If politics is a religion, set apart from and in competition with other religions, unless one is part of the religion of politics, then one should stand apart and be separated from it.  What implications does this have for the person who is concerned about the society he or she lives in and desires to be politically active, to ensure a just society?  That’s the question I’m struggling with.  Following and listening to political discussions feels like attending voodoo séances; voting feels like tossing coins to mysterious oracles that promise to make the ground fertile.  All of it seems antithetical to my religious convictions.  What is left to do?  I’m afraid the answer is “nothing.”

I was most intrigued by Sewell’s attempt to infuse the medium of language with kinesthetic meaning (337), which he uses to make sure the ‘game’ portion of ‘language game’ is not ignored. I must admit a certain level of ignorance when it comes to Wittgenstein’s philosophy, but I have always felt uncomfortable assigning all meaning to language. Though I do not wish to downplay its importance, one must be careful placing all of one’s “eggs in one basket.” Take the positivists, for instance: in an attempt to reduce everything to something quantifiable/verifiable, the positivists dug their own grave; for positivism itself cannot be verified. If one is amenable to the pessimistic induction in science (i.e. all current scientific “knowledge” will one day be disproved), then it is only wise to try and bridge as many gaps as possible. In this way, one contributes to the development of well-refined epistemologies and understandings of the world. Stated differently, one who is not busy being born, is busy dying.

Late in his book, Sewell points out an important divide between positivists and interpretivists: the positivists’ dislike of the “fuzzy-mindedness” of interpretivists, and the interpretivists’ dislike of the thick-headedness of the positivists, which suggests an impossible epistemic gap (370). Is this gap too great to be overcome? I hope not, because if so, I am afraid I will always be the pariah of my own field, and most likely the pariah of history.

In Dust, Carolyn Steedman suggest that dust is the philosophy of indestructibility (164), which runs counter to most understandings of dust as the destruction of the archive. She claims that there is a circularity of dust (i.e. fibers -> rags -> paper -> dust -> fertilizers), which means objects never fully disappear; rather, they become part of a new history. Steedman gives dust the ontological status of being a necessary corporeal and incorporeal component of history (i.e. the physical sources of history and the ideas of history). As she points out, the physical process of book making led to the spread of anthrax to tanners, book makers, and even historians who encountered anthrax spores in the archives. The historian’s encounter with the anthrax spore led to what Steedman calls Archive Fever Proper. Though this feature of the archive is interesting, Steedman is saying something much deeper: namely, the historical relics that we encounter in the archive are like dust in the sense that they “infect” our thoughts and ideas. Just like the anthrax spores that cause sickness, the remnants of past cultures infect our bodies and give us an unshakable sickness. It is not a coincidence that the non-proper type of archive fever typically attacks the researcher the penultimate night or on the flight home; it is during these lucid moments that one sees how transient the archives are. Meaning, one can never fully complete one’s research, and even if one could, the materials in which one’s research is recorded are doomed to deteriorate.

First, Carole Pateman argues that the social contract is based on the assumption of the sexual contract. The sexual contract gives men sexual right over women, and due to this subjugation, women are not in a position to enter into a legally binding social contract. Stated differently, women are not free and equal citizens, and therefore, cannot make substantive demands during the contractual process. Pateman demonstrates this asymmetry by examining the social practice of marriage (coverture). It is important to point out two features: 1) there is no actual sexual contract, rather it is codified in social laws; 2) even though there exists examples of symmetrical marital relationships, the asymmetrical power structure still exists as a normative social practice.

Second, Judith Butler charges feminism with assuming heterosexuality as a social norm, which keeps in place the same power structures that are used to subjugate women. So, according to Butler, instead of destroying the power structure that exists between men and women, feminist critiques that do not challenge heterosexual assumptions become part of the power structure that subjugates non-normative relations, like homosexuality. As per last week’s discussion, gender plays an important role in Butler’s critique, for there is in fact no identity behind the expressions of gender. Instead, gender is constitutive of its expressions (25). Though Butler critiques Sartre, this is exactly what Sartre was trying to get across in his claim that there are no homosexuals, there are only homosexual acts. It is the assumption of specific genders-as-biology that support claims of homosexuality; whereas, Butler suggests it is a matter of language. (I must apologize for the cryptic-ness of the previous sentence.) By challenging these assumptions, we truly challenge the normative power structures that exist.

Finally, Anjali Arondekar discusses the assumptions we have concerning the imperial archive. She shows that homosexuality emerges as a structural secret of the archive, which helps maintain the structural cohesion of the archive. According to Arondekar, the archive is built upon certain binaries, but suggests they be radically interpreted in order to challenge the transhistorical perception of gender and to challenge the view that the archive is a fixed point of epistemic arrangements. I will admit I understand Arondekar the least, but like the others, she is using structural critiques to challenge the assumptions that many of our normative beliefs about gender, sex, and power are based upon.

On the other hand, Scott offers an interesting history of ‘gender,’ which illustrates how ‘gender’ was first introduced in order to bring equality to the general discussion of the feminine role in society and to end the sexual determinism of the past. She concludes that gender is continuative of social relations and signifies relations of power within them (1067).

For historians, the investigation of history is wide open. Not only does there exist a set of complex processes of each historical event that the historian must wade through, but it is doubtful we can ever fully understand these processes completely. This makes the study of history both more muddled and more exciting. With the concepts discussed by Riley and Stone, we can also delve into our own history of gender, and decide what sort of assumptions and relations our respective gender is based on.

Cusset’s most illuminating discussion is of the role of narration in analyzing literature, philosophy, sociology and literature (78). Cusset shows how the distillation of events and theories into narratives helped change the American intellectual landscape. The ‘narrative’ of French theory serves to explain events in regards to the coherent worldview that must be accepted in order for such narratives to be considered “truth.” In opposition to every narrative stands a set of questions and observations that go unasked and unexamined. Once one begins to “deconstruct” the narrative structures of some particular political or social theory, the inadequacies of the proposed narratives will become apparent. For instance, Cusset points to the notion of difference as being key to deconstructing many popular narratives concerning society and politics (332).

Of course, Americanized French theory suffered a political and social backlash, which resulted in Sokal’s devastating farce of an essay (5). However, after reading Cusset’s book, it will be intriguing to follow the continual evolution of American and French academic trends.

First, throughout the semester we have seen a variety of explanations of historical agency, some authors suggest economic forces play the most important causal role, while others maintain the agents of cause are ideas.  For this week, individuals lose much of their agency to the web of most subconscious practices that are beyond the control of the individual (i.e. the habitus).  In other words, individuals within social groups are engaged in a system of communicative practices, based on a set of unconscious rules.  To outsiders it is easy to interpret the practices of other social units as being consciously perceived and navigated by the individuals of that social unit, but Bourdieu argues that this understanding is itself based on the practices of outsiders.  Bourdieu, then (as I understand him), tries to provide a theory of practice that avoids such misinterpretations.  If Bourdieu is right, then, it is the structure of symbols and meanings that is the causal agent.  This conclusion does not mean that individuals cannot shape the symbols and meanings, hence, they don’t lose the entirety of their agency, but it is greatly ameliorated.

Second, the authors continue the ever-shifting understanding of humanity away from the enlightenment notion of the ‘universal man’ to an understanding of humanity as interconnected beings intimately connected via societal and communal links.  As already noted, for Bourdieu, individuals are tied up in “a matrix of perceptions, appreciations, and actions” (83), which ameliorates the causal efficacy of individuals.  Certeau examines the operations of individuals in society who have been reduced to ‘consumers.’  These consumers then have a certain level of freedom of movement within the system, but are perpetually prevented from escaping it altogether (Certeau, 40).  Finally, Ortner analyzes how culture, ideology, and discursive formation define the identities and subject positions (i.e. roles) of individuals (1).  Even though Ortner allows for certain places where the framework of practices does not exist, there must exist some other framework.  All three cases suggest humans are not the ‘individuals’ that enlightenment thinkers thought they were.

First, Foucault and I share a similar desire to use history in order to understand the present. If we accept the premise that all history is filtered through some sort of subjective interpretive lens, either by the creators of historical documents or by the researcher, then I don’t see much of way around history being intimately related to the present. I don’t think this is a bad thing. Quite the contrary, if history is supposed to keep us from repeating the mistakes of the past, then the past should not be separated from the present. A historian might, for instance, set out to present a completely objective operational history of some event, and even if we consider this an example of history divorced from the present, it still will be read by individuals in the present, which it will then be interpreted in regards to its importance to the present.

As I’ve already said, I don’t think this is phenomenon is a bad thing. The main reason I got into philosophy and history is to provide some basis for understanding myself, others, and the world around me. When we determine that something is important, we are determining it in regards to its explanatory power, which cannot be divorced from the present. So, my first question is: can history be understood outside of the present, and if not, do you think that is a bad thing?

Second, I suggest Foucault relies too heavily on the notion of power and power struggles. In fact, Foucault seems to think that the struggle for power, or its shifting from one group to another, is the agent of historical causation. Because power plays such an important explanatory role in Foucault’s historical account, if one does not accept such an explanation, Foucault’s thesis is weakened. Of course, any such metaphysical claim will not be accepted by all, and I am saddled with my own metaphysical conditions, which is why I am uncomfortable with Foucault’s ‘power’ talk. I will grant Foucault the following: power, and power relations, strongly influences the ability of the powerless to influence society, and that power structures hamper one’s motivation to engage and craft society in a more tolerable direction (e.g. beyond the carceral society). The question, then, is: is this all that is required for Foucault’s talk of power to hold, or does he require more from the reader?

Axel, on the other hand, studies the “interdisciplinarity” between history and anthropology in order to get readers to look at historical anthropology in a new way. More specifically, Axel suggests looking at how “supposed margins of metropoles, or peripheries and centers, fold into, constitute, or disrupt one another” (2).

If I understand Axel’s thesis, he is suggesting something along the lines of Barber and Berdam: namely, the historian must sift through the reality of documents, oral accounts, and archaeology and the wills, experiences, and personalities of the authors of such sources; and, one must fill in the gaps with the use of complementary sources to make up for the biased nature of such accounts (i.e. underrepresentation of women, the poor, and illiterate). Axel’s collection of essays, then, serves as an example of the ethnohistory that Barber and Berdam suggest in their book.

Before this class I had never thought of history and anthropology as such interrelated fields of study, but each week they become more intertwined. I’m not sure Barber and Berdam’s definition of ethnohistory is satisfactorily distinct from history and/or anthropology, mainly because I’m not sure I’ve wrapped my mind around what exactly they mean by “cultural interaction.” If someone has some insights into what they mean, or about something else in my post, I would appreciate it.