In developing my conception of
structuration theory I have frequently emphasized its connections to critique.
In his contribution to this volume, Bernstein concentrates on this issue in
order to draw attention to what he diagnoses as major shortcomings in my
account of the nature of critical theory. I should perhaps say straight away
that I regard myself primarily as a sociologist, or more generally as a social
scientist, rather than a philosopher. I do not see it as a main part of my
self-imposed programme to elucidate a detailed view of how critical theory
should be understood. Although I have drawn a great deal of intellectual
nourishment from Habermas's writings, I do not feel myself to be particularly
close to his position, and I would wish to separate my work fairly definitively
- as Bernstein mentions - from the writings of the Frankfurt School. In what
follows I shall try to make more precise the notions of critique I have in
previous writings alluded to only in a fairly casual fashion. But I cannot
pretend that the following remarks are in any way complete. Engaging in social
scientific activity, I believe, raises the possibility, and to some degree the
necessity, of involvement in four levels of critique. These emerge fairly
plainly from Bernstein's own analysis and so I can follow the sequence of his
argument in portraying them.
The first level of critical engagement
which social scientists, like any others concerned with disciplined inquiry,
face might be called intellectual critique. This is what Bernstein
refers to as a 'minimalist' conception, but I would simply see it as inherent
in the nature of intellectual investigation. There is nothing particularly
problematic about it, either in my eyes or in the view of Bernstein.
Intellectual critique simply refers to the fact, emphasized by Popper among
many others, that disciplined inquiry must be seen as carried on by a community
rather than by an individual; any and all theories, concepts and findings
brought forward are open to critical dissection and assessment. I would take it
that this whole book forms an excellent, and I hope constructive, example of
this phenomenon. It is one part of what social science is as critical theory,
but is relatively uncontroversial.
The second level of criticism
could be called practical critique and raises more debatable issues,
particularly when contrasted to orthodox versions of the logic of the social
sciences. As I mentioned in the opening part of this reply, I regard the
questions raised here as of very great importance. According to more
traditional views of the social sciences, social science generates information
about an independently given social world, such information or new knowledge
being cumulative in the same sense as in the natural sciences. According to
this conception, new knowledge can be applied 'technologically' to bring about
practical interventions in social life. This technological view of social
science knowledge, however, blanks out the 'return' side of the double
hermeneutic, the routine incorporation of social science theories, concepts and
findings back into the universe of events they were developed to describe or
explain. While this does not altogether prevent the accumulation of knowledge
on the part of the social scientific community, it radically alters its
character as compared to natural science.
Because in some respects it is
only possible for the social scientist to keep 'one jump ahead' of those whose
behaviour he or she is investigating, much of social science appears relatively
banal to lay members of society. Yet this seeming banality disguises the
tremendous practical impact which social science has had and which is in
substantial part constitutive of modernity. Bernstein accepts this point,
although it seems to me that he rather trivializes it. He says, for example,
that' "cost-benefit" analysis not only seeps down into our everyday
language, but has influenced the ways in which people think about their careers
or even their sex lives', (p. 31). My point is not just that social science
concepts and findings 'influence' 'the ways in which we think', but that they
become in large part constitutive of the practices which form institutions
of modernity. This, I take it, is what Foucault was seeking to
demonstrate in his analysis of psychiatry and madness. The terminology and
empirical claims of modern psychiatry, when they first originated, did not just
help us to understand better phenomena which had long existed; they served to
constitute new forms of social action and social practice.
Why should one link this
reflexivity closely to critique? The answer is that innovations in social
science create windows on possible worlds for lay social actors. Social science
is virtually always in principle critical not only of the belief-claims, but
also of the concepts and frameworks of action, followed by members of society.
Such practical criticism is an inherent and inescapable element of engaging in
social scientific investigation. This has nothing much to do with 'critical
theory' as understood by the Frankfurt School. The investigating social
scientist is not, on this level of critique at any rate, setting herself or
himself up as a critical evaluator of social practices or as providing guidance
for normative standards of action.
The third level of criticism in
which social science is inextricably involved is ideological critique. At
this point we begin to enter the realms with which Bernstein is principally
concerned and which have traditionally occupied critical theory as understood
by the Frankfurt School. As a way into discussion of this level of critique,
let me pursue the reference Bernstein makes to Willis's study Learning to
Labour. As Bernstein points out, the study of the boys' group which Willis
undertook provides information which can be used in quite distinct ways. It
could be made use of by the school authorities to tighten up their effective
control over pupils; alternatively, it could be utilized by the members of the
boys' group themselves to oppose effectively those who stand in authority over
them. We have to ask, Bernstein asserts, 'who will use this knowledge, and for
what ends?' (p. 32).
Now, this question can actually
be taken in two ways, and these separate the levels of practical and
ideological critique. It might mean: what happens to Willis's findings as they
are reincorporated back into social settings? There is not usually a great deal
that an investigator himself or herself can do, or should be expected to do, to
control this. Concepts and findings will have their own 'fate' within
the wider community. That this is so is effectively built into the nature of
practical critique. For there is no way of effectively confining the appraisal
of ideas and findings solely to some rigorously circumscribed community of
observing social scientists. 'Openness to criticism' among social scientists
inevitably implies 'openness to utilization' on the part of others.
However, what can be subjected to
further analysis on the part of the social scientist is the role of claims to
knowledge as aspects of systems of power. This is what I take the critique of
ideology to concern. As I have argued elsewhere, ideology should be understood
not as false knowledge, juxtaposed to the valid knowledge claimed by science
(social or natural), but as the analysis of the conditions under which modes of
signification or discourse are incorporated within exploitative systems of
domination. Given that social science is reflex - ively involved in an intimate
and pervasive way with what it is about, the critique of ideology necessarily
also has to concern social science itself. A further answer to the question:
'who will use this knowledge, and for what ends?' is therefore that we can
investigate, actually or counterfactually, how the knowledge generated from a
particular research study is incorporated within asymmetrical power relations.
The critique of ideology, it
seems to me, is a purely analytic task, part of the basic concerns of social
science, since it addresses a continuing and necessary feature of social
systems. All systems of power have ideological aspects, and can be studied from
the point of view of ideology critique. In the case of social science knowledge
itself, the complicating factor is its reflexive involvement with the social
world; but this is an empirical, not a logical, source of difficulty. One might
then ask: what is the force of'critique' here? For if the concern is only to
diagnose the existence of ideology, in what sense is there a critical
engagement with it? The sense in question is the same, in fact, as on level
two. That is to say, the diagnosis of ideology is likely to compromise the
belief claims of at least some agents involved in a particular set of power
relations.
The fourth level of criticism one
might designate as moral critique. Reaching this level, we disembark
upon the terrain which most worries Bernstein in terms of the lapses he sees in
my writings. Moral critique concerns assessing the rights and wrongs of
contrasting policies or courses of action. On this level, we confront the
classical problem of the relation between 'is' and 'ought'. This is not ground
upon which I have ventured in any systematic way in my own work. Bernstein
quotes some comments I have made on the issue, which actually came from remarks
in an interview rather than my published writings. Bernstein finds these
comments unsatisfactory and demands that I clarify and expand upon them. This I
am happy to try to do, although I am not sure that what I shall say will
satisfy him.
I have not basically altered the
views I described in response to the questions of the interviewer, although I
now find I mixed my metaphors. In the passages Bernstein quotes, I speak
variously of setting up two houses, neither of which is a safe house, inquiry
and moral critique; and of 'firing critical salvoes into reality' without
supposing that all of these represent a fully integrated barrage. What I meant
to get at was the following. I do not think it plausible to suppose that one
can ground a programme of critical theory, in a way, for example, in which
Habermas seeks to do, such that comprehensive rational grounds for moral
critique could be provided. I find implausible Habermas's claim that an ideal
speech situation is counterfactually implied in any attempt at linguistic
communication. On the other hand, I find equally unappealing the idea of
immanent critique as suggested by Adorno. One might perhaps argue from a
logical point of view that these two viewpoints exhaust all possibilities -
that we must accept one, or we are necessarily stuck with the other. Bernstein
seems to think so, because he feels that my stance is 'foxlike' and 'dodges
some tough issues', rather than facing up to them (p. 27). I do not agree with
this assessment, even if I have not attempted to provide an elaborated defence
of why I hold to the position I do. I think, in fact, that all of us are,
willy-nilly, stuck between the two apparently mutual exclusive alternatives.
Who, when defending an 'ought' statement, does not make reference to what is?
Moral judgements ordinarily form part of the chains of argument which are
thoroughly bound up with factual assertions. I have tried to set out the logic
of this viewpoint elsewhere, although even there rather cursorily. would refer
to this position as 'contingent moral rationalism'.
According to this perspective, as
practising social scientists we may legitimately make moral criticisms of
states of affairs, although we must seek to justify those criticisms when
called upon to do so. We cannot ground moral critique in the mode of such
justification (or argumentation) itself, and in the sense of finding 'pure
foundations' cannot ground it at all. But this does not mean that moral
critique derives merely from whims or feelings, or that we are at the mercy of
a particular historical conjuncture. Dialogue with any and every moral
standpoint is possible, and always involves a fusion of moral and factual
dispute. Most of the time, most of us do not find ourselves in circumstances of
moral puzzlement when confronted with particular states of affairs, in the way
in which philosophical accounts of the difficulty, or the impossibility, of
grounding moral evaluations might lead us to suppose.
Let me try to develop these
observations further by considering the standpoint adopted by Max Weber. I do
not see how it would be possible to maintain the division between 'is' and
'ought' presumed by Weber. According to Weber's thesis, social scientific
findings can be applied to specifying the means whereby goals can be attained,
and can indicate the likely factual consequences of achieving them. But since,
in his view, factual observation and moral judgement are logically completely discrete,
the work of the social scientist can in no way have a direct bearing upon the
selection of goals themselves. Weber adds to this that goals exist within a
hierarchy, which can be traced back to some type of ultimate value or values.
But this does not seem to be accurate. Whenever we look at any actual debates
concerning social issues and related evaluations, we find networks of factual
and evaluative judgements, organized through argumentation. Consider, for
instance, the following problem. Should we tolerate the existence of large
segments of poverty in a modern society, or should we introduce welfare schemes
which will redistribute income in such a way that the conditions of life of the
poor are radically improved? Debate about such a question, in the context of
arguments about the welfare state, would normally be undertaken in terms of
economic controversy, which is theoretical and factual as well as evaluative.
Those who hold to a theory of a natural rate of unemployment, for example, are
likely to take a different view on this issue than would a Keynesian. What if a
contributor to this debate who accepted the natural rate theory were to say: in
spite of my belief about how the economy works, my overriding priority is to
ensure that no one is poor? Such an assertion would not be an end to the debate
– the statement of an ultimate value. Discussion could and most probably would
continue within networks of theoretical, factual and moral claims. Thus someone
who takes such a position might justify it in terms of principles drawn from
Christianity. The nature of the network would shift, but no doubt continued
dialogue would be possible. I do not want to say, of course, that we could
never achieve complete 'closure' between different value claims. But just as in
respect of hermeneutics the relativist position flounders, so in respect of
moral evaluations there are no value positions situated in discursive networks
wholly disconnected from any others.
Moral critique therefore, I would
hold, is always justifiable, but rarely if ever in such a way that a universal
consensus of participants in any given debate could be attained. It is a
separate issue how far social scientists themselves should intervene in
practical programmes of reform. To my mind, this question is exactly part of a
network of claims that can be debated by social scientists themselves and by
others. Such claims depend upon views about such things as whether or not the
university should be a place which stands completely apart from the propagation
of partisan political views - as Weber advocated. If it is true that moral
critique cannot be clearly and absolutely severed from other tasks of social
science, it seems difficult to sustain the idea of a complete separation
between the academy and politics. My position on this would be that a commitment to the first level
of critique, intellectual critique, rests more upon the existence of an indefinite
global community of social science than upon any attempt to isolate the academy
from practical involvements.
As the term is understood by the
Frankfurt School, 'critical theory' does not only concern the issues raised
above. The writings of the various figures associated with the Frankfurt
Institute took their point of departure from Marxism. 'Critical theory' here
means not just assessing the logical nature of critique in social science, but
formulating practical programmes of social intervention. How should we conceive
of'critical theory' in this guise from our vantage-point in the late twentieth
century? Obviously, such a question cannot be answered simply by means of the
considerations mentioned thus far.
I would reply to it in the terms
I attempted to outline in the closing chapter of The Nation-State and
Violence. Political theory today must break free from the 'class
reductionism' and the 'capitalism reductionism' of Marxist theory and practice.
It must confront the multi-dimensional character of modernity, recognizing that
involvements or ideals pursued along one dimension may stand in some tension
with those relevant to another. For instance, the interests of male workers in
maintaining high levels of employment may not be fully compatible with
programmes providing for greater sexual equality within the labour force. A set
of economic innovations might benefit workers in a particular industry, but run
counter to ecological concerns. Critical theory today remains closely connected
to the activities of social movements, but we cannot suppose that the labour
movement has a special, privileged place here.
The view that there is a single
revolutionary subject, incorporating the overall interests of everyone, in the
manner in which Marx claimed for the proletariat, has to be abandoned once and
for all. This leaves us in a far more messy situation than anyone strongly
influenced by Marxism would find tolerable. The late-twentieth-century world
faces a truly formidable array of problems, some of which were barely foreseen
at all in the nineteenth century or even in the early twentieth century. At the
same time, the limitations of the traditions of social and political thought we
have inherited from that period become more and more apparent. Social science
can, and must, rework its schemes of analysis - one reason why the current
debates over the nature of modernity are so important. It also seems to me
necessary to engage in new forms of counterfactual thinking to provide a
stimulus to social transformation. For instance, how should we conceive of a
possible social order which is democratic in respect of control of the means of
violence? This is not an issue in which pre-existing forms of normative
political theory provide us with much help. From an intellectual point of view,
the tasks which confront us here are exciting as well as challenging. From a
practical standpoint they are sobering because of the sheer immensity - and in
some part, seeming intractability – of the problems which humanity today faces.
SOURCE : Social
theory of modern societies: Anthony Giddens and his critics (1994) / edited by
David Held and John Thompson. © Cambridge University Press 1989
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