8 Otherexamplesincludethemartialarts,
meditation
and, given my proximity to the beach, surfing.
Foucault-Key-Concepts
This differs, Foucault claims in the 1984 lectures at the College de France, from the prophet, who indeed tells the truth, but "does not speak in his own name.
He speaks for another voice; his mouth serves as an intermediary for a voice which speaks from beyond" (2009: 16).
The unmediated frankness of the truth- teller, compared to the prophet's mediated, representative speech, gives the parrhesiastes moral authority and culpability.
The truth-teller can- not advise interlocutors to "not kill the messenger".
She lives and dies on what is said: the message and the messenger are one and the same.
(b) TJ? uth. Frankness, however, is not sufficient for parrhesia. It is not enough that someone really believes that what they say is true; what they say must actually be true. As Foucault writes, the parrhesiastes "says what is true because he knows that it is true; and he knows that it is true because it really is true . . . his opinion is also the truth . . . there is always an exact coincidence between belief and truth" (2001: 14). There is no conflict between the mind of the parrhesiastes and her heart: she believes in the truth that she knows, believes in her knowl- edge of the truth, and knows that her beliefs are true. The truth is judged by the bare conviction of the speaker. It is this conviction that makes the parrhesiastes tell the truth (the really true) ; it is not a "cor- respondence" between "the world" and the statements made by the
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speaker. Scepticism is dismissed by Foucault as "a particularly modern [question] which . . . is foreign to the Greeks" (ibid. : 1 5 ) . So, although parrhesia requires that the truth-teller tell the truth in an "epistemic" sense, the importance is not on the epistemic fact that the truth was said; rather, the importance lies in the moral power of the truth-teller.
(c) Danger. However, frank speech, even when spoken with conviction, is not sufficient to classify an utterance as parrhesia. Parrhesia occurs when the truth puts the truth-teller in some kind of danger. In the face of danger, liars lie. The parrhesiastes, however, tells the truth, usually to a person who is more powerful than she, a person who knows that what the truth-teller says is true. Hence there is an element of courage in parrhesia. As Foucault tells us, "a grammar teacher may tell the truth to the children that he teaches, and indeed has no doubt that what he teaches is true. But in spite of this coincidence between belief and truth, he is not a parrhesiastes" (ibid. : 16). Simply put, there is no courage required to say that three is a prime number. A philosopher pointing out a tyrant's tyranny, however, is a different situation. The tyrant knows that he is a tyrant, so the philosopher is not saying something that the tyrant does not know. However, telling the tyrant that he is a tyrant puts the truth-teller in danger; nonetheless, although aware of the danger, the philosopher tells him anyway, and suggests ways for the tyrant to change his way of governing. In order for one to be a parrhesiastes, one must have something to lose in telling the truth. No risk, no parrhesia.
In the 1 9 8 4 lectures, Foucault reasserts that the parrhesiastes "is not the professor, the teacher, the how-to guy who says, in the name of tradition, techne" (2009: 25). Instead of techne, technical knowledge, the truth-teller proclaims ethos, a way of living one's life. This involves a risk unknown by the technician. The teacher knows no risk, Foucault claims, because he works in the context of shared values: heritage, common knowledge, tradition, friendship. The truth-teller, however, "takes a risk. He risks the relationship that he has with the one whom he addresses. In telling the truth, far from establishing a positive line of common knowledge, heritage, affiliation, recognition, and friend- ship, he can, to the contrary, provoke anger" (ibid. : 24). Truth-telling requires stepping outside of the alleged "shared values" held by the interlocutor. This "stepping outside" will be the grounds for the critical dimension of parrhesia.
(d) Critique. Parrhesia has to be more than just frank statements stated that causes the truth-teller to be potentially endangered. Truth-telling in a moral sense requires that the truth be something that the hearer
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does not like. In other words, parrhesia must have a dimension of criticism. The truth told by the truth-teller must force, even if just for a moment, the interlocutor to examine himself. It is at this point that courage is required. Given that the recipient of parrhesia is usually in a superior position of power to the speaker, the recipient is tempted to unleash his power upon the truth-teller by punishing her, firing her, killing her, and so on. This is where most people fall short: afraid of the possible retaliation, the liar lies, converting what could be a moment of critique into a moment of flattery. The parrhesiastes frankly tells a critical, unflattering truth about the matter. Parrhesia is the opposite of self-interested, cowardly, unhelpful flattery. The parrhesiastes speaks the truth with frankness in the face of danger in order to help those for whom violence is the easier solution.
(e) Duty. So far we have described parrhesia in terms of frankness, conviction, danger, and criticism; what is missing is that which unites these principles. That connective feature is the sense of moral duty that accompanies the parrhesiastes. In the face of potential danger, the liar lies, and he justifies his action by appealing to the circumstances. This is a consequentialist response. But, akin to Kant, Foucault claims that parrhesia is the result of a moral decision to tell the truth, even if doing so is dangerous. The truth-teller "is free to keep silent. No one forces him to speak, but he feels that it is his duty to do so . . . Parrhesia is thus related to freedom and to duty" (2001: 19). In order to tell the truth in the sense of parrhesia, one must be free to not tell the truth, either by lying or by saying nothing. To tell the truth requires that the truth-teller have an ethical relationship with herself. The parrhesiastes "risk[s] death to tell the truth instead of reposing in the security of a life where the truth goes unspoken . . . he prefers himself as a truth- teller rather than as a living being who is false to himself" (ibid. : 17). 5 Truth-telling is morally praiseworthy because it is done exactly when it would be easier not to do it.
This is what differentiates the truth-teller from the sage. In the 1 9 8 4 lectures, Foucault points out that although the sage is like the truth- teller in so far as there is a unity of messenger and message (unlike the prophet), "the sage . . . keeps his wisdom in retreat, or at least in an essential reserve. Basically, the sage is wise in and for himself, and he need not speak . . . nothing obligates him to distribute, teach, or manifest his wisdom" (2009 : 1 8 ) . The parrhesiastes, in contrast, is morally obli- gated to speak. She cannot keep the truth to herself; she must proclaim the truth - she must speak all of the truth to everyone to whom it is addressed. Parrhesia understood this way is a truth that cannot be kept
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hidden. The truth-teller un-conceals herself, the interlocutor, and the truth that is to be communicated. 6
Uses ofparrhesia in ancient philosophy
In the Berkeley lectures in 1983, Foucault describes the use ofparrhesia in three different arenas: community life, public life and personal life. Foucault refers to the Epicureans in order to illustrate the use of truth- telling in community life. In Epicurean communities, parrhesia was a collective, communal activity. At the heart of the communal use of truth-telling were the personal interviews done by advanced teachers. In these interviews, "a teacher would give advice and precepts to indi- vidual community members" (Foucault 2001: 113). There were also group confession sessions, "where each of the community members in turn would disclose their thoughts, faults, misbehavior, and so on . . . 'the salvation by one another"' (ibid. : 1 14) . In this communal model, parrhesia was used "in house" for the purpose of spiritual guidance, either privately or in open groups.
To illustrate the public use of parrhesia, Foucault turns to the Cyn- ics. The Cynics used truth-telling as a means of public instruction. Foucault highlights three truth-telling Cynic practices: critical preach- ing, scandalous behaviour and provocative dialogue. We will address each in turn.
The Cynics, unlike the Epicureans, spoke to large crowds, usually composed of people who were outside of their community. Foucault states that preaching "is still one of the main forms of truth-telling practiced in our society, and it involves the idea that the truth must be told and taught not only to the best members of the society, or to an exclusive group, but to everyone" (ibid. : 120). Cynics told the truth to anyone, anytime, anywhere. The need to speak out against the institu- tions of society (the favourite target of Cynics) on the larger public scale exemplifies parrhesia as frank, critical truth-telling done simply because "the truth has to be said", regardless of the risk.
The Cynics were the masters of frank risk-taking truth-telling. Scan- dalous behaviour, particularly personified in Diogenes the Cynic, was a public way to show the truth and the relationship one had to the truth. The most famous example of Diogenes involves Diogenes masturbating in the public square. When asked to give an account for his behaviour, Diogenes states that "he wished it were as easy to banish hunger by rubbing the belly" (ibid. : 122, quoting Diogenes Laertius, VI, 46; 69).
The point here is clear: if eating, the removal of hunger, is allowed in
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the public square, then surely the removal of sexual desire, which is just as much aphrodisia as eating and drinking, should be allowed in public. That one considers masturbation shameful is strange given that one does not consider eating and drinking shameful.
The third Cynic practice was the use of provocative dialogue. This is often depicted as dialogues between Diogenes and Alexander the Great. One example from the texts is that Diogenes told Alexander to move out of his way because Alexander was blocking the sun. Another example would be Diogenes calling Alexander a bastard. To say such a thing to the emperor, especially in public, is indeed provocative. From Diogenes' point of view, Alexander just is not so great! Foucault points out that "whereas Socrates plays with his interlocutor's ignorance, Dio- genes wants to hurt Alexander's pride" (ibid. : 126). In other words, the provocative dialogue is a unique variation of Socratic dialogue: by showing someone that they are not true to what they claim, the philosopher encourages the interlocutor to examine oneself and begin to take care of oneself.
Preaching, acting out and attacking pride: these were the three main categories of the public use of parrhesia performed by the Cynics. Foucault would have more to say about the Stoics in the 1984 lectures at the College de France. This is because, as Foucault states, "the Cynic parrhesiastic game is played at the very limits of the parrhesiastic con- tract. It borders on transgression because the parrhesiastes may have made too many insulting remarks" (ibid. : 127). 7 The Cynics reappear as examples for Foucault because they take truth-telling to its absolute limit; parrhesia is the modus operandi of the entire Cynic worldview. Perhaps no other group completely embodied parrhesia in their own persons in the way that the Cynics did.
The final arena for the use of parrhesia is in one's private life, includ- ing one's personal relationships. One needs truth-telling such that one is one's own interlocutor: pride and flattery are possible even with one's self. One needs parrhesia in order to stay away from self-deception. The group that best represents this use of truth-telling is the Stoics, although Foucault would later add early Christians to the list.
At the heart of Stoic life was self-examination. This self-examination is not the same as confession in the later Christian period. Instead, self- examination was more of an administrative activity. As Foucault notes, Seneca does not account for "sins" but:
mistakes . . . inefficient actions requiring adjustments between ends and means . . . The point of the fault concerns a practical error in his behavior since he was unable to establish an effective
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rational relation between the principles of conduct he knows and the behavior he actually engaged in. (Ibid. : 149)
Seneca is only keeping track of his errors because those errors are frus- trating his goal. If Seneca were to give up that goal, then there would be nothing to account for. In order to tell whether one is fulfilling one's goals, one must be able to give an honest, flattery-free account of oneself: this is the role of self-examination.
The second truth-telling practice that the Stoics used was self- diagnosis. Once again, Foucault warns us not to make self-diagnosis into what would later be thought of in terms of confession. Instead, self-diagnosis was a way to figure out where one's problem lies. Foucault reads from Seneca's "On the Tranquility of Mind", a letter in which Seneca responds to the self-diagnosis of Serenus, who had written to Seneca for moral advice. The self-diagnosis lays out Serenus' moral "symptoms", and leaves it to Seneca to make a moral "diagnosis". Serenus does this only because he wants tranquillity and needs help from Seneca on how to obtain it. When Serenus speaks of his "illness", he must be careful not to misrepresent himself, regardless of whether his description presents him in the most flattering light. In order for Seneca truly to help him, Serenus understands that he must say all tell the truth - about his life, his likes and his dislikes.
The third practice is self-testing. Foucault discusses Epictetus' method of testing representations and sorting them into the categories of those things that are in one's control and those things that are not in one's control. It is important, as with self-examination and self-diagnosis, to be frank, critical and truthful about this sorting. In so doing, the practitioner gains a truth about himself that is free from flattery and self-deception. As Foucault says,
The truth about the disciple emerges from a personal relation which he establishes with himself: and this truth can now be disclosed either to himself . . . or to someone else . . . And the dis- ciple must also test himself, and check to see whether he is able to achieve self-mastery. (ibid. : 164-5)
Upon deciding on self-mastery, the disciple must be able to examine himself in order to be able to disclose to himself whether he is work- ing towards self-mastery or not. Upon discovering any flaws in the plan or in its execution, the disciple diagnoses himself in order to give the master correct information in order to secure a correct "remedy" to flaws.
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A return to morality?
Epicureans, Cynics and Stoics: these Hellenic schools ofthoughtrepre- sent, as Foucault argues in 1 9 8 3 , "a genuine golden age in the history of care of the self" (2005a: 81). Although we are unable to "return" to these schools of thought owing to archaeological reasons, we can at least pose the question of how we as subjects became so divorced from truth as a practice of the self such that "subjectivity" and "truth" are merely placeholders for something now long gone. How can we return to morality? Can we reclaim truth as a moral activity, freed from mere epistemology?
We need to offer a few caveats. First, I am not suggesting that one can no longer take care of oneself through practices of the self. Weight Watchers, for example, employs many practices that would fit into the Stoicmodelofcareoftheself.
8 Otherexamplesincludethemartialarts, meditation and, given my proximity to the beach, surfing. We are still engaged in something like practices of the self, as other contributors to this volume well illustrate. Second, I am not suggesting that one cannot tell the truth in dangerous situations. There are whistleblowers who risk job security in the name of truth. Protesters are often willing (and plan) to get arrested for the sake of their cause. There is also something akin to the use of parrhesia in interventions and psychoanalysis. We indeed have practices like care of the self and parrhesia, but they are discontinuous with their older meaning.
Foucault argues that it is impossible in the modern period for prac- tices of the self to be of much use in helping one be a parrhesiastes and vice versa. The yogi, for example, will have a hard time claiming that doing yoga justifies her critique of the government (if she were even to offer such a critique). It would be difficult to understand that the government should believe her critique as true because of her moral character as a result of doing yoga. Additionally, how many people do yoga in order to gain the moral fortitude to access the truth and tell the truth to others? In the United States, yoga is done mostly for aesthetic purposes or for medical benefit. The spiritual dimension of yoga is often internal to the practitioner: stress release and better breathing. Yoga is not the action done in order to truly gain truth about the world; it is a relaxing form of exercise. This is not to suggest that exercise cannot be a practice of the self aimed at truth, but most people exercise for the sake of health and beauty - usually the latter - not for the sake of truth and knowledge. So we see a disconnect between truth and subjectivity here. Yoga, dieting and other practices of the self in today's society seem to have nothing to do with one's moral self. Yoga is done by the virtuous
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as expertly as the wicked, by the more intelligent as carefully as the less intelligent. One does not go to one's yoga instructor and seek solutions to serious problems; the yoga instructor is simply there to offer the class, not to live in community with the students.
In fact, when most people resolve for the New Year that they will "take better care of themselves", they usually always mean this in a strictly medical sense. One resolves to lose weight, lower their bad cho- lesterol, cut out junk food, and so on. In making those resolutions, one rarely adds to the list "become a morally better person by lowering my cholesterol". The modern period sees the body mechanically, so there is no automatic connection between one's moral self and the body as medical object. No student will believe that the knowledge taught by a given professor, for example, is true in virtue of the professor having a healthy body.
The more I discuss our modern "practices of the self", the clearer it seems that we do not "take care" of ourselves in the ancient sense at all. It might be best to say that we have self-disciplinary practices more than practices of the self per se. Therefore, our return to morality might entail being more self-conscious about how our self-disciplinary practices inform our desires to tell the truth. Let us resolve to be truth- tellers, and form ourselves in such a way that we live for the truth. But what is truth in today's world? Is it the kind of truth one should live or die for? We must therefore become more aware of what counts for truth at any moment. Perhaps the return to morality, the critique of truth and self-discipline is simply the Foucauldian project.
Notes
1. It is perhaps here that we see Foucault's greatest debt to Heidegger's "The Age of the World Picture" (Heidegger 1977: 1 15-54).
2. "Subjectivity and Truth" was a draft of his 1983 book The Care ofthe Self, the third volume of the The History ofSexuality (Foucault 1986).
3. Ofcourse,itneednotbeDescarteswhodidthis,butsincethatisthefigurethat most people would know, we go with him. Foucault does not ascribe agency to authors; therefore, we must be sure not to "blame" Descartes for the Cartesian moment we are about to describe.
4. Although Foucault runs out of time before giving a detailed account of early Christian practices, he gives many hints throughout the lecture course. His best accounts of early Christian (and later Christian) practices can be found in the essays "Technologies of the Self ", "Sexuality and Solitude" and "The Battle for Chastity" from the same period of Foucault's work (Foucault 1997c).
5. ImmanuelKant,MetaphysicsofMorals,Aldc 6:429,whereKantstatesthatour duty to tell the truth is not a duty to others but a duty to ourselves as a moral being.
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6. Foucault mentions in the 1984 lectures that parrhesia is not about "epistemologi- cal structures", but rather "des formes alethurgiques", forms of unconcealment (Foucault 2009: 5; see Heidegger 1996: ? 44).
7. Note that the theme of transgression, a Foucauldian theme from the 1960s, reappears here. See "APreface to Transgression" (in Foucault 1998: 69-87).
8. I am thinking primarily ofthe food journal, although there are other techniques. See Heyes (2006, 2007).
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? ELEVEN
Subjectivity an ? power
Cressida J. Heyes
One must remember that power is not an ensemble of mecha- nisms of negation, refusal, exclusion. But it produces effectively. It is likely that it produces right down to individuals themselves. Individuality, individual identity are the products of power. 1
"Subjectivity" and its cognates are philosophical terms that describe a possibility for lived experience within a larger historical and political context. "The subject" (le sujet) is not simply a synonym for "person"; instead the term captures the possibility of being a certain kind of per- son, which, for the theorists who tend to use it, is typically a contingent historical possibility rather than a universal or essential truth about human nature. These terms are especially philosophically important for Michel Foucault, who, in his middle works Discipline and Punish and The History ofSexuality, Volume I, develops a theoretical-historical account of the emergence of the modern subject in the context of what he calls "disciplinary power". This chapter draws on these texts to elaborate how Foucault believes such subjects come into being and what the implications are for us: the persons who, he argues, have inherited a system of power that both creates our possibilities and constrains our existence. I examine two related challenges to Foucault's account, and then conclude by drawing on contemporary discourses of weight and weight loss to show how his work can be applied to case studies beyond those Foucault himself discussed.
In French, the key term Foucault uses to capture the emergence of subjectivities (or subject-positions: particular spaces for being a subject) is assujettissement. Variously translated as "subjectivation", "subjection"
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or even "subjagation", the difficulties in rendering the word into Eng- lish reflect the philosophical difficulties associated with its meaning. It describes a double process of the actions of power in relation to selves that is both negative and positive. First, assujettissement captures the idea that we are subjected or oppressed by relations of power. When a norm (which Foucault understands as a standard to which individuals are held as well as by which populations are defined) imposes itself on us, we are pressed to follow it. In this sense assujettissement describes a process of constraint and limitation. For example, "homosexuals" are constrained by the oppressive beliefs and practices of those who discriminate against them. In these moments, power serves its more familiar repressive function, holding back the capacities of those indi- viduals against whom it acts. In many political theories of oppression, power plays only this negative role, and must be out-manoeuvred if we are to become free. For Foucault, however, power always also plays a positive role: it enables certain subject-positions (or certain actions or capacities for the individual). Thus at the same time as "homosexu- als" are discriminated against, the invocation of this very label (which Foucault believes is a historically specific and contingent possibility, rather than simply the truth about a pre-existing group of people) itself permits political mobilization, solidarity, mutual identification, the creation of social spaces, and so on. Without homosexuals there would be no homophobia and no gay-bashing, but there would also be no gay bars or gay pride marches.
Many alternative political theoretical models of the individual assume that we - individuals - are ontologically prior to the exercise of power. That is, human beings have certain universal qualities that are then exercised, suppressed, or otherwise moulded by the exercise of power. Indeed, many of us commonly think of power as something that acts upon us - an outside force to which we may succumb or not, but never as something that made us who we are. "Be yourself" is a popular injunction in Western cultures, where the self one is supposed to be can be identified, eventually, or just in theory, as an object that is not determined by relations of power (where power is also often under- stood as a repressive force). This model of the self has been used for many progressive purposes: for example, feminism has urged women to look beyond male dominance to find the true selves patriarchy has denied and suppressed. Foucault, however, famously argued that power is not only repressive, and nor does it act only upon the already formed subject. Rather power enables the identities we claim at the same time as it represses or limits us - and these two actions ultimately cannot be separated. If this is the nutshell version (and perhaps the most
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philosophically controversial aspect) of Foucault's account of assujet- tissement, let us look very briefly at how he reaches this conclusion.
"The Subject"and Assujettissement
In Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (Surveillir et Punir: Naissance de IaPrison, first published in French in 1975) Foucault rather indirectly sets out his account of power through a historical account of statepunishment(Foucault 1979). Whatcouldahistoryofpunishment and the prison - specifically, a history of how the French state enacted punishment between 1 75 7 and 1 8 3 7 - tell us about how subjects come into being? 2 The mechanisms of penality that "the carceral" comes to use are like those that permeate society more broadly; the "disciplinary" power developed in the context of the prison is continuous with edu- cational, psychological and medical contexts. In particular,
the activity of judging has increased precisely to the extent that the normalizing power has spread. Borne along by the omnipresence of the mechanisms of discipline, basing itself on all the carceral apparatuses, it has become one of the major functions of our society . . . The carceral network, in its compact or disseminated forms, with its systems of insertion, distribution, surveillance, observation, has been the greatest support, in modern society, of the normalizing power. (Ibid. : 304)
Not only does the prison "support" the new form of power that con- cerns Foucault, but it also creates a way of thinking about subjectivity. He proclaims that:
by an analysis of penal leniency as a technique of power, one might understand both how man, the soul, the normal or abnormal individual have come to duplicate crime as objects of penal inter- vention; and in what way a specific mode of assujettissement was able to give birth to man as an object of knowledge. (Ibid. : 24)
How did this come about? Foucault famously opens Discipline and Punish with a graphic and brutal account of the public torture and execution of Damiens, the man who in 1757 attempted to kill King Louis XV. Here "the body of the condemned" is made into a spectacle. The sovereign enacts through public extreme violence the retribution that will befall the body of anyone who makes an attempt on his life.
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Suddenly this narrative stops, and Foucault jumps forward eighty years, to an 1838 text in which Leon Faucher describes the daily timetable of a Paris prison (ibid. : 3-7). The prisoners' waking hours are closely divided into periods for prayer, work, eating, recreation and education, and their activities (such as receiving instruction, or prayer) are con- structive as much as they are overtly punitive. Furthermore, Foucault suggests that the body of the prisoner is a fundamentally different kind of object in each example: Damiens' suffering is a public spectacle. His passive body manifests the power of the sovereign, against his will. The prisoners of Faucher, by contrast, live their own bodies, and discipline themselves according to the timetable constructed to mould them into certain kinds of persons; they exercise, they engage in recreation.
What emerges for Foucault as the eighteenth century unfolds, then, is a new set of methods for controlling the operations of bodies. Prisoners must be rendered obedient in order to be managed, but this manage- ment must come at least in part from their own actions. This new form of power, which acts without the guidance of a central sovereign upon bodies to make certain kinds of persons, Foucault labels "disciplinary power". Although I will not elaborate here on Foucault's important distinction between sovereign and disciplinary power (see e. g. Allen 1999: 31-7), it is central to the kind ofassujettissement that Foucault argues characterizes modernity. Disciplines create a subject who is self- monitoring, developmental, the object at the intersection of numerous vectors of management and coercion and, most of all, useful, produc- tive. Not only prisons, but the military, medicine, education and the emerging human sciences all play a role in the development of this new kindofsubject,usingfourkeymechanisms(Foucault1979: 149-69). In brief, first, the relation of the individual to space is redefined, through novel forms of architecture (most famously, the Panoptic prison) and mechanisms of population management; second, the individual's activ- ity is exhaustively controlled and monitored and his body incorporated into that process (as, for example, in the precise drilling of soldiers) ; third, time is organized and monitored much more closely, and comes to be understood as both progressive (one of Foucault's examples is incremental examinations for the advancing school pupil) and minutely (even infinitely) divisible; finally, the composition of forces is restruc- tured to maximize the productive effects of people working together, organizing bodies according to their relative position and mutual effects, and redirecting attention to efficient "tactics".
Foucault distils three techniques that cut across these four mecha- nisms to consolidate modern subjectivity (ibid. : 170--94). Hierarchi- cal observation functions by making subjects constantly visible and
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knowable, through a single gaze that sees everything constantly. In the Panopticon this is a literal mechanism, but Foucault treats this kind of visibility as a metaphor for how power works on subjects more broadly. Second, normalizing judgement is enacted through the micromanage- ment of behaviour in areas of social life from which penality had pre- viously been absent. Although in the orphanage or barracks there are explicit regulations, the order imposed through discipline legislates "natural and observable processes" to ensure greater conformity to a norm. For this reason punishment is not only retaliatory but also cor- rective (ibid. : 179): from beating the child who errs, for example, the teacher moves to assigning "lines": a repetitive exercise that serves as both punishment and training. "Through this micro-economy of a per- petual penality operates a differentiation that is not one of acts, but of individuals themselves, of their nature, their potentialities, their level or their value" (ibid. : 1 8 1 ) . The third technique of disciplinary power is the examination (an instrument that combines hierarchical observation and normalizing judgement) . In ritualized form, examination techniques incorporate the normalizing gaze as a mechanism of differentiation and evaluation, and Foucault's examples include the physician's rounds, the school exam and army inspections. Disciplinary power is itself invisible yet renders its subjects hyper-visible in order to tighten its grip: "it is the fact of being constantly seen, of being able always to be seen, that maintains the disciplined individual in his subjection" (ibid. : 1 8 7) .
In short, discipline creates a novel subject-position: the individual. This individual is a conformist, docile, self-monitoring person, who is expected (including by emergent models in the biological and human sciences) to develop in particular ways and is subject to much closer yet more seemingly benign forms of management. At the same time (and, paradoxically, through many of the same mechanisms) we are told that we each have our own distinctive biography (worthy of investigation and representation) and that we are marked by qualities internal to ourselves (not only by a generic social status as members of kinship net- works or socioeconomic classes) . This discourse of the distinctiveness and authenticity of the individual is for other political philosophers a boon of modernity, which marks the emergence of democracy, egalitar- ian citizenship and autonomy. Foucault's attitude is more ambivalent, and he is critical of narratives of historical progress that see the increase in autonomy for the individual only as liberating her from relations of power. Instead, he thinks, what we consider an increase in autonomy is complicated by a concomitant intensification of our subjection to discipline (Foucault 1997e). For many political philosophers, human beings simply are, foundationally, individuals with certain definitive
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qualities (perhaps rationality, or certain capabilities), where this claim is not seen as historically contingent or dependent on any particular cultural frame of reference. Human progress then consists in the gradual realization of this individuality, through, perhaps, the acquisition of rights, or economic frameworks that permit the development of capa- bilities. Foucault, by contrast, insists that the idea of the individual is historically specific (indeed, embedded within a particular "genealogi- cal" understanding of what history is [see Gutting 2005: 43-53]) and that the rise of individualism does not mark the unqualified realization of our human potential. Rather, it represents the emergence of some new capacities, and the intensification of our subjection to power; we become different kinds of subject, but not necessary "better" subjects than we were.
In Volume I of The History of Sexuality (first published in French in 1976), his next major work after Discipline and Punish, Foucault elaborates his account ofassujettissement (1990a). Our typical histori- cal account of sexuality, he argues, leans heavily on what he famously calls "the repressive hypothesis". We tend to think, that is, that the nineteenth century is marked by a growing discomfort with public discussion of sexuality. Sexuality happened only to those peripheral deviants, the "other Victorians", such as prostitutes, pimps and perverts. For the bourgeois classes, goes the popular historical perception, sexual- ity was taboo. The notion that the Victorian era marked a distinctively repressive origin in the history of sexuality enables a narrative extrapo- lation through the struggles of psychoanalysis with repression to the sexual liberation movements of the 1960s and 1970s and beyond: our problem is (and has always been) that we are uptight about sex, and we need to challenge our own silences and shame in order to liberate ourselves (ibid. : 3-7).
Near the beginning of History ofSexuality, Foucault tells us sardoni- cally that his:
aim is to examine the case of a society which has been loudly castigating itself for its hypocrisy for more than a century, which speaks verbosely of its own silence, takes great pains to relate in detail the things it does not say, denounces the powers it exercises, and promises to liberate itself from the very laws that have made it function . . . The question I would like to pose is not, Why are we repressed? but rather, Why do we say, with so much passion and so much resentment against our most recent past, against our present, and against ourselves, that we are repressed?
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He has three main doubts about the repressive hypothesis. First, a historical doubt: is repression such an incontrovertible fact about the history of sexuality? Second, a theoretical doubt: does power in fact always work through repression (does it always say "no"? ), as the hypothesis seems to assume? And third, a political qualm: is the "anti-repression" discourse of sexual liberationists actually all that dif- ferent from the very discourse of repression that it claims to expose? Foucault answers these questions, as he does in Discipline and Pun- ish, through a set of historical examples dating from the seventeenth through nineteenth centuries (mostly) in France. In the chapter "The Incitement to Discourse", Foucault identifies an explosion of ways of talking about sex in the late seventeenth century, key to which is the institution of the Christian confession. Just as the functioning of power in the prison becomes a metaphor and model for disciplinary power writ large, Foucault suggests, the idea of approaching a pastoral authority and revealing the hitherto concealed truth about one's sexual transgressions comes to represent a key mechanism in all of the dis- ciplines of sexual knowledge. As the eighteenth century rolls around, sex becomes, he argues, a central object of political, economic and technical administration, through, for example, the study of popula- tion (birth control, population growth, reproductive statistics etc. ), a fascination with the sexuality of children (especially analysing and preventing masturbation), the growth of psychiatry and its study and treatment of sexual disorders, and the criminalization of certain sexual practices (ibid. : 25-3 1 ) . Perhaps most important for Foucault's account of assujettissement, in Chapter 3, "Scientia Sexualis", he argues that the new science of sex produces its truth through endless incitement and confession. We are constantly urged to reveal our sexual desires, perversions and "identities", in a variety of practices that cause us to be made into "case studies" for the quasi-medical, scientific discourses that now surround sexual truth.
Foucault provides two primary examples of sexual individuals in History of Sexuality. 3 The first is his controversial story of Jouy, a "simple-minded" farmhand who, in 1867, enticed local young girls into "caresses". Jouy, Foucault implies, is on the cusp of the historical moment when such behaviour is met not with a smack in the face, or indifferent refusal, or viewed as "inconsequential bucolic pleasures" from which both parties can walk away without any particular conclu- sion being drawn about their status as "sexual victim" or "pervert" . 4 His behaviour attracts the attention of a girl's parents, and thence further authorities; Jouy was physically assessed and interviewed, and then incarcerated without being convicted of any crime as a "pure object of
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medicine and knowledge" (ibid. : 32). Indeed, Foucault's interpretation comes from the published "case study " of an early example of what we would now call a "paedophile". In a second example, Foucault argues that in this crucial historical period the idea that some people are essentially "homosexuals" is posited by sexology:
As defined by the ancient civil or canonical codes, sodomy was a category of forbidden acts; their perpetrator was nothing more than the juridical subject of them. The nineteenth-century homo- sexual became a personage, a past, a case history, and a childhood, in addition to being a type of life, a life form, and a morphology, with an indiscreet anatomy and possibly a mysterious physiol- ogy. (1990a: 43)
His arrival is announced with Foucault's most quoted line, "the sodomite had been a temporary aberration [relaps] ; the homosexual was now a species [espece]" (ibid. ). Discovering this identity becomes a per- sonal as well as a legislative project, in which the individual deciphers the truth of the self as homosexual, or (later) heterosexual, or another taxonomic possibility, even as, Foucault argues, these are not natural kinds of human being only now being "discovered" or "understood" but rather historically contingent forms of assujettissement.
Discipline and Punish and the first volume of The History ofSexu- ality, then, are the texts in which Foucault shows us most clearly how power creates subjects. They tackle different historical case studies, but their underlying philosophical arguments are closely connected.
(b) TJ? uth. Frankness, however, is not sufficient for parrhesia. It is not enough that someone really believes that what they say is true; what they say must actually be true. As Foucault writes, the parrhesiastes "says what is true because he knows that it is true; and he knows that it is true because it really is true . . . his opinion is also the truth . . . there is always an exact coincidence between belief and truth" (2001: 14). There is no conflict between the mind of the parrhesiastes and her heart: she believes in the truth that she knows, believes in her knowl- edge of the truth, and knows that her beliefs are true. The truth is judged by the bare conviction of the speaker. It is this conviction that makes the parrhesiastes tell the truth (the really true) ; it is not a "cor- respondence" between "the world" and the statements made by the
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speaker. Scepticism is dismissed by Foucault as "a particularly modern [question] which . . . is foreign to the Greeks" (ibid. : 1 5 ) . So, although parrhesia requires that the truth-teller tell the truth in an "epistemic" sense, the importance is not on the epistemic fact that the truth was said; rather, the importance lies in the moral power of the truth-teller.
(c) Danger. However, frank speech, even when spoken with conviction, is not sufficient to classify an utterance as parrhesia. Parrhesia occurs when the truth puts the truth-teller in some kind of danger. In the face of danger, liars lie. The parrhesiastes, however, tells the truth, usually to a person who is more powerful than she, a person who knows that what the truth-teller says is true. Hence there is an element of courage in parrhesia. As Foucault tells us, "a grammar teacher may tell the truth to the children that he teaches, and indeed has no doubt that what he teaches is true. But in spite of this coincidence between belief and truth, he is not a parrhesiastes" (ibid. : 16). Simply put, there is no courage required to say that three is a prime number. A philosopher pointing out a tyrant's tyranny, however, is a different situation. The tyrant knows that he is a tyrant, so the philosopher is not saying something that the tyrant does not know. However, telling the tyrant that he is a tyrant puts the truth-teller in danger; nonetheless, although aware of the danger, the philosopher tells him anyway, and suggests ways for the tyrant to change his way of governing. In order for one to be a parrhesiastes, one must have something to lose in telling the truth. No risk, no parrhesia.
In the 1 9 8 4 lectures, Foucault reasserts that the parrhesiastes "is not the professor, the teacher, the how-to guy who says, in the name of tradition, techne" (2009: 25). Instead of techne, technical knowledge, the truth-teller proclaims ethos, a way of living one's life. This involves a risk unknown by the technician. The teacher knows no risk, Foucault claims, because he works in the context of shared values: heritage, common knowledge, tradition, friendship. The truth-teller, however, "takes a risk. He risks the relationship that he has with the one whom he addresses. In telling the truth, far from establishing a positive line of common knowledge, heritage, affiliation, recognition, and friend- ship, he can, to the contrary, provoke anger" (ibid. : 24). Truth-telling requires stepping outside of the alleged "shared values" held by the interlocutor. This "stepping outside" will be the grounds for the critical dimension of parrhesia.
(d) Critique. Parrhesia has to be more than just frank statements stated that causes the truth-teller to be potentially endangered. Truth-telling in a moral sense requires that the truth be something that the hearer
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does not like. In other words, parrhesia must have a dimension of criticism. The truth told by the truth-teller must force, even if just for a moment, the interlocutor to examine himself. It is at this point that courage is required. Given that the recipient of parrhesia is usually in a superior position of power to the speaker, the recipient is tempted to unleash his power upon the truth-teller by punishing her, firing her, killing her, and so on. This is where most people fall short: afraid of the possible retaliation, the liar lies, converting what could be a moment of critique into a moment of flattery. The parrhesiastes frankly tells a critical, unflattering truth about the matter. Parrhesia is the opposite of self-interested, cowardly, unhelpful flattery. The parrhesiastes speaks the truth with frankness in the face of danger in order to help those for whom violence is the easier solution.
(e) Duty. So far we have described parrhesia in terms of frankness, conviction, danger, and criticism; what is missing is that which unites these principles. That connective feature is the sense of moral duty that accompanies the parrhesiastes. In the face of potential danger, the liar lies, and he justifies his action by appealing to the circumstances. This is a consequentialist response. But, akin to Kant, Foucault claims that parrhesia is the result of a moral decision to tell the truth, even if doing so is dangerous. The truth-teller "is free to keep silent. No one forces him to speak, but he feels that it is his duty to do so . . . Parrhesia is thus related to freedom and to duty" (2001: 19). In order to tell the truth in the sense of parrhesia, one must be free to not tell the truth, either by lying or by saying nothing. To tell the truth requires that the truth-teller have an ethical relationship with herself. The parrhesiastes "risk[s] death to tell the truth instead of reposing in the security of a life where the truth goes unspoken . . . he prefers himself as a truth- teller rather than as a living being who is false to himself" (ibid. : 17). 5 Truth-telling is morally praiseworthy because it is done exactly when it would be easier not to do it.
This is what differentiates the truth-teller from the sage. In the 1 9 8 4 lectures, Foucault points out that although the sage is like the truth- teller in so far as there is a unity of messenger and message (unlike the prophet), "the sage . . . keeps his wisdom in retreat, or at least in an essential reserve. Basically, the sage is wise in and for himself, and he need not speak . . . nothing obligates him to distribute, teach, or manifest his wisdom" (2009 : 1 8 ) . The parrhesiastes, in contrast, is morally obli- gated to speak. She cannot keep the truth to herself; she must proclaim the truth - she must speak all of the truth to everyone to whom it is addressed. Parrhesia understood this way is a truth that cannot be kept
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hidden. The truth-teller un-conceals herself, the interlocutor, and the truth that is to be communicated. 6
Uses ofparrhesia in ancient philosophy
In the Berkeley lectures in 1983, Foucault describes the use ofparrhesia in three different arenas: community life, public life and personal life. Foucault refers to the Epicureans in order to illustrate the use of truth- telling in community life. In Epicurean communities, parrhesia was a collective, communal activity. At the heart of the communal use of truth-telling were the personal interviews done by advanced teachers. In these interviews, "a teacher would give advice and precepts to indi- vidual community members" (Foucault 2001: 113). There were also group confession sessions, "where each of the community members in turn would disclose their thoughts, faults, misbehavior, and so on . . . 'the salvation by one another"' (ibid. : 1 14) . In this communal model, parrhesia was used "in house" for the purpose of spiritual guidance, either privately or in open groups.
To illustrate the public use of parrhesia, Foucault turns to the Cyn- ics. The Cynics used truth-telling as a means of public instruction. Foucault highlights three truth-telling Cynic practices: critical preach- ing, scandalous behaviour and provocative dialogue. We will address each in turn.
The Cynics, unlike the Epicureans, spoke to large crowds, usually composed of people who were outside of their community. Foucault states that preaching "is still one of the main forms of truth-telling practiced in our society, and it involves the idea that the truth must be told and taught not only to the best members of the society, or to an exclusive group, but to everyone" (ibid. : 120). Cynics told the truth to anyone, anytime, anywhere. The need to speak out against the institu- tions of society (the favourite target of Cynics) on the larger public scale exemplifies parrhesia as frank, critical truth-telling done simply because "the truth has to be said", regardless of the risk.
The Cynics were the masters of frank risk-taking truth-telling. Scan- dalous behaviour, particularly personified in Diogenes the Cynic, was a public way to show the truth and the relationship one had to the truth. The most famous example of Diogenes involves Diogenes masturbating in the public square. When asked to give an account for his behaviour, Diogenes states that "he wished it were as easy to banish hunger by rubbing the belly" (ibid. : 122, quoting Diogenes Laertius, VI, 46; 69).
The point here is clear: if eating, the removal of hunger, is allowed in
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the public square, then surely the removal of sexual desire, which is just as much aphrodisia as eating and drinking, should be allowed in public. That one considers masturbation shameful is strange given that one does not consider eating and drinking shameful.
The third Cynic practice was the use of provocative dialogue. This is often depicted as dialogues between Diogenes and Alexander the Great. One example from the texts is that Diogenes told Alexander to move out of his way because Alexander was blocking the sun. Another example would be Diogenes calling Alexander a bastard. To say such a thing to the emperor, especially in public, is indeed provocative. From Diogenes' point of view, Alexander just is not so great! Foucault points out that "whereas Socrates plays with his interlocutor's ignorance, Dio- genes wants to hurt Alexander's pride" (ibid. : 126). In other words, the provocative dialogue is a unique variation of Socratic dialogue: by showing someone that they are not true to what they claim, the philosopher encourages the interlocutor to examine oneself and begin to take care of oneself.
Preaching, acting out and attacking pride: these were the three main categories of the public use of parrhesia performed by the Cynics. Foucault would have more to say about the Stoics in the 1984 lectures at the College de France. This is because, as Foucault states, "the Cynic parrhesiastic game is played at the very limits of the parrhesiastic con- tract. It borders on transgression because the parrhesiastes may have made too many insulting remarks" (ibid. : 127). 7 The Cynics reappear as examples for Foucault because they take truth-telling to its absolute limit; parrhesia is the modus operandi of the entire Cynic worldview. Perhaps no other group completely embodied parrhesia in their own persons in the way that the Cynics did.
The final arena for the use of parrhesia is in one's private life, includ- ing one's personal relationships. One needs truth-telling such that one is one's own interlocutor: pride and flattery are possible even with one's self. One needs parrhesia in order to stay away from self-deception. The group that best represents this use of truth-telling is the Stoics, although Foucault would later add early Christians to the list.
At the heart of Stoic life was self-examination. This self-examination is not the same as confession in the later Christian period. Instead, self- examination was more of an administrative activity. As Foucault notes, Seneca does not account for "sins" but:
mistakes . . . inefficient actions requiring adjustments between ends and means . . . The point of the fault concerns a practical error in his behavior since he was unable to establish an effective
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rational relation between the principles of conduct he knows and the behavior he actually engaged in. (Ibid. : 149)
Seneca is only keeping track of his errors because those errors are frus- trating his goal. If Seneca were to give up that goal, then there would be nothing to account for. In order to tell whether one is fulfilling one's goals, one must be able to give an honest, flattery-free account of oneself: this is the role of self-examination.
The second truth-telling practice that the Stoics used was self- diagnosis. Once again, Foucault warns us not to make self-diagnosis into what would later be thought of in terms of confession. Instead, self-diagnosis was a way to figure out where one's problem lies. Foucault reads from Seneca's "On the Tranquility of Mind", a letter in which Seneca responds to the self-diagnosis of Serenus, who had written to Seneca for moral advice. The self-diagnosis lays out Serenus' moral "symptoms", and leaves it to Seneca to make a moral "diagnosis". Serenus does this only because he wants tranquillity and needs help from Seneca on how to obtain it. When Serenus speaks of his "illness", he must be careful not to misrepresent himself, regardless of whether his description presents him in the most flattering light. In order for Seneca truly to help him, Serenus understands that he must say all tell the truth - about his life, his likes and his dislikes.
The third practice is self-testing. Foucault discusses Epictetus' method of testing representations and sorting them into the categories of those things that are in one's control and those things that are not in one's control. It is important, as with self-examination and self-diagnosis, to be frank, critical and truthful about this sorting. In so doing, the practitioner gains a truth about himself that is free from flattery and self-deception. As Foucault says,
The truth about the disciple emerges from a personal relation which he establishes with himself: and this truth can now be disclosed either to himself . . . or to someone else . . . And the dis- ciple must also test himself, and check to see whether he is able to achieve self-mastery. (ibid. : 164-5)
Upon deciding on self-mastery, the disciple must be able to examine himself in order to be able to disclose to himself whether he is work- ing towards self-mastery or not. Upon discovering any flaws in the plan or in its execution, the disciple diagnoses himself in order to give the master correct information in order to secure a correct "remedy" to flaws.
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A return to morality?
Epicureans, Cynics and Stoics: these Hellenic schools ofthoughtrepre- sent, as Foucault argues in 1 9 8 3 , "a genuine golden age in the history of care of the self" (2005a: 81). Although we are unable to "return" to these schools of thought owing to archaeological reasons, we can at least pose the question of how we as subjects became so divorced from truth as a practice of the self such that "subjectivity" and "truth" are merely placeholders for something now long gone. How can we return to morality? Can we reclaim truth as a moral activity, freed from mere epistemology?
We need to offer a few caveats. First, I am not suggesting that one can no longer take care of oneself through practices of the self. Weight Watchers, for example, employs many practices that would fit into the Stoicmodelofcareoftheself.
8 Otherexamplesincludethemartialarts, meditation and, given my proximity to the beach, surfing. We are still engaged in something like practices of the self, as other contributors to this volume well illustrate. Second, I am not suggesting that one cannot tell the truth in dangerous situations. There are whistleblowers who risk job security in the name of truth. Protesters are often willing (and plan) to get arrested for the sake of their cause. There is also something akin to the use of parrhesia in interventions and psychoanalysis. We indeed have practices like care of the self and parrhesia, but they are discontinuous with their older meaning.
Foucault argues that it is impossible in the modern period for prac- tices of the self to be of much use in helping one be a parrhesiastes and vice versa. The yogi, for example, will have a hard time claiming that doing yoga justifies her critique of the government (if she were even to offer such a critique). It would be difficult to understand that the government should believe her critique as true because of her moral character as a result of doing yoga. Additionally, how many people do yoga in order to gain the moral fortitude to access the truth and tell the truth to others? In the United States, yoga is done mostly for aesthetic purposes or for medical benefit. The spiritual dimension of yoga is often internal to the practitioner: stress release and better breathing. Yoga is not the action done in order to truly gain truth about the world; it is a relaxing form of exercise. This is not to suggest that exercise cannot be a practice of the self aimed at truth, but most people exercise for the sake of health and beauty - usually the latter - not for the sake of truth and knowledge. So we see a disconnect between truth and subjectivity here. Yoga, dieting and other practices of the self in today's society seem to have nothing to do with one's moral self. Yoga is done by the virtuous
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as expertly as the wicked, by the more intelligent as carefully as the less intelligent. One does not go to one's yoga instructor and seek solutions to serious problems; the yoga instructor is simply there to offer the class, not to live in community with the students.
In fact, when most people resolve for the New Year that they will "take better care of themselves", they usually always mean this in a strictly medical sense. One resolves to lose weight, lower their bad cho- lesterol, cut out junk food, and so on. In making those resolutions, one rarely adds to the list "become a morally better person by lowering my cholesterol". The modern period sees the body mechanically, so there is no automatic connection between one's moral self and the body as medical object. No student will believe that the knowledge taught by a given professor, for example, is true in virtue of the professor having a healthy body.
The more I discuss our modern "practices of the self", the clearer it seems that we do not "take care" of ourselves in the ancient sense at all. It might be best to say that we have self-disciplinary practices more than practices of the self per se. Therefore, our return to morality might entail being more self-conscious about how our self-disciplinary practices inform our desires to tell the truth. Let us resolve to be truth- tellers, and form ourselves in such a way that we live for the truth. But what is truth in today's world? Is it the kind of truth one should live or die for? We must therefore become more aware of what counts for truth at any moment. Perhaps the return to morality, the critique of truth and self-discipline is simply the Foucauldian project.
Notes
1. It is perhaps here that we see Foucault's greatest debt to Heidegger's "The Age of the World Picture" (Heidegger 1977: 1 15-54).
2. "Subjectivity and Truth" was a draft of his 1983 book The Care ofthe Self, the third volume of the The History ofSexuality (Foucault 1986).
3. Ofcourse,itneednotbeDescarteswhodidthis,butsincethatisthefigurethat most people would know, we go with him. Foucault does not ascribe agency to authors; therefore, we must be sure not to "blame" Descartes for the Cartesian moment we are about to describe.
4. Although Foucault runs out of time before giving a detailed account of early Christian practices, he gives many hints throughout the lecture course. His best accounts of early Christian (and later Christian) practices can be found in the essays "Technologies of the Self ", "Sexuality and Solitude" and "The Battle for Chastity" from the same period of Foucault's work (Foucault 1997c).
5. ImmanuelKant,MetaphysicsofMorals,Aldc 6:429,whereKantstatesthatour duty to tell the truth is not a duty to others but a duty to ourselves as a moral being.
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6. Foucault mentions in the 1984 lectures that parrhesia is not about "epistemologi- cal structures", but rather "des formes alethurgiques", forms of unconcealment (Foucault 2009: 5; see Heidegger 1996: ? 44).
7. Note that the theme of transgression, a Foucauldian theme from the 1960s, reappears here. See "APreface to Transgression" (in Foucault 1998: 69-87).
8. I am thinking primarily ofthe food journal, although there are other techniques. See Heyes (2006, 2007).
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Subjectivity an ? power
Cressida J. Heyes
One must remember that power is not an ensemble of mecha- nisms of negation, refusal, exclusion. But it produces effectively. It is likely that it produces right down to individuals themselves. Individuality, individual identity are the products of power. 1
"Subjectivity" and its cognates are philosophical terms that describe a possibility for lived experience within a larger historical and political context. "The subject" (le sujet) is not simply a synonym for "person"; instead the term captures the possibility of being a certain kind of per- son, which, for the theorists who tend to use it, is typically a contingent historical possibility rather than a universal or essential truth about human nature. These terms are especially philosophically important for Michel Foucault, who, in his middle works Discipline and Punish and The History ofSexuality, Volume I, develops a theoretical-historical account of the emergence of the modern subject in the context of what he calls "disciplinary power". This chapter draws on these texts to elaborate how Foucault believes such subjects come into being and what the implications are for us: the persons who, he argues, have inherited a system of power that both creates our possibilities and constrains our existence. I examine two related challenges to Foucault's account, and then conclude by drawing on contemporary discourses of weight and weight loss to show how his work can be applied to case studies beyond those Foucault himself discussed.
In French, the key term Foucault uses to capture the emergence of subjectivities (or subject-positions: particular spaces for being a subject) is assujettissement. Variously translated as "subjectivation", "subjection"
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or even "subjagation", the difficulties in rendering the word into Eng- lish reflect the philosophical difficulties associated with its meaning. It describes a double process of the actions of power in relation to selves that is both negative and positive. First, assujettissement captures the idea that we are subjected or oppressed by relations of power. When a norm (which Foucault understands as a standard to which individuals are held as well as by which populations are defined) imposes itself on us, we are pressed to follow it. In this sense assujettissement describes a process of constraint and limitation. For example, "homosexuals" are constrained by the oppressive beliefs and practices of those who discriminate against them. In these moments, power serves its more familiar repressive function, holding back the capacities of those indi- viduals against whom it acts. In many political theories of oppression, power plays only this negative role, and must be out-manoeuvred if we are to become free. For Foucault, however, power always also plays a positive role: it enables certain subject-positions (or certain actions or capacities for the individual). Thus at the same time as "homosexu- als" are discriminated against, the invocation of this very label (which Foucault believes is a historically specific and contingent possibility, rather than simply the truth about a pre-existing group of people) itself permits political mobilization, solidarity, mutual identification, the creation of social spaces, and so on. Without homosexuals there would be no homophobia and no gay-bashing, but there would also be no gay bars or gay pride marches.
Many alternative political theoretical models of the individual assume that we - individuals - are ontologically prior to the exercise of power. That is, human beings have certain universal qualities that are then exercised, suppressed, or otherwise moulded by the exercise of power. Indeed, many of us commonly think of power as something that acts upon us - an outside force to which we may succumb or not, but never as something that made us who we are. "Be yourself" is a popular injunction in Western cultures, where the self one is supposed to be can be identified, eventually, or just in theory, as an object that is not determined by relations of power (where power is also often under- stood as a repressive force). This model of the self has been used for many progressive purposes: for example, feminism has urged women to look beyond male dominance to find the true selves patriarchy has denied and suppressed. Foucault, however, famously argued that power is not only repressive, and nor does it act only upon the already formed subject. Rather power enables the identities we claim at the same time as it represses or limits us - and these two actions ultimately cannot be separated. If this is the nutshell version (and perhaps the most
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philosophically controversial aspect) of Foucault's account of assujet- tissement, let us look very briefly at how he reaches this conclusion.
"The Subject"and Assujettissement
In Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (Surveillir et Punir: Naissance de IaPrison, first published in French in 1975) Foucault rather indirectly sets out his account of power through a historical account of statepunishment(Foucault 1979). Whatcouldahistoryofpunishment and the prison - specifically, a history of how the French state enacted punishment between 1 75 7 and 1 8 3 7 - tell us about how subjects come into being? 2 The mechanisms of penality that "the carceral" comes to use are like those that permeate society more broadly; the "disciplinary" power developed in the context of the prison is continuous with edu- cational, psychological and medical contexts. In particular,
the activity of judging has increased precisely to the extent that the normalizing power has spread. Borne along by the omnipresence of the mechanisms of discipline, basing itself on all the carceral apparatuses, it has become one of the major functions of our society . . . The carceral network, in its compact or disseminated forms, with its systems of insertion, distribution, surveillance, observation, has been the greatest support, in modern society, of the normalizing power. (Ibid. : 304)
Not only does the prison "support" the new form of power that con- cerns Foucault, but it also creates a way of thinking about subjectivity. He proclaims that:
by an analysis of penal leniency as a technique of power, one might understand both how man, the soul, the normal or abnormal individual have come to duplicate crime as objects of penal inter- vention; and in what way a specific mode of assujettissement was able to give birth to man as an object of knowledge. (Ibid. : 24)
How did this come about? Foucault famously opens Discipline and Punish with a graphic and brutal account of the public torture and execution of Damiens, the man who in 1757 attempted to kill King Louis XV. Here "the body of the condemned" is made into a spectacle. The sovereign enacts through public extreme violence the retribution that will befall the body of anyone who makes an attempt on his life.
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Suddenly this narrative stops, and Foucault jumps forward eighty years, to an 1838 text in which Leon Faucher describes the daily timetable of a Paris prison (ibid. : 3-7). The prisoners' waking hours are closely divided into periods for prayer, work, eating, recreation and education, and their activities (such as receiving instruction, or prayer) are con- structive as much as they are overtly punitive. Furthermore, Foucault suggests that the body of the prisoner is a fundamentally different kind of object in each example: Damiens' suffering is a public spectacle. His passive body manifests the power of the sovereign, against his will. The prisoners of Faucher, by contrast, live their own bodies, and discipline themselves according to the timetable constructed to mould them into certain kinds of persons; they exercise, they engage in recreation.
What emerges for Foucault as the eighteenth century unfolds, then, is a new set of methods for controlling the operations of bodies. Prisoners must be rendered obedient in order to be managed, but this manage- ment must come at least in part from their own actions. This new form of power, which acts without the guidance of a central sovereign upon bodies to make certain kinds of persons, Foucault labels "disciplinary power". Although I will not elaborate here on Foucault's important distinction between sovereign and disciplinary power (see e. g. Allen 1999: 31-7), it is central to the kind ofassujettissement that Foucault argues characterizes modernity. Disciplines create a subject who is self- monitoring, developmental, the object at the intersection of numerous vectors of management and coercion and, most of all, useful, produc- tive. Not only prisons, but the military, medicine, education and the emerging human sciences all play a role in the development of this new kindofsubject,usingfourkeymechanisms(Foucault1979: 149-69). In brief, first, the relation of the individual to space is redefined, through novel forms of architecture (most famously, the Panoptic prison) and mechanisms of population management; second, the individual's activ- ity is exhaustively controlled and monitored and his body incorporated into that process (as, for example, in the precise drilling of soldiers) ; third, time is organized and monitored much more closely, and comes to be understood as both progressive (one of Foucault's examples is incremental examinations for the advancing school pupil) and minutely (even infinitely) divisible; finally, the composition of forces is restruc- tured to maximize the productive effects of people working together, organizing bodies according to their relative position and mutual effects, and redirecting attention to efficient "tactics".
Foucault distils three techniques that cut across these four mecha- nisms to consolidate modern subjectivity (ibid. : 170--94). Hierarchi- cal observation functions by making subjects constantly visible and
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knowable, through a single gaze that sees everything constantly. In the Panopticon this is a literal mechanism, but Foucault treats this kind of visibility as a metaphor for how power works on subjects more broadly. Second, normalizing judgement is enacted through the micromanage- ment of behaviour in areas of social life from which penality had pre- viously been absent. Although in the orphanage or barracks there are explicit regulations, the order imposed through discipline legislates "natural and observable processes" to ensure greater conformity to a norm. For this reason punishment is not only retaliatory but also cor- rective (ibid. : 179): from beating the child who errs, for example, the teacher moves to assigning "lines": a repetitive exercise that serves as both punishment and training. "Through this micro-economy of a per- petual penality operates a differentiation that is not one of acts, but of individuals themselves, of their nature, their potentialities, their level or their value" (ibid. : 1 8 1 ) . The third technique of disciplinary power is the examination (an instrument that combines hierarchical observation and normalizing judgement) . In ritualized form, examination techniques incorporate the normalizing gaze as a mechanism of differentiation and evaluation, and Foucault's examples include the physician's rounds, the school exam and army inspections. Disciplinary power is itself invisible yet renders its subjects hyper-visible in order to tighten its grip: "it is the fact of being constantly seen, of being able always to be seen, that maintains the disciplined individual in his subjection" (ibid. : 1 8 7) .
In short, discipline creates a novel subject-position: the individual. This individual is a conformist, docile, self-monitoring person, who is expected (including by emergent models in the biological and human sciences) to develop in particular ways and is subject to much closer yet more seemingly benign forms of management. At the same time (and, paradoxically, through many of the same mechanisms) we are told that we each have our own distinctive biography (worthy of investigation and representation) and that we are marked by qualities internal to ourselves (not only by a generic social status as members of kinship net- works or socioeconomic classes) . This discourse of the distinctiveness and authenticity of the individual is for other political philosophers a boon of modernity, which marks the emergence of democracy, egalitar- ian citizenship and autonomy. Foucault's attitude is more ambivalent, and he is critical of narratives of historical progress that see the increase in autonomy for the individual only as liberating her from relations of power. Instead, he thinks, what we consider an increase in autonomy is complicated by a concomitant intensification of our subjection to discipline (Foucault 1997e). For many political philosophers, human beings simply are, foundationally, individuals with certain definitive
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qualities (perhaps rationality, or certain capabilities), where this claim is not seen as historically contingent or dependent on any particular cultural frame of reference. Human progress then consists in the gradual realization of this individuality, through, perhaps, the acquisition of rights, or economic frameworks that permit the development of capa- bilities. Foucault, by contrast, insists that the idea of the individual is historically specific (indeed, embedded within a particular "genealogi- cal" understanding of what history is [see Gutting 2005: 43-53]) and that the rise of individualism does not mark the unqualified realization of our human potential. Rather, it represents the emergence of some new capacities, and the intensification of our subjection to power; we become different kinds of subject, but not necessary "better" subjects than we were.
In Volume I of The History of Sexuality (first published in French in 1976), his next major work after Discipline and Punish, Foucault elaborates his account ofassujettissement (1990a). Our typical histori- cal account of sexuality, he argues, leans heavily on what he famously calls "the repressive hypothesis". We tend to think, that is, that the nineteenth century is marked by a growing discomfort with public discussion of sexuality. Sexuality happened only to those peripheral deviants, the "other Victorians", such as prostitutes, pimps and perverts. For the bourgeois classes, goes the popular historical perception, sexual- ity was taboo. The notion that the Victorian era marked a distinctively repressive origin in the history of sexuality enables a narrative extrapo- lation through the struggles of psychoanalysis with repression to the sexual liberation movements of the 1960s and 1970s and beyond: our problem is (and has always been) that we are uptight about sex, and we need to challenge our own silences and shame in order to liberate ourselves (ibid. : 3-7).
Near the beginning of History ofSexuality, Foucault tells us sardoni- cally that his:
aim is to examine the case of a society which has been loudly castigating itself for its hypocrisy for more than a century, which speaks verbosely of its own silence, takes great pains to relate in detail the things it does not say, denounces the powers it exercises, and promises to liberate itself from the very laws that have made it function . . . The question I would like to pose is not, Why are we repressed? but rather, Why do we say, with so much passion and so much resentment against our most recent past, against our present, and against ourselves, that we are repressed?
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He has three main doubts about the repressive hypothesis. First, a historical doubt: is repression such an incontrovertible fact about the history of sexuality? Second, a theoretical doubt: does power in fact always work through repression (does it always say "no"? ), as the hypothesis seems to assume? And third, a political qualm: is the "anti-repression" discourse of sexual liberationists actually all that dif- ferent from the very discourse of repression that it claims to expose? Foucault answers these questions, as he does in Discipline and Pun- ish, through a set of historical examples dating from the seventeenth through nineteenth centuries (mostly) in France. In the chapter "The Incitement to Discourse", Foucault identifies an explosion of ways of talking about sex in the late seventeenth century, key to which is the institution of the Christian confession. Just as the functioning of power in the prison becomes a metaphor and model for disciplinary power writ large, Foucault suggests, the idea of approaching a pastoral authority and revealing the hitherto concealed truth about one's sexual transgressions comes to represent a key mechanism in all of the dis- ciplines of sexual knowledge. As the eighteenth century rolls around, sex becomes, he argues, a central object of political, economic and technical administration, through, for example, the study of popula- tion (birth control, population growth, reproductive statistics etc. ), a fascination with the sexuality of children (especially analysing and preventing masturbation), the growth of psychiatry and its study and treatment of sexual disorders, and the criminalization of certain sexual practices (ibid. : 25-3 1 ) . Perhaps most important for Foucault's account of assujettissement, in Chapter 3, "Scientia Sexualis", he argues that the new science of sex produces its truth through endless incitement and confession. We are constantly urged to reveal our sexual desires, perversions and "identities", in a variety of practices that cause us to be made into "case studies" for the quasi-medical, scientific discourses that now surround sexual truth.
Foucault provides two primary examples of sexual individuals in History of Sexuality. 3 The first is his controversial story of Jouy, a "simple-minded" farmhand who, in 1867, enticed local young girls into "caresses". Jouy, Foucault implies, is on the cusp of the historical moment when such behaviour is met not with a smack in the face, or indifferent refusal, or viewed as "inconsequential bucolic pleasures" from which both parties can walk away without any particular conclu- sion being drawn about their status as "sexual victim" or "pervert" . 4 His behaviour attracts the attention of a girl's parents, and thence further authorities; Jouy was physically assessed and interviewed, and then incarcerated without being convicted of any crime as a "pure object of
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medicine and knowledge" (ibid. : 32). Indeed, Foucault's interpretation comes from the published "case study " of an early example of what we would now call a "paedophile". In a second example, Foucault argues that in this crucial historical period the idea that some people are essentially "homosexuals" is posited by sexology:
As defined by the ancient civil or canonical codes, sodomy was a category of forbidden acts; their perpetrator was nothing more than the juridical subject of them. The nineteenth-century homo- sexual became a personage, a past, a case history, and a childhood, in addition to being a type of life, a life form, and a morphology, with an indiscreet anatomy and possibly a mysterious physiol- ogy. (1990a: 43)
His arrival is announced with Foucault's most quoted line, "the sodomite had been a temporary aberration [relaps] ; the homosexual was now a species [espece]" (ibid. ). Discovering this identity becomes a per- sonal as well as a legislative project, in which the individual deciphers the truth of the self as homosexual, or (later) heterosexual, or another taxonomic possibility, even as, Foucault argues, these are not natural kinds of human being only now being "discovered" or "understood" but rather historically contingent forms of assujettissement.
Discipline and Punish and the first volume of The History ofSexu- ality, then, are the texts in which Foucault shows us most clearly how power creates subjects. They tackle different historical case studies, but their underlying philosophical arguments are closely connected.
