. '^
Q: Thus you mark a direct kinship between your works and those of Althusser?
MF: Having been his student and owing him much, perhaps I tend to place under his sign an effort that he might challenge, so much that I can't respond to what concerns him. But all the same, I would say: open Althusser's books.
There remains, however, between Althusser and my- self, an obvious difference: he employs the word epistemo- logical break in relation to Marx, while I affirm that Marx does not represent such a break. "
Q: Is not this difference over Marx precisely the most manifest sign of what has appeared to be arguable in your analysis of the structural mutations of knowledge {sa- voir) in the course of the 19th century?
MF: What I said a propos of Marx concerns the precise epistemological domain of political economy. What- ever the importance of the modifications Marx brings to Ricardo's analysis, I do not believe that his economic analyses escape the epistemological space inaugurated by Ricardo. On the other hand, one can suppose that Marx introduced into the historical and political consciousness of men a radical break and that the Marxist theory of society inaugurated an entirely new epistemological field.
? My book bears the sub-title "An archeology of the human sciences": that itself supposes another, which would be
? The Discourse of History 15
? precisely the analysis of knowledge (savoir) and of historical consciousness in the West since the 16th century. And even before having advanced very far in this work, it seemed to me that the great break has to be situated at the level of Marx. Here we are led back to what I was saying earlier: the periodi- zation of domains of knowledge (connaissance) cannot be made in the same way according to the levels where one is positioned. One finds oneself before a kind of superimposition of bricks and the interesting thing, the strange and curious thing, will be to know precisely how and why the epistemo- logical break for the life sciences, economy and language is situated at the beginning of the 19th century, and at the middle of the 19th century for the theory of history and pohtics.
Q: But that's to break deliberately with the tendency to privilege history as the harmonic science of the totality as the Marxist tradition transmits it to us.
? MF: In my opinion this widespread idea is not really to be found in Marx. But I will respond, since in this domain where one is still only broaching possible principles, it is still way too early to pose the problem of the reciprocal determina- tions of these layers. It is not at all impossible that one can discover forms of determination such that all the levels line up and move together in a great regimented step on the bridge of historical progress. But that's only an hypothesis.
? Q: In the articles that attack your book one notices the words "to freeze history," which return like a leitmotif and seem to formulate the more fundamental accusation, which puts into question as much your conceptual scheme as the narrative technique it implies, in fact the very possibility, as you intend to do it, of formulating a logic of mutation. What do you think of this objection?
? 7
? ? 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?
