Foucault and Classical Antiquity: Power, Ethics and Knowledge

FOUCAULT AND CLASSICAL ANTIQUITY Power, Ethics and Knowledge

WOLFGANG DETEL Johann Wolfgang Goethe-Universit¨at Frankfurt

Translated by

DAVID WIGG-WOLF

   Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo Cambridge University Press The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge  , UK Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521833813 © Suhrkamp Verlag Frankfurt am Main 1998 This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provision of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published in print format - -

---- eBook (NetLibrary) --- eBook (NetLibrary)

- -

---- hardback --- hardback

Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of s for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate. Originally published in German as Macht, Moral, Wissen: Foucault und die Klassische Antike. First published in English by Cambridge University Press 2005 as Foucault and Classical Antiquity: Power, Ethics and Knowledge English translation © Cambridge University Press 2005

CONTENTS

page viii

List of abbreviations Introduction 1 2 3 4 5 6

1

Morals, knowledge and power The ethical teleology The scientific regimen The asymmetrical relationship The epistemic eros Gender, nature and reference

6 58 93 118 163 223

References Index

264 276

vii

A B B R E V I AT I O N S

Of Foucault’s works

M. Foucault, The History of Sexuality HS UP CS

Vol. 1: The Will to Know Vol. 2: The Use of Pleasure Vol. 3: The Care of the Self For ancient authors and texts

DK Frg. Epigramm. Graec.

Diels and Kranz (1964) Fragments Epigrammata Graeca

Aesch. Ar. An. An. Post. An. Prior. Ath. Polit. EE GA

Aeschines Aristotle De Anima (On the Soul) Analytica Posteriora (Posterior Analytics) Analytica Prioria (Prior Analytics) De Athenorum Republica (Athenian Constitution) Ethica Eudemia (Eudemian Ethics) De Generatione Animalium (On the Generation of Animals) viii

l i s t o f a b b r e v i at i o n s GC HA Iuv. Met. MM NE PA Phys. Pol. Resp. Rhet. Sens. SE Top. Aristoph. Ekkl. Lysistr. Nub. Thesm. Cael. Aur. Acut. Cic. Iuvent. Corp. Hipp. Epid. Deinarch. Dem. Demosth. Diog. Laert. Eur. Electr. Troj. Gal. Progn. Hes. Hyper. Hipp. Prisc. Med. Epid. Aphor.

ix

De Generatione et Corruptione (On Generation and Corruption) Historia Animalium (History of Animals) De Iuventute et Senectute (On Youth and Old Age) Metaphysica (Metaphysics) Magna Moralia (Great Ethics) Ethica Nicomachea (Nicomachean Ethics) De Partibus Animalium (Parts of Animals) Physica (Physics) Politica (Politics) De Respiratione (On Respiration) Rhetorica (Rhetorics) De Sensu (On Sense) Sophistici Elenchi (On Sophistical Refutations) Topica (Topics) Aristophanes Ecclesiazusae Lysistrata Clouds Thesmaphoriazusae Caelius Aurelianus Acutae passiones Cicero De Iuventione Corpus Hippocraticum Epidemiae (Epidemics) Deinarchus Democritus Demosthenes Diogenes Laertius Euripides Electra Trojan Women Galenus Prognosticum de Decubitu ex Mathematica Scientia Hesiod Hypereides Hippocrates De Priscina Medicina (On Ancient Medicine) Of the Epidemics Aphorisms

x Hor. Sat. Ep. Iambl. Isocr. Plato Charm. Gorg. Lys. Nom. Phaed. Phaedr. Polit. Prot. Symp. Tim. Porph. Vit. Pyth. Pseud.-Ar. Mech. Oec. PP Soph. Trach. Xen. Mem. Symp. Oec.

l i s t o f a b b r e v i at i o n s Horace Satyrae (Satires) Epistulae (Letters) Iamblichus Isocrates Charmides Gorgias Lysis Nomoi (Laws) Phaedo Phaedrus Politeia (Republic) Protagoras Symposium Timaeus Porphyrius Vita Pythagorae Pseudo-Aristotle Mechanica [of dubious authenticity] Oeconomica Problemata Physica [of dubious authenticity] Sophocles Trachiniae Xenophon Memorabilia (Socratic Memoirs) Symposium Oeconomicus

INTRODUCTION

The main aim of this book is to clarify the moral concern about sexuality and sexual activities expressed by leading authors in classical antiquity. Michel Foucault was, of course, the first thinker to undertake this clarification, and one aim of his stimulating study was to demonstrate the way in which his new ethics programme worked. Therefore my starting point is the reconstruction of claims about the control of the desires and the creation of the moral subject in classical philosophical, medical, economic and rhetorical texts which Michel Foucault presents in the second volume of The History of Sexuality (The Use of Pleasure (UP)). There is now a mass of literature on Foucault’s programme of ethics, some of which also deals with his interpretation of ancient sources. But most authors treat his analyses of these texts as documents illustrating his intellectual development, which is their primary interest.1 None of them subjects his thoughts on ancient sources to a detailed critical assessment in order to suggest alternative readings that are based not only on the general theoretical premises of Foucault’s project, but also on modern standards of textual interpretation

1 See e.g. Bernauer (1988); Bernauer and Mahon (1994); Dreyfus and Rabinow (1983); Mahon (1992); Rajchman (1991); Sch¨afer (1995); Schmid (1990); Smart (1991) or the articles in the volumes of essays Erdmann et al. (1990); Ewald and Waldenfels (1991); Rabinow (1986); Seitler (1993), A. Davidson (2001).

1

2

introduction

and the present state of philosophical and historical knowledge of the ancient world.2 What follows is intended to reduce this deficit. Much of what I have to say is a critical reconstruction of Foucault’s own reconstruction – while at the same time I try to maintain the systematic aspects of his perspective. It is a bold attempt to say what Foucault’s historical perspective and better historical knowledge should have led him to say about the texts he studied, but which he did not. In my view, the main reason why Foucault did not say what, in his own best theoretical interest, he should have said is that, when he first introduced his programme of ethics at the beginning of UP, he held that the ethical creation of the subject could more or less be separated from the archaeological and genealogical dimension developed in his earlier works. Thus he almost completely neglects what the ancient texts have to say about epistemology and the analysis of power, or in the case of Plato attributes far too little significance to it. In chapter 1 I point out that Foucault’s restrictive approach to the ancient sources was an initial misunderstanding of his own general project that he later corrected. However, if the incorporation of the analysis of power and archaeology into Foucault’s ethics is to be successful, a suitable reappraisal of his ideas on the intrinsic connection between power and knowledge, and the concept of ‘productive’ power, is required. The rest of the first chapter is devoted to a lengthy and detailed explication of these ideas. One of the most important results is the introduction of a concept of regulative power that is not necessarily repressive, but is productive in a clearly definable way. It is primarily this kind of power that is intimately related to the games of truth that determine the historical forms of knowledge. This interpretation explains why Foucault’s relativistic neutrality is nothing more than systematic coquetry and why his critics, as well as leading post-modernists, are all mistaken in their vociferous complaints and cynical observations that power permeates even reason. After this introduction the next four chapters turn to the ancient texts that Foucault studied in UP. In chapter 2 I prove that in focusing on the 2 The two best exceptions are Geoffrey Lloyd’s review of UP in The New York Review of Books 33, ¨ (4 March 1986), 24–8 and Pierre Hadot’s study ‘Uberlegungen zum Begriff der Selbstkultur’, in Ewald and Waldenfels (1991), 219–28 (see also the afterword in Hadot (1991)). Lloyd concentrates mainly on a critical discussion of Foucault’s analysis of ancient medical texts, while Hadot criticises the fact that Foucault prunes ancient ethics to an ethics of desire, self-observation and stylisation of the self, and neglects the extent to which it is concerned with eudaimonia. Both critiques are on the right track, but do not pay enough attention to Foucault’s general theoretical perspectives; all told they are too brief, too one-sided and lack detail.

introduction

3

ancient analysis of sexual desire, Foucault neglects the comprehensive role played by eudaimonia. This was always an important concept in antiquity, incorporating sexual desire into a broader register of desires in order to optimise them. At the same time it becomes clear that Foucault’s one-sided view leads to an inappropriate exaggeration of the part played by aesthetic stylisation. Classical dietetics is then the central topic of chapter 3. Foucault regards it as a comprehensive art of existence and a thoroughly regulated practice of the self, but it is soon apparent that, at the most, this view can only be applied to an excessive, prophylactic form of dietetics that was in no way representative of the classical world. Above all, during the course of the fifth century philosophical ethics separated itself from medicine, with the result that medicine was reduced to being just one of several important elements of the good life while at the same time attaining a new theoretical status as an empirical natural science. Foucault would doubtless have had no difficulty in describing this historical process in archaeological terms, but he pays no attention to this archaeological aspect, just as he pays no attention to how dietetics, as it became increasingly empirical, lost all reference to eudaimonic practices of the self, which now became the domain of philosophy. This restricted view of ancient teleology and dietetics had the effect that Foucault arrived at an incorrect model of the regulation and practice of sexual desire: ancient authors did not recommend a model of domination and restriction intended to rein in the dangerous dynamic of sexuality, but entertained instead the model of self-controlled integration of sexual desire into the overall complex of higher and lower desires which had been optimised and kept in equilibrium as a constitutive part of the good life (if not as its goal). All told, specifically sexual desires played only a relatively unimportant role in the works of Aristotle and the Hippocratics that deal with human desires. Foucault’s interpretation of pederasty and marital relations in the ancient world has quite rightly attracted a great deal of attention, but it is flawed by a number of serious misjudgements. This I demonstrate in chapter 4. Historical studies have shown that in classical Greece pederasty as a primary love relationship was restricted to the small circle of political elites, and otherwise was regarded with a great deal of moral and legal reservation. The moral concern that manly activity might be endangered in pederastic relationships, which Foucault identified in the ancient texts, in fact only refers to a small group of speakers who played a leading part in the political business of the polis. Other parameters generally applied to relationships between full male citizens than to those between freeborn

4

introduction

and slaves. Ancient moralists could only think of pederastic relationships in terms of a relation of dominance, endangering the status of the beloved as a freeborn citizen, as well as threatening the most important boundary that the classical world knew – that between the freeborn and the slave. Reciprocal homoerotic relationships were a taboo for ancient moralists, and they could only conceptualise homosexuality in a particularly low form – as an exchange of desire and benefit that for the lover was generally materially expensive and permitted him no more that limited bodily contact and occasional sexual gratification between the thighs of the beloved, while the young beloved was allowed to accept expensive presents, but never to experience sexual arousal. Foucault remains silent on these aspects of homoerotics in the ancient world, just as he is not interested in the fact that reciprocal marital relationships would have posed a threat to the patriarchal dominance of the husband, and that for this reason ancient moralists were only able to think of marriage as an asymmetrical relationship between an older husband and a younger wife – structurally analogous to homoerotic relationships. However, the circumstances were more complicated in the case of marriage than pederasty, above all since marriage was the central institution of the most important social and economic unit in ancient city-states – the farm or estate (oikos), an institution that ancient politics was particularly concerned to ensure continued to flourish. Thus the moral concern for the husband’s sexual behaviour on the part of ancient moralists was not focused, as Foucault claims, on the conditions that enabled the husband to qualify for a political career, but on the threat to the oikos and the husband’s honour, which might lead him to a total loss of self-respect. In order to deal with the complex problems involved in this context, the Greeks invented a new science – the science of management of the oikos, economics. As a science economics was concerned essentially with the art of leadership in the dealings the head of the household had with his wife, manager, employees and slaves. But again, Foucault paid no attention to the dimensions of archaeology and the analysis of power that are involved here. The way in which Foucault looks at Plato’s theory of eros is particularly unsatisfactory, as I show in chapter 5. Although he makes some correct and interesting observations, for example about the exchange of roles between the lover and the beloved, Foucault misses the decisive points of Plato’s thinking about eros, and his neglect of the exact epistemological background and the corresponding games of truth has particularly negative consequences. Plato’s view of eros can only be understood against

introduction

5

the background of advanced interpretations of Platonic epistemology, and these reveal the deficiencies of Foucault’s ascetic reading of Plato. The final chapter is more of an appendix or excursus. It is an attempt to reconstruct the naive reference to different sexes that Foucault relies on in his historical analysis of the relationship between sexuality and truth, and seeks to defend this reference in the face of criticism, in particular from post-modern feminists who try to incorporate the concept of (biological) sex completely into the notion of (social) gender. In the face of this criticism, I defend a thin concept of sex that takes into account all ideological and anti-essentialist feminist reservations, and plead for a complete dissolution of the category of gender as an answer to the fraying of this category that is particularly apparent in post-modern feminism. Should the ideas and suggestions proposed in this book indeed be correct, and improve Foucault’s analysis of classical Greek texts, then of course this does not mean that critical interpretation has priority over creative theoretical work. Rather I would like to see the comments presented here as an example of a rational approach to post-modern thought, that takes its intuitions seriously, but without renouncing exact explication and critical examination according to the usual standards of philosophy and science. One of the most important results of the book is the realisation that Foucault’s theoretical approach in no way prevents this, but in fact makes it possible in the first place. For although regulative power may indeed permeate language and reason, this does not render rationality obsolete; on the contrary, it creates space for and stabilises it. Thus this book develops its own methodology for a critical assessment of important aspects of post-modern thought.

1

MORALS, KNOWLEDGE AND POWER

According to one influential interpretation, in his later years Foucault turned his attention to the ‘practice of an intellectual freedom’ which ‘goes beyond the modern relationships between will, power and subjectivity’.1 This reading claims that Foucault’s ethics aims to be – at least partly – free of the process of regulation and discipline which the analysis of power had revealed to be the all-pervasive element of the modern age, and maintains that it is concerned with ‘effective resistance to a wide-spread type of power’ and to modern ‘forms of dominance and exploitation’.2 It is in precisely this sense that Foucault’s ethics is supposed to be political, while at the same time it is the last, perhaps even the most important, step in his attempt to subvert psychoanalytically based interpretations of the self, and to demonstrate that they are a form of coercion and political power to which psychoanalysis subjects our desire and our unconscious. Finally, the ethics as a practice of liberation is intended to provide an aesthetics of existence ‘which resists the science of life’ and ‘frees us from the empire of scientific knowledge’.3

1 See Bernauer and Mahon (1994), 603. Their article is undoubtedly one of the best recent studies of the ‘ethics’ of Foucault’s later years. 2 Bernauer and Mahon (1994), 599. 3 Bernauer and Mahon (1994), 606 f.

6

morals, knowledge and power

7

The general direction of this interpretation is quite clear. Foucault’s opposition to universal anthropological, moral and rationalist categories has reaped criticism from influential authors such as Charles Taylor and Jurgen ¨ Habermas, who accuse him of abandoning all critical potential, with the result that he is unable to appreciate his historical analyses as an integral part of an emancipatory movement.4 Faced with his typical relativistic coquetry, some of the best Foucault scholars, and many of those who interviewed him, have posed disturbing questions about the central political, moral and socio-political message of his works.5 His ethics is regarded as an important element of the answer to these questions – an answer which is intended to combine in a consistent manner an emancipatory message with the denial of universal anthropological, moral and rationalist categories.6 At the same time, nearly all Foucault’s interpreters agree that he regarded ‘ethics’ as a research programme which went beyond the limits of the archaeological analysis of discourse and the historical analysis of power. At best it had a negative systematic relationship to the analytical tools of his earlier studies. For example, it is noted that the ‘ethics’ represents a realignment of his project to write a history of sexuality, which initially had prevented him from working on a comprehensive analysis of bio-power and drawn his attention to a subversion of the Christian– Freudian hermeneutic subject.7 It is in connection with the programme of ethics that we hear of a ‘subject-theoretical realignment’, which marks a ‘radical break’ with Foucault’s archaeological and genealogical studies.8 The general opinion is that the ‘three axes’ of Foucault’s historical studies – archaeology, genealogy and ethics – each specifies quite different 4 See the articles by Taylor (1986) and Habermas (1986a), esp. 93 and 108. Sch¨afer (1995) has recently presented an intelligent and detailed assessment of this and other criticisms. 5 See e.g. Dreyfus and Rabinow (1983), 205 ff. on the questions of ‘resistance’ and ‘truth’. See also the interview ‘On the genealogy of ethics’, in Rabinow (1986), 340–72 (esp. 344, 347, 350) on, 265–81 (esp. 268, 271, 273) the ‘alternatives’ which ethics as Foucault understood them can offer ‘today’, or the question of what ‘we today’ can learn from them. The enquiries by Martin (in Martin, Gutman and Hutton (1988), 9–15) and various US philosophers (e.g. Jay and L¨owenthal) (in the interview ‘Politics and ethics’, in Rabinow (1986), 373–80) have the same tenor. 6 See e.g. also Sch¨afer (1995), 141: ‘The concept of an “aesthetics of existence” is in fact more than just a consequence of Foucault’s general strategy to promote an anarchic form of subjectivity. For that is associated, above all, with a denial of any form of universal ethics.’ 7 Dreyfus and Rabinow (1983), 3 f. 8 Fink-Eitel (1989), 98–100; a similar view is presented by Visker (1991), 104–16. Schmid (1990) talks of Foucault’s ‘Apollonian turning-point’ (23).

8

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

systematic orientations, and proceed from a discussion of epistemic discourses and their truth-goals, via the analysis of sub-institutional power, to an enquiry into the constitution of the subject.9 Support for this view can indeed be found in a number of Foucault’s own statements. His justification for the analysis of ancient techniques of the self at the beginning of The Use of Pleasure (UP) is a particularly impressive and prominent example. Under the title ‘Modifications’, it assumes there are three axes of sexuality as a historical experience – the formation of the knowledge of sexuality; of the power systems which regulate its effect; and of the forms in which individuals recognise themselves as subjects of sexuality. At the same time Foucault emphasises that he introduced these three analytical levels into his work successively as ‘theoretical shifts’, and that above all the last of these shifts, towards work on a programme of ethics, was an attempt at introducing a ‘new approach’ to his analyses.10 Shortly before his death Foucault was still distinguishing between four major types of technology, each a ‘matrix of practical reason’, and between ‘three traditional problems: the relations to truth, the relationship to others, the relationships between truth, power and self’.11 In the process, the formation of subjectivity in particular would seem to be identified with the field of study of ethical investigations. However, there are good systematic reasons, as well as evidence in Foucault’s own works, that suggest that the prevailing picture of the systematic role of ethics within the framework of the Foucauldian programme is very much one-sided. The ‘modifications’ that introduce and justify the programme of ethics in UP indicate that the three axes, or aspects, of the analysis of sexuality as a historical experience ‘should also be investigated 9 Even authors like Arnold Davidson, who certainly accept that there is a tension between archaeology, genealogy and ethics, do not attempt a more exact reconstruction of the relationship of the three levels to each other. Above all they do not investigate how the archaeological analysis of discourse and the genealogical analysis of power keyed into the ethics (see on this Davidson (1986), who essentially deals with the three levels in isolation, and in particular discusses ethics separately from archaeology and the analysis of power (227–32). However, at least in the case of modern sexuality he notes: ‘An attempt to study modern sexuality would have to combine all three axes of analysis, the self, power, and knowledge, and would take many more volumes than the six Foucault originally planned’ (230)). In his report on Foucault’s last course at the Coll`ege de France in the summer of 1984, Flynn (1988) reports that in the context of the discussion of parrhesia (‘truth-telling’) as an ancient cultural practice, Foucault attempted to bring all three methodological layers into play – which Flynn rightly described as a theoretical desideratum (see above all Flynn (1988), 114 f.). 10 UP 4–5. 11 Martin, Gutman and Hutton (1988), 15 and 18.

morals, knowledge and power

9

in their context’. They can all be integrated into an overall project, a ‘history of truth’ in a specific sense – a history of ‘games of truth by which man proposes to think his own nature’.12 Accordingly, Foucault feels that a specific relationship to ‘games of truth’ is at the centre of each of the axes of his studies. The coy terminus ‘games of truth’ apparently refers to rules and methodological norms for the acceptance of claims. Therefore, in trying to write a ‘history of truth’ Foucault seems to opt for a definition of truth that today is often classed as ‘verificationist’. Thus archaeological, genealogical and ethical studies all analyse, each in its own way, historical ‘games of truth’ which are linked with the constitution of scientific selfexperience, with an intrinsic reference to power relationships, and with the constitution of moral self-experience.13 In Foucault’s later works the tendency towards a systematic integration of archaeology, the analysis of power and ethics into one all-embracing programme becomes stronger, and there is an increased emphasis on how they are interwoven. For example, in his interview ‘On the genealogy of ethics’, the title of which combines two of these three axes, Foucault tries to describe the three layers as separate forms of a ‘historical ontology of the self’, within which we constitute ourselves as subjects in three respects.14 Not only are the games of truth one of the leading analytical aspects of all three areas, so too is the constitution of the subject. Among the most succinct texts on this topic is the terse explanation in the so-called Autobiography, not all of which was actually written by Foucault himself.15 It identifies and explains ‘the relationship between subject and truth as the main thread’ of all of Foucault’s analyses. More precisely, this relationship is supposed to be ‘an analysis of the ways in which the subject can be introduced as the object into the games of truth’. In other words, Foucault’s central question is ‘what are the processes of subjectivisation and objectification which can lead to the subject, in its role as subject, becoming the object of knowledge?’ In this context ‘subjectivisation and objectification are not independent of each other’, but rather ‘their reciprocal 12 UP 6, 7. 13 See the comment in Foucault’s late article ‘Technologies of the self’, in which he sums up his entire programme: ‘My objective for more than twenty-five years has been to sketch out a history of the different ways in our culture that humans develop knowledge about themselves . . . the main point is . . . to analyze these so-called sciences as very specific “truth games” related to specific technologies that human beings use to understand themselves’ (Martin, Gutman and Hutton (1988), 17–18). 14 Rabinow (1986), 351. 15 In the following I refer to the German translation, which first appeared as: ‘Autobiographie’, Deutsche Zeitschrift f¨ur Philosophie (42 (1994), 699–702).

10

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

relationship leads to what can be called games of truth’. At the same time it is assumed that power relationships as ‘different and particular forms of the “rule” of individuals’ play a leading role ‘in the various manners of objectification of the subject’. It goes without saying that the process of ‘subjectivisation’, or of the ‘constitution of the subject’, is to be understood neither in terms of traditional subject philosophy nor in terms of the constitution of personal identity. Here too Foucault is, among other things, a nominalist – the existence of human individuals is taken for granted. It is only through the double process of subjugation to power relationships and the reflexivity of epistemic self-reference that individuals become subjects. Subjectivisation in this sense also implies an objectification of the subject and its adaptation to specific historical games of truth. However this systematic connection is to be understood exactly, one thing should now be clear: neither is the constitution of the subject specific to ethics, nor in the context of the programme of ethics are the analysis of power and the archaeological study of the formation of (scientific) fields of knowledge irrelevant. Inasmuch as it claims exactly the opposite, the traditional characterisation of the ethics programme is thus indeed one-sided and misleading. For this reason, in what follows I assume that Foucault’s work is to be regarded essentially as a historical theory of knowledge. His main concern is a historical description of how the fields of study and subjects of human science have taken shape,16 and how this process was interconnected with forms of power relationships. It would seem that Foucault had some remarkable intuitions in mind, but his thoughts are often terminologically somewhat unclear and unsystematic, so that it often takes a great deal of explicatory work to reconstruct them in a satisfactory form. Particular attention must be paid to a precise clarification of the intrinsic links between subjectivisation, objectification and power, which is the intention of this chapter. I shall proceed as follows: (1) first of all I shall reconstruct the concept of the subject in the Foucauldian definition of power in terms of a nominalistic approach, as well as clarifying what the intelligibility of the forms of power comes down to; (2) then I shall turn to a number of indications that Foucault attempted to link power and 16 This aspect is introduced, for example, by Gutting (1989) in his excellent study. See also the works by Hacking (1979, 1986a and 1986b), Rorty (1986) and Rouse (1987 and 1994). As for the controversy between Hacking and Rorty as to whether Foucault developed and presented a new (form of the) theory of knowledge, I agree with Rorty in assuming that Foucault effectively makes no contribution to questions and problems of the classic theory of knowledge, but follow Hacking in believing that fruitful insights into aspects of it can be obtained from Foucault’s analyses of the relationship between knowledge and power.

morals, knowledge and power

11

knowledge more closely than is normal in standard models of the relationship between the two; (3) a precise statement of a productive definition of power in terms of regulative power is then necessary in order to be able to illuminate the true and deeper form of the relationship between power and knowledge; (4) finally, some general results can be presented concerning the character of the programme of ethics and the orientation of Foucault’s project. 1 One of Foucault’s central ambitions is to produce an analysis of power which promises to reveal interesting relationships between power and knowledge. The examination of these relationships is what distinguishes his analysis from most other influential modern approaches. The recent debate on the concept of power developed in the 1950s within the systematic framework of behaviourism, and this in turn led to a causal paradigm of power based on the idea that power is an ability to produce causal effects in the world. It was a natural step for behaviourists to link this causal approach of a power to bring something about with the idea of power over persons: person A has power over person B when A’s behaviour induces B’s behaviour and when B’s behaviour would not have occurred without the behaviour of A. Of course, this explanation was qualified with behaviouristic criteria: A and B are in a strict sense individuals, the behaviour of A and B can be observed empirically, causality can be reduced to empirical regularity and the behaviour of A regularly precedes the behaviour of B. This model essentially sees the exercise of power as a communication of preferences. Person A exercises power over person B when A communicates her own preference to B and B adapts her own behaviour to that preference.17 A number of later theories remained committed to the causal paradigm of power, but were careful to distance themselves from the positivist premises of behaviouristic concepts. For example, the realistic model of power is based on a strong philosophical realism, which, in contrast to positivism, has the confidence to talk about natural necessity, intrinsic nature 17 See for example Simon (1957); Dahl (1969), 79–93; Cartwright (1959); Dahl (1961), 763–72. In particular, Robert Dahl’s behaviouralistic definition of power was developed from criticism of Mills’s (1956) influential book, in which the latter spoke of a ‘power elite’ in modern societies who occupy the strategic command posts in their social structure. For Mills they have power in so far as ‘they are in a position to make decisions having major consequences’ (3 f.). Dahl criticised this definition of power for not being scientific, since it was vague and could not be empirically operationalised. His own behaviouralistic definition was intended to satisfy scientific, theoretical standards of precision and empirical verification.

12

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

and irreducible real causality. At its most fundamental, this model regards power as a disposition to causal influence, just as copper has the power to conduct electricity. However, people have this causal-dispositional power within the context of a social world and as such, power is exercised by individuals as performers of social roles. The realistic model has a number of interesting consequences. For example, it implies that under suitable conditions power (as a disposition) can be realised, but it can never be completely exhausted – the exercise and possession of power must be kept analytically separate. Power also remains in principle an ability to bring about something (power to . . .) and any form of power over a person is based on this ability. Finally, power is not of necessity repressive. Under suitable conditions it can be in the interest of those over whom it is exercised and, above all, without power relationships societies would fall apart.18 A more recent variation of the causal paradigm defines power in terms of rational decision theory. Rational decisions in a social context require of the actors the ability to bring about specific circumstances (outcome power), and in particular to deliberately change the motivational structure of other actors (social power). Both cases require cooperation with other actors, and this is part of the decision-taking. However, since in this complex context the actual benefit of rational decisions is also dependent on chance and the unintended success of actions, the decision-theory model of power requires us to differentiate between power and benefit: someone who has power does not always benefit from it.19 The causal model of power was criticised from a number of angles. For example, it was claimed that the notion of power has an irreducible 18 See on the subject Harr´e (1970), 81–101; Harr´e and Madden (1975). The best and most comprehensive account of the realistic model of power is presented by Isaac (1987). The first part of the book (in particular ch. 3) develops the realistic theory of power, while the second part demonstrates that Marxist and neo-Marxist theories of power are insufficient for an analysis of power in late capitalist societies. Influential articles by Backrach and Baratz expressed other reservations about the behaviourist model. They pointed out that power has ‘a second (hidden) face’, in that an effect of power can be that nothing happens or that everything continues unchanged. The behaviourist model, which can only understand the effects of power as observable changes in circumstances or behaviour, is thus too restrictive (see Backrach and Baratz (1962), 451–60; (1963), 641–51; (1970), esp. part i). 19 See Dowding (1991). The fundamental distinction between causal power as an ability to bring about something, and social power as power over other persons, is prominent in more recent work, e.g. Wartenburg (1990), 17–27; Fink-Eitel (1992), 35–56 esp. 37–9. Fink-Eitel’s criticism of the causal model of power is not in the least convincing. It is based on the observation that power as a causal disposition is not empirically observable, and that power as an ability is destroyed by its own realisation, so that ‘in the theory of power the criterium of the empirical verification of causally determined behaviour has to be abandoned’ (1992, 41).

morals, knowledge and power

13

normative content, which can be defined more or less as follows: person A only exercises power over person B when A brings about that B acts in a way which runs contrary to B’s objective interests.20 But power was also seen in a positive light – as political power, manifested in the political institutions which are constitutive of public and social order. This political form of power must be distinguished from violence or authority; it can only arise in groups in which equals communicate with each other and then act accordingly and gain power.21 According to a watered-down version of this communicative or consensual model of power, power is influence over processes of social decision-taking. It relies on the threat of sanctions, but is nevertheless based on consensuality: only those who do not submit themselves to consensual or democratic decision-taking procedures are actually threatened with negative consequences.22 Among the points emphasised by communicative models of power is the function of particular forms of power for society as a whole. A radical form of this view is found in holistic concepts of power as proposed, for example, in system theories of society. Such theories understand power as a symbolically generalised medium of communication that plays an important integrating role, for example in achieving the commensurability of different needs or motives, or the coordination of courses of action. According to the holistic view, power plays a significant part in maintaining social systems in an all too complex environment by reducing their complexity. In particular, power subverts the possibility of refusal and resistance through selective pre-formation of the premises on which decisions are based.23 20 See above all Lukes (1974). Like Connolly (1974) and others, Lukes regards the concept of power as being ‘essentially contested’, in that there are no purely theoretical criteria free of normative values for its application. Gallie (1955) introduced the term ‘essentially contested concepts’. 21 This is the influential concept of power proposed by Arendt (1958) and (1980). Within the framework of a new variation of critical theory, Fay developed Arendt’s ideas further to produce a ‘dyadic’ concept of power. This sees power as a relationship between the powerful and the powerless which can change when the powerless use ‘communicative’ power to attain ‘dominant’ power; see Fay (1986), 130 ff. Wartenburg (1990), ch. 2 is a respectful, but critical analysis of Arendt’s theory. Habermas wanted both the instrumental and the communicative concept of power to be included in the theory of power: instrumental power (in the sense proposed by Max Weber as the ability to impose one’s own will on others) is linked to strategic action, communicative power (as developed by Hannah Arendt) with communicative action; see Habermas (1981). 22 See in particular Lasswell and Kaplan (1950). 23 See Parsons (1967), 297 ff.; Luhmann (1973). Fink-Eitel (in Angehrn and Fink-Eitel; (1992)) regards Luhmann’s theory as the most complex and productive approach to date. However, he overlooks the fact that Luhmann’s theory of society employed an excessively intensive system-theoretical vocabulary. The concept of autopoietic systems cannot be applied to societies. Barry Barnes proposed a more cautious, but credible, holistic

14

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

One of the more effective recent theories of power is based on an action environmental model. Its aim is a fundamental definition that is on the one hand sufficiently exact, but on the other hand sufficiently open, to be able to generate the best of the existing definitions of power by means of terminological restriction of the basic model. The idea is to use three theoretical components to develop an action environment for an individual: the alternative courses of action, comprehension of the situation and of the alternative courses of action, and evaluation of the assessment of the alternatives (if necessary with a utility function). Then it can be said that person A exercises power over person B when A intentionally and with significant consequences changes the action environment open to B, i.e. when A intentionally and with significant consequences changes at least one of the three components of the action environment of B.24 This form of power is necessarily asymmetrical and need not be repressive, although apparently the assumption that two people exercise mutual power over each other, and that there are forms of repressive power, is compatible with the model. At the basic level of definition the model says nothing about the forms of power, the means of the exercise of power or the accompanying interests. However, such specifications can be derived from the basic model by means of additional conditions. For example, physical violence can be understood as a form of the exercise of power which involves A physically preventing B from pursuing a particular course of action that B wishes to pursue, or else A physically inducing B to pursue a particular course of action that B wishes to avoid. On the other hand, A exercises force over B when A, by means of threats and the generation of fear, changes the action environment open to B. Finally, A exercises influence over B when A, by means of communication and information, induces B to agree to pursue a course of action which is in A’s interest (manipulation is then a special case of influence – a form of influence that uses morally dubious means). However, in the action environment model normative concepts of repression and domination are not additional specific forms of power, but rather specific forms of the use of power. One of the most important advantages of the action environment model is that it pays attention to the broader environment of elementary dyadic conception of power. Essentially the possession of power is dependent on the distribution of the use of the ability to act; above all, power and the free disposal of power are a characteristic of the distribution of knowledge in a society, and thus are a characteristic of the society as a whole (see Barnes (1978)). 24 This theory was proposed by Wartenburg (1990).

morals, knowledge and power

15

power relations. The reaction of social actors outside a dyadic power relation (and thus ‘peripheral’ to it) is a vital element in its formation and preservation. In this model the social structure which induces the particular social actors peripheral to a dyadic power relation on the one hand to align themselves to this power relation, and on the other hand to stabilise it and to ensure its functionality through the manner of their reaction, is called social alignment.25 All dyadic power relations are dependent on the social alignment of peripheral actors and are thus embedded in a broader social structure. The most important theoretical advantage of the concept of social alignment is that it allows us to formulate a dynamic definition of power. If power relationships only exist inasmuch as they are constantly reproduced anew by the actions of the persons involved, and if the actions of the peripheral actors are a particularly important factor in this, then the constant change of social alignments will lead to a constant new formation of dyadic power relationships. And vice versa, a change in the structure of dyadic power relationships can also change their peripheral social alignment. As has already been indicated, the action environment model assumes a basic definition of a dyadic power relationship that is neutral as far as the question of whether or not power is repressive is concerned. Forms of repressive power can be derived from the basic definition by means of additional restrictions. One of the advantages of this approach is that it permits a conceptualisation of positive power that benefits those who are subjected to it. A common form of positive power is paternalism: the dominant actors use their power to help other actors who are not fully capable of rationally determining their actions. One particularly interesting variant of positive power has attracted the attention of feminist theory: the dominant actors use their power to ensure that the subjugated actors can develop in such a way that the differences upon which the power differential between the dominant and the subjugated was originally based disappear.26

25 The dyadic power relation between teachers and students depends, for example, on the actors outside this relationship interpreting the manifestations of the relationship suitably (the school report that the teachers write), and reacting in a particular way, e.g. by refusing to give a student with bad marks a job. It is this reaction that turns the relationship between teacher and student into a power relationship (see Wartenburg (1990) 142–6). 26 The classic example is, of course, the good parent–child relationship; see Wartenburg (1990) 183–222 (in this context Wartenburg talks of ‘transformative power’). For the relevant feminist literature on the subject see Trebilcot (1983) 213–30; Ferguson (1983); and Kuykendall (1983); also Hartsock (1983).

16

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

Foucault did not explicitly base his analysis of power on those elements of this tradition of theories of power that had already been developed when he wrote UP. But it is remarkable that he shares some of its most important intuitions, as well as several from subsequent theories of power. In particular the action environment model reveals a close systematic affinity with Foucault’s analysis of power. He emphasises the ‘strictly relational character of power relationships’, and makes it clear that within the context of the analysis of power ‘one needs to be nominalistic, no doubt’. It is ‘not an institution, and not a structure, neither is it a certain strength we are endowed with’, but rather a ‘complex strategical situation’ in a society which of course consists of ‘a multiplicity of force relations’ within various social groups, and thus ‘it is produced, in every relation from one point to another’.27 Quite clearly for Foucault the concept of power was essentially individualistic and nominalistic, and he regarded it primarily as a relation between concrete individuals. Formally it is asymmetrical, and can be reflexive,28 while of semantic importance is the fact that Foucault did not see repression as a conceptual consequence of power relations. We can capture the essence of this as follows: (M) A person P1 has the power to induce a person P2 to do X when (a) P1 has the chance and the means to induce P2 to do X, (b) P1 intends to induce P2 to do X, (c) as a result of P1 ’s influence P2 occasionally does X without anyone else forcing P2 to do X, (d) P2 would not have done X without the influence of P1 , (e) P1 is not normally identical with P2 , although it is not impossible that P1 = P2 , (f) the fact that P1 has power over P2 in this sense does not imply that P2 also has power over P1 . The asymmetry of the power relation as qualified in (f) is not contradictory to its reciprocity, that is with the situation whereby two people exercise power over each other. Similarly, love is apparently an asymmetrical relation, but fortunately that does not exclude the possibility that two people love each other. The conditions (a)–(f) in (M) would seem to be sufficient for the existence of a power relationship, but not all of the conditions are necessary for it (e.g. see condition (b)). But the existence of a power relationship as defined by (M) does not imply that important preferences, 27 See HS 93, 95. 28 See the commentary on explication (M) below.

morals, knowledge and power

17

needs or interests on the part of P2 are frustrated, or that resistance by P2 would be sanctioned. The individualistic explication of power (M) defines a power free of repression, but could, of course, be modified into an explication of repressive power by the addition of further conditions. The set of all power relations as defined by (M) (in a particular society at a particular time) Foucault calls ‘local force conditions’, and regards them as the basis of all forms of power – a basis that is apparently like a ‘moving substrate of force conditions’ that are ‘always local and unstable’, and constantly shifting.29 However, it is not yet really clear what status the general form of the exercise of power as defined by (M) has. Above all, what does it mean that one person can, by means of power, induce another person to do something? According to (a) and (b) in (M) the matter in question is an action, i.e. an activity that can be described with reference to an intention on the part of the actor. Furthermore, the action of the person exercising power, P1 , can generally be rationalised: P1 herself has an intention Z, and believes it can be realised when she induces P2 to do X. However, the perspective of P2 , over whom power is exercised, must be differentiated as well. For when P1 exercises power over P2 this generally means that P1 is able to bring about causally circumstances under which it is rational for P2 to do X, and that P1 intends to do just that, to bring about circumstances under which P2 reassesses the rationality of her own actions so that P2 does what P1 wants her to do. This is what (c) and (d) in (M) really come down to. These intuitions can be summed up as follows: (M*) A person P1 has the power to induce a person P2 to do X when (a) P1 has the chance and means to bring about causally circumstances U such that under U it will be rational for P2 , given her own intentions and beliefs, to do X, (b) P1 intends to bring about causally circumstances U such that under U it will be rational for P2 , given her own intentions and beliefs, to do X, (c) P1 has aims Z such that she is convinced that P2 doing X is necessary for the realisation of Z, (d) on the basis of the circumstances U which P1 has brought about, P2 occasionally does X, without there being anyone other than P1 for whom this applies under conditions (a)–(c), 29 See HS 93.

18

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y (e) without circumstances U P2 could not describe action X so that, given her intentions and beliefs, X could be rationalised, and therefore without U P2 would not have done action X, (f) = (e) in (M), (g) = (f) in (M).

(M*) provides the action-theoretical reformulation of the regulation of power according to (M). Now and then Foucault would like to say that somebody exercises power over herself. If one rejects the traditional or psychoanalytical division of the soul, as Foucault undoubtedly does, then power over oneself would seem to be a reflexive relation. This is problematic, as a symmetrical (reflexive) relation can hardly be regarded as power, and it is hard to see how Foucault could solve this. Perhaps he feels that one and the same person can be looked at under different descriptions, and that the reflexive local power relationship can be regarded as a relation between a person under one of her descriptions and the same person under another description. More important is the fact that Foucault sticks to four general conditions which must be consistent with explication (M*): – First, power may not be hypostasised ontologically; nevertheless in a certain sense it is not based on subjects.30 – Secondly, power exists fundamentally on a level beneath that of states, even at a sub-institutional level, but it can nevertheless consolidate itself to greater aggregates, systems of rules, or ‘strategies’.31 – Thirdly, as a negative force power often entails regulation, restriction and regulation, yet at the same time as a positive force it releases energies, connects itself with ‘games of truth’, and continually conquers ever wider areas.32 – Fourthly, in its most important forms power is historically and systematically contingent, yet it is also intelligible and can be revealed through the analysis of power.33 Each of these four conditions evidently contains systematic tensions; hence any acceptable interpretation of the Foucauldian concept of power 30 ‘Power relations are both intentional and nonsubjective’; HS 94. 31 Foucault describes this process, among other things, as ‘mobilising groups or individuals’; HS 96. 32 See the exemplary discussion of the repressive hypothesis in Foucault HS 15–49, as well as the division between positive and judicial power in HS 133–59. 33 See HS 94–5 on the ‘rationality of power’.

morals, knowledge and power

19

would have to show how these conditions can be satisfied consistently.34 As to conditions one and four, I hope to do this in this section; the remaining two conditions will be discussed in sections 2 and 3 below. Foucault analyses power on three different levels. The fundamental level, which consists of a multiplicity of force relations or local power relations, is analysed in terms of their specific historical forms, or structures. Foucault is not interested in exploring which individual exercises power over other individuals, or which social groups or classes exercise power over other groups or classes; rather he wants to describe, as precisely as possible, the forms or structures that certain power relations take on in certain historical situations, quite independently of the way in which these forms depend on the individuals between whom the power relations hold. In this sense the analysis of power concentrates on local forms of power, while the individual humans who constitute the reference points in local power relations remain ‘mere points’: power is ‘exercised from innumerable points’, and it is ‘produced from one moment to the next, at every point, or rather in every relation from one point to another’.35 To be sure, for the analysis of power the individuals involved in a power relationship remain uninteresting ‘points’, but at the same time from an ontological perspective these points must constantly instantiate and reproduce power relations. On a second level the analysis of power investigates the dynamic of local forms of power, that is their ‘play’, their historical shifts (according to the ‘rule of continual variations’).36 On this level the analysis of power claims to do no more than to describe or narrate which shifts of a marginal or dramatic form have taken place historically. In particular, in this setting the analysis of power has no explanatory pretensions, but rather its narrative modesty corresponds to the conviction that the play of power forms is contingent. Perhaps it may not be entirely clear whether this contingency is ontological or merely epistemic; however, even if the dynamic of power forms turned out not to be ontologically contingent, but partly controlled by causal mechanisms (as is suggested, for example, when we speak of non-intended side-effects), the analysis of power still proceeds on the assumption that on the epistemic level the most that is possible 34 A typical example of the uncertainty of even the best scholars of Foucault about the terminological explication and the methodological status of the Foucauldian concept of power, are the helpless questions that Dreyfus and Rabinow ask at the end of their long and detailed interpretation of the concept (see Dreyfus and Rabinow (1983) 206 f.). 35 HS 94, 93. 36 HS 99.

20

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

are existence assumptions about causal mechanisms, but that it is hopeless to attempt to assign definite causal mechanisms to the complex play of the shifts of power forms. And even if this were possible in individual cases, from the viewpoint of the analysis of power it would not be very interesting. It goes without saying that Foucault regards neither intentional nor functional (i.e. system-theoretical) patterns of explanation as appropriate. It is true that at times he lapses into these patterns in his historical accounts, but it seems certain that he does not and cannot want to regard the processes that interest him as events which were intended by individual agents, and that he explicitly rejects structuralist and systemtheoretical approaches in history and social theory. Rather, the central and most illuminating feature of Foucault’s analysis of power is a detailed differentiation of the forms of power and a narrative of their complex dynamic. On the third level the analysis of power forms of confinement and systems play roles which are characterised as ‘props’ and ‘strategies’ that result from the dynamic of local power forms and – according to the rule of ‘double conditioning’37 – are embedded in the power base. Undoubtedly this level involves the most difficult theoretical problems in the analysis of power. This is all the more important as it is on this level that Foucault establishes his systematically central concept of power: ‘it is the name that one attributes to a complex strategic situation in a particular society’.38 But the development of this strategic situation – including powerful institutions and state apparatuses – is described more metaphorically: as mutual support, crystallisation, coordination or confinement of local power bases to global strategies, global societal disjunctions or state apparatuses.39 Talk of a logic, and even of intentions and goals that can be disclosed by the analysis of power at this global level, is thoroughly confusing. Apparently one has to assume that here too neither individuals with their goals nor systems with their imperatives of self-preservation and development are meant to play an explanatory role. And finally even ‘double conditioning’ between the local power base and the global strategies on the one hand, and the fundamental character of the power base on the other, leads to blatant systematic tension.

37 HS 99–100. 38 See HS 93; significantly this explication is directly connected to the ‘nominalism’ which forms the basis of the analysis of power. 39 HS 93–6.

morals, knowledge and power

21

Power on the global level could be conceived of as the sum of all instantiated forms of power, that is as the total network of local power bases; or as the total network of local power bases together with their (possibly structural) secondary conditions; or finally as a global structure or a general apparatus in contrast to which the particular forms of power represent ‘tactical blocs’ within the apparatus. Presumably all three aspects come into play, and the main concern seems to be to conceive of the grid of local power forms so that in spite of their variety and effects they fit into a general global apparatus, and thus can also be newly interpreted in their conditions, relations and particularity. To describe the structure of the reciprocal relation and the ‘strategic’ situations of the forms of power within the apparatus as a whole (and no more!) means to decode the ‘logic’ or the ‘intention’ of power relations. The apparatuses of alliance and sexuality are good examples of global (structural) power relations: their development could not be described system-theoretically, but rather they are global structures into which specific forms of power ‘fit’. Their emergence is not explained causally, but their structure is simply described and the history of their shifts, ruptures and tensions narrated. This history can be explanatorily fruitful and can illuminate interesting facts, but neither the narrative nor the history of the global structures has theoretical priority over the description of the local power forms. Rather the relations between local forms of power and global strategies is ontologically and epistemologically reciprocal. Ontologically they are like the relation between species and genus in Aristotle: genera are encompassing, comprising several species below them, but they exist only potentially: the species are the actualisations of the genus. Accordingly, the individual, local relationships of power actualise the forms of power, and these forms of power, in turn, actualise the global structures and apparatuses – there can be no local power relation without the power form and a global power structure, and no power form or global power structure without local power relations. Historically, power never occurs in a space without order, but the social orders and structures are always tied to their actualisation by means of local power relations.40 Epistemically it 40 Rouse (1994) 106 ff. describes these relations similarly, but in a different form derived from Wartenburg’s (1990) suggestion of the concept of ‘social alignment’: each individual exercise of power is dependent on the fact that other persons and groups act in harmony with the person exercising power (i.e. within the framework of an analogous ‘social alignment’, which is often created by sub-institutional or institutional social rules). But, vice versa, each local exercise of power also represents a re-enactment of the social alignment.

22

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

seems clear that the global apparatus can be ‘derived’ from local forms of power, but that inversely the understanding and interpretation of local power forms will also be transformed and sublimated by their relationship to the global apparatus. On all three levels we can render power intelligible and at the same time show how it is contingent. Forms of power, their dynamic, their global strategies and their shifts represent intelligible structural patterns, even if their emergence and development can only be represented in narrative form. Further, we have seen that all forms and strategies of power rely ontologically on individuals who instantiate them, but that these individuals are theoretically irrelevant for the analysis of power because their specific characteristics do not play a systematic role in it, either in a narrative or an explanatory sense. From this perspective the thesis that power is not tied to subjects, not even individual subjects, could be stated more precisely as follows: the analysis of power can regard power theoretically as if it were not tied to subjects. The same result can also be derived from Foucault’s discursive analysis, and so this may be the place to include a remark on the Foucauldian concept of discourse. One often gets the impression that Foucault wants to trivialise the concept of discourse – perhaps in order not to restrict the discursive analysis unnecessarily from the outset. We are often told, for instance, that ‘the forms of discourse about sex’ multiply or change; in such claims ‘discourse’ appears to mean nothing more than an actual form of language-use. However, the analysis of discourses relates these forms of language-use to a predicate, or a description which itself has a rich structure, e.g.‘confession ritual’ or scientia sexualis. For Foucault this predicate or description apparently also belongs to a particular discourse. As a first approximation one may perhaps say that discourses are forms of language-use seen relative to a certain predicate or under a certain description – for example, forms of language-use in so far as the description ‘confession ritual’ or scientia sexualis applies to them. This description, however, is only given theoretical content by the analysis; hence it could be argued that certain forms of language-use only become discourses as a result of the discursive analysis. Forms of language-use can, of course, be analysed in a variety of different general ways – syntactic, semantic, grammatical, logical or pragmatic. These different forms of analysis subsume historical forms of languageuse to a specific description. In the same way the Foucauldian discursive analysis seeks to subsume particular historical forms of language-use to specific kinds of descriptions that are characterised, among other things, by the following incomplete list of aspects:

morals, knowledge and power – – – – – – – –

23

which kind of things are being talked about; which kind of predicates are used to talk about things; which kinds of sentences include truth values; which forms of power are intrinsically related to which forms of language; which forms of knowledge and standards of rationality are used; which kind of relation to self is connected with this language-use; into which global apparatus of power the form of language fits structurally; which ideas of the good life are associated with it.

Inasmuch as particular historically attested statements or texts allow an answer to this list of questions, in the context of the discursive analysis they are regarded as discourses. For example, at a particular point in the history of European culture people start to explore, and to talk about, their sexual fantasies, or at another point they begin to describe sexuality as a causal mechanism. From the nineteenth century on psychoanalysts acquire new forms of power in their conversations with patients that are intrinsically related to the specific forms of language they use in these conversations – it is a power based on competence in the interpretation and diagnosis of the patients’ reports and observations of themselves. This competence then takes on a scientific aspect that leaves its mark on the language and theory of psychoanalysis in the form of standards of rationality and method. In this way the Foucauldian discursive analysis turns out to be a specific analysis of language-use that establishes, and at the same time explores, historically specific discourses. The notorious e´nonc´es, ‘statements’, which are neither sentences nor propositions in the ordinary sense but historically formulated utterances, are the elements of discourses, in so far as they are examined specifically with respect to one of the aspects mentioned above – not explicitly, of course, but as part of the interpretation involved in the discursive analysis. Just as it is the discursive analysis which constitutes a particular common form of language-use in its entirety as a discourse, so the e´nonc´es are revealed by the discursive analysis. More precisely, both levels are closely related to each other: to reveal the e´nonc´es and their orders means nothing else than to highlight particular discourses. The discursive analysis is especially concerned with large-scale, contingent ruptures or transformations, that is with forms of practised speech in which suddenly new kinds of objects are discussed and endowed with new kinds of attributes; in which speech is related to new forms of power; which employ new forms

24

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

of knowledge and standards of rationality and reveal a new kind of relation to self, etc.; in short, in which new e´nonc´es emerge. The discursive analysis assumes that from the internal perspective of the form of language-use these general discursive aspects are not themselves the objects of speech, but are present only as implicit structures or rules in a particular use of language – however, these rules or structures can be made explicit from the external perspective of the discursive analysis, namely within a theoretical framework which aims not so much at the analysis of meaning but at the analysis of rules and structures. It is through this kind of analysis that certain forms of language-use become discourses, i.e. can be regarded as discourses. The formation of discourses, despite the contingency of their internal structure and history, apparently represents one of the most important intelligible aspects to which Foucault’s analysis can be applied. However, the relationship between the analysis of power and the analysis of discourse is somewhat precarious. On the whole the latter is restricted to the archaeological level of the forms of knowledge. As far as technologies of the body, practices of power or techniques of the self are concerned, discourses and discursive analysis are rarely mentioned, and even then not precisely. The generally accepted picture seems to be that Foucault studies language-use through discursive analysis, forms of power through the analysis of power and techniques of the self through ethics – but this is unsatisfactory. On the one hand those forms of language-use, which on the standard interpretation are studied by discursive analysis within the framework of archaeology, describe particular – e.g. epistemic – practices, and on the other hand forms of power and techniques of the self can only be accessed in the historical analysis through documents, that is descriptions and forms of language-use. For this reason the concept of discourse must be broadened so that we can also talk of discursive analysis within the context of the analysis of power and ethics. This must be achieved by extending the depth-structural aspects through which the discourses are defined. The aspects mentioned (questions, rules) can then be understood as examples of epistemic abstractions, through which epistemic discourses are constituted. Historical forms of language-use can also be examined from other aspects, which we can call depth structural. Descriptions or documents about historical forms of penal practices or of laws can, for example, be examined from the aspect of which fundamental forms of power (repressive, judicial, structural, intended, productive?) they reveal. If we call these abstractions dynamic, then for particular forms of language-use they constitute dynamic discourses. Or else descriptions

morals, knowledge and power

25

and documents about designs for a good life, about forms and means of self-transformation or about yearnings and desires can be studied from the aspect of which moral problematisations, which teleology and which forms of subjugation are visible in them. If such abstractions are called ethical, then for particular forms of language-use they constitute ethical discourses. Therefore we can say that when conducting a discursive analysis Foucault always analyses historical documents and texts of language to find the depth-structural aspects or rules which the discursive analysis reveals to be particularly interesting and relevant. However, the process is partly an epistemic, partly a dynamic or ethical discursive analysis – and perhaps sometimes all of them at the same time. Forms and strategies of power on the one hand, e´nonc´es and discursive formations on the other, are thus structures which show up in the theoretical analyses of power and of discourse. It should be clear from what has been said that these structures – viewed ontologically – exist only in their individual substrates: in individual relations of power and specific speech acts. The structures of power and of discourse are the forms, and to some extent also the effects, of concrete relations of power and languageuse. Yet, together with their individual substrates they combine to form an extensive, complex grid, about which it is no longer meaningful to say that particular individuals plan its existence and form, or even – in the ordinary sense – ‘know’ it. Rather, it might be said from a theoretical perspective that grids of this kind continually establish or transform themselves in a contingent way (what is meant by saying that these grids establish or transform themselves is that their formation and transformation is a – generally unintended – cumulative result of concrete power relations and historical forms of language-use). One important aspect of this could be put even more pointedly: the analyses of power and of discourse, as Foucault construes them, are primarily concerned with dissecting and specifying the historically contingent depth structures of the relations of power and speech acts observed in each case. Perhaps it is not entirely clear which of these structures are deep and why; but at a first approximation it may be argued that the global strategies and ‘apparatuses’ represent depth structures within the framework of relations of power, whereas the respective specific e´nonc´es and the corresponding discourse formations constitute the depth structures of speech acts. Such structures are undoubtedly not deep in a semantic or hermeneutical sense – the Foucauldian analytic does not search for deep meanings; rather, these structures represent only the most general forms of the respective discursive and non-discursive practices. Hence it is more than doubtful whether the ‘depth’ of these

26

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

forms should be construed in traditional philosophical concepts, such as ‘constitution’ or ‘transcendence’ or the a priori (in a historicised sense), as is often the case in modern literature. It should be recalled that these ‘structures’ – e.g. certain strategies of power or certain standards of truth – can also be represented as fundamental rules through which concrete relations of power and speech acts are organised (it is precisely for this reason that Foucault likes to speak of ‘technologies’). But just as the depth structures or rules of power cannot be planned, intended or manipulated by single individuals, so the depth structures of speech acts that are geared towards the ‘production of truth’ cannot be discovered, conceptualised or transformed by a single individual. What is more, single individuals can only follow them as rules implicitly, not explicitly, and they are normally brought to conform to these rules in common practice. However, the analyses of power and discourse can render these rules explicit – and this is one of their most prominent theoretical tasks. Hence it is not only the complex and global character of power and discourse, but also their depth-structural aspect, which exclude any explanatory role for individuals in the analysis of power and discourse. Foucault’s concepts of le pouvoir and le savoir are meant to refer precisely to these forms of power and knowledge ‘which have no subject’ – a power that is not exercised by subjects and a knowledge that is not known by subjects. Yet this is not a sociological or epistemological mystery, but a clear and comprehensible concept. Apparently there is another interesting perspective which allows Foucault to claim that power is not tied to subjects, without regarding it as a free-floating entity or structure. As has already been pointed out,41 in his later works, and above all in the Autobiography, Foucault assumes that the relationship between the processes of subjectivisation and objectification are of central importance for his study of ‘the historical ontology of the self’. But power relations are also decisive as forms of ‘government’ of individuals: it is only the double process of subjugation to power relations and the reflexivisation of self-reference that makes of individuals ‘subjects’ and at the same time ‘objects’. In other words, power relations are already constitutive for the process which sees individuals become subjects. Thus power relations remain ontologically linked to individuals, but at the same time they are by no means tied to subjects – in fact it is the other way round: in their subjectivisation subjects are dependent on power relations. However, it should be clear that this independence of power from 41 See above, pp. 9–10.

morals, knowledge and power

27

subjects is purchased at the expense of a concept of the subject which, when compared with the status and weight of the concept within traditional ‘subject philosophy’, has lost a great deal of its explanatory power and has thus become quite trivial. Hence the fashionable talk of the ‘death of the subject’ proves to be a scientifically comprehensible and ontologically harmless concept that is also not particularly far-reaching. It consists of no more than the following claims: – that in the context of the specific methodical orientation of the analyses of power and discourse neither individuals nor subjects play an important explanatory role; – and that from the perspective of a subjectivisation which is bound to subjugation and reflexivity, power is always constitutive for the formation of the subject. At the same time it is presupposed that, ontologically speaking, in its most fundamental aspect the power relationship remains a relation between real individuals. This demonstrates how power can consistently be both nominalistically conceptualised and regarded as being independent of subjects. One could say that in his archaeology and analysis of power Foucault proclaims the explanatory death of the subject. The analyses of power and discourse aim at a purely formal, structural approach. They are concerned with the analysis of particular historical forms of nominalistic power relations, and texts and statements which have been handed down. The analysis is also quite compatible with the thesis that the historical dynamic of these forms and complexes of forms is essentially contingent. This demonstrates how power is at the same time both intelligible and contingent. Thus, two of the four general systematic conditions mentioned above have been given a consistent interpretation. The discussion of the other two conditions, that is the relation between positive, non-repressive power and negative, repressive power, and the relation between local power bases and ‘consolidated’ institutional or political power structures, requires a more profound understanding of the concept of power which Foucault develops through the relation between power and knowledge. It is the intrinsic interconnection with knowledge that reveals the fundamental character of power. For Foucault this is not only a systematic statement, but a historical one, as becomes quite clear in HS, where he discusses the power–knowledge complex before the analysis of power is introduced.

28

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

My discussion here will follow his arrangement. My prime concern is to show that Foucault extracts a specific concept of non-repressive power from the analysis of the power–knowledge complex, and distinguishes it as the basic form of power. By adding further conditions this ‘positive’ concept of power can be transformed into the concept of repressive power: how strong the resulting concept of repressive power is will depend on what further conditions are added.42 We will see that in his historical analyses Foucault often also employs repressive concepts of power – despite the systematic fundamental role of the non-repressive concept. 2 If Foucault’s proposal of an intimate connection between power and knowledge is supposed to be part of an interesting theory that contributes to a systematically fruitful concept of power, then it should be possible to show that this thesis goes beyond the best-known standard models that connect power and knowledge. The most important of these models regards power as domination or as a dominant system of norms, and knowledge as science or scientific theory-formation. It is then maintained, for instance, that power is usually connected with the beginning and the end of theoryformation, because power often influences the choice of fields of research and the application of proven theories (where power is based on a legitimate or even just system of norms, it is even reasonable to demand that this be the case). However, on the other hand, the critical verification of theories, i.e. the core of scientific activity, is neutral in value and free from power – or at least it should be. It is in exactly this sense that power is opposed to ‘truth’. Other models consider knowledge and its products (data, theories) as means to the intended end of securing and developing personal power, or they construe knowledge in terms of its effects on the stability of the conditions which are necessary to secure and develop comprehensive systems of power. Foucault, in contrast, aims at an interconnection of power with intrinsic aspects of theory development in the human sciences, or reflexive ‘games of truth’. In doing so he proceeds, as I have already mentioned, on the assumption that the establishment of fields of knowledge with their respective structures of power can neither be described in terms of a theory of action as the intended goal of influential agents, nor system-theoretically as the differentiation of systems of power and knowledge that stand over and above the individuals. Hence, an 42 See in more detail below, pp. 49–50.

morals, knowledge and power

29

interpretation of the power–knowledge complex and the corresponding fundamental concept of power has to be found which cannot be reduced to the standard models outlined here.43 The ‘repressive hypothesis’ which Foucault carefully reconstructs at the beginning of HS using the example of sexuality is a variant of the form of the connection between power and knowledge which Foucault attacks and seeks to overcome. A careful study reveals that this variant contains all the elements of the well-known standard models outlined above. According to the repressive hypothesis, from the seventeenth century onwards sexual behaviour was increasingly regimented through new methods of repression practised by particular persons who employed, among other methods, the application of knowledge – for example, sexuality was now restricted to core families and the marriage bed; its form and aim were standardised by means of pleasureless utilitarianism and the sober teleology of production, and were directed at procreation. The kinds of repression grew ever more subtle and employed sub-legal mechanisms (as a safety valve a few social islands, such as clinics and brothels were created, where, for a time, freedom from this repression could be bought). But at the same time these repressive mechanisms – which were often intended by the particular agents involved in them – fit in smoothly with the imperatives of preservation and development of rising capitalism: that is, of the new comprehensive system of power in modern Western societies. The imperatives of capitalism imply the application of a work ethic and discipline (for which the restriction of sexual activity and fantasy was clearly helpful); the securing of jobs (which was served by concentrating sexual behaviour on reproduction and hygiene); the untroubled acceptance of the system (for which brothels and clinics are necessary) – as well as the objective, scientific investigation of the mechanisms of power (through a new science, (political) economics). Thus the most important forms of 43 Among the literature on Foucault I know of no detailed and conceptually clear analysis dealing with this problem. Rouse’s article (1994) on the power–knowledge complex is certainly the most interesting recent study, but does not refer to any relevant work. Initially Rouse restricts himself to the remark that epistemological practices of surveillance, of enticing out confessions and of documentation also restrict and control behaviour and action (96), but his conception of knowledge is too instrumental, and that of power too repressive. More interesting, however, is his analogy between the concepts of political and epistemic power, which are seen as defining from a God’s-eye view non-partisan standards and forms of legitimacy in the political and epistemic realms respectively (102). According to Rouse this analogy and the struggle against these two concepts of power and their implications are the central motive for Foucault suggesting an intrinsic relation between power and knowledge. But with regard to the forms of this relation one finds little enlightenment in Rouse.

30

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

sexual repression, which clearly do indeed have an intentional element, can be explained functionally or system-theoretically within the framework of the repressive hypothesis. As for sexuality itself, speech, knowledge and the truth about the manifold forms of sexual activity and desire are prohibited and repressed, and repression proves to be the basic form of the connection between power and knowledge. Knowledge and truth can only establish themselves in a space free of power (‘truth’ here is understood in terms of the correspondence theory and is interpreted in the framework of metaphysical realism). Foucault’s reconstruction of the repressive hypothesis thus confirms that he is clearly aware of the best-known standard models of the connection between power and knowledge, but seeks to go further. However, it is only possible to decide whether he succeeds in an interesting way if some of the more important forms of the power–knowledge connection which he dissects and specifies can be explicated in a reasonably clear manner. As an example, I would like to attempt to outline such an explication of two of the most important discursive practices in the area of sexuality that Foucault analyses in HS: the confession ritual and the scientia sexualis. In doing this it will be important to pay equal attention to the restrictiveness and the productivity of the accompanying forms of power. If Foucault argues against the repressive hypothesis, this by no means implies that he denies that power does often appear in repressive form – even vis-`a-vis knowledge and truth. Rather, he denies only that the fundamental character of power is repressive. Perhaps this position is trivial on the level of fundamental concepts, because if the explication of the individualistic power relation suggested at the beginning of this chapter is acceptable, then it is immediately obvious that the repressive character of certain forms of power is not part of the fundamental explication. It would have to be introduced conceptually by adding that the action to which a person is to be induced through the influence of power frustrates important preferences of that person, and that an act of refusal would be sanctioned (only then – if one gave up Foucault’s neutral discursive standpoint – could the sophisticated terminological machinery of critical theory be linked to an account of power which included, for example, legitimate and illegitimate interests, objective needs and their ideological distortions). In short, the explication of the fundamental notion of power already designates the original relation of power as non-repressive. But neither is the non-repressive element of power characterised in any more detail nor is attention paid to how it is productive, in particular

morals, knowledge and power

31

of knowledge and truth. For Foucault it is quite clear that at this point historical analysis is indispensable. For example, looking at the seventeenth century Foucault proceeds on the basis of the well-known fact that sexual behaviour was standardised and restricted in a multitude of ways, through the frustration of preferences and the threat of sanctions in both the ecclesiastical field and that of secular jurisdiction. But he also points to the explosive multiplication of ‘epistemic’ discourses in which exactly those sexual phenomena and practices which were to be suppressed were investigated (irrespective of whether they were forms of deviant behaviour or fantasies). In the course of the next century this tendency was intensified. The epistemic discourses on sex, sexual behaviour and sexual fantasies increasingly accentuate the relevance and the mystery of every variety of sex, so presenting sex as interesting and both in need of and capable of being analysed. These discourses no longer regard their subject matter, the sanctioned sexual phenomena, as being just existent, but as being ineradicable; and they take the most important variations of sexual behaviour to be essential properties of individuals, in the traditional technical philosophical sense of ‘essential properties’ as defining their identity and personality and being causally relevant for many of their most important characteristics.44 In a still quite superficial sense it could be said (and, in fact, Foucault does say) that the form of power involved here acts repressively, but does not really seek to eradicate the repressed phenomenon. Rather it takes very seriously the necessity of its existence, its relevance, its constitutive role for the personality and its intelligibility. Maybe the fact of taking seriously or acknowledging even constitutive functions is already a weak form of ‘productivity’. For if we join Foucault in denying the crude variant of metaphysical realism, we will have to admit that in non-empirical objectdomains epistemological and theoretical attitudes contribute – perhaps in a way that has not yet been fully clarified – to the ‘existence’ of the phenomena considered. But then we would not have got beyond a philosophical position that is widely acknowledged, and the exact details of the relations between forms of power and epistemic discourses would still remain obscure. How are we to describe methodologically, for instance, the situation that representatives of the church are actively involved in the regulation and repression of sexual practices, but at the same time actively make these practices the subject of epistemic discourses and thereby instantiate

44 On this ‘stimulation to discourses’ see HS 17–35.

32

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

(with ‘weak’ productivity in the sense mentioned above) new forms of power? It may be confusing that on some occasions Foucault quite freely employs causal language in this context, and on other occasions a ‘means– ends’ language, and that the latter operates partly on an intentional and partly on a functional level (there were certain ‘incitements’ to launch particular discourses, but certain ‘goals’ were pursued as well, and all this could ‘have served the development of power’, etc.). But probably one comes closest to Foucault’s intention by saying that persons, as representatives of repressive structures of power, regarded certain epistemic discourses as a means of optimising the intended repression, but that the employment of these means led (causally) to a ‘production’ of the sanctioned phenomena (in the weak sense mentioned above), and hence also to the unintended establishment of a new form of power. The methodological structure of this account is of course a variant of the ‘invisible-hand’ model, and so of another standard action-theoretical model, although perhaps with the qualification that Foucault would have to downplay the ‘causality’ involved in the production of non-intended side-effects in a nominalistic manner (e.g. a` la Davidson). In other words, he would have to separate it from the epistemic relevance of natural laws or social rules. The invisible-hand model still does not offer anything new, but it has the advantage that it permits one to speak about intentions and causality which are compatible with the epistemic contingency of the phenomena in question (e.g. new ‘productive’ forms of power and their connection to epistemic discourses), as is required for Foucault’s technique of analysis. But above all, this model also allows a more detailed enquiry into the power–knowledge interconnection which enriches the standard model in a fruitful and interesting way. However, this can only be recognised through a closer study of individual epistemic practices – for instance the confession ritual, which plays a vital theoretical role in Foucault. In the Christian practice of confession it would seem that in the specific situation of togetherness to which interrogation leads, the pursuit of truth is directly connected with acts of the (repressive) exercise of power. Foucault does not attempt to differentiate exactly how closely, but what we can at least say is that, in the context of the ritual of the Christian confession, interrogation is also pursuit, enquiry is also surveillance, finding out is also raising the alarm and explanation is also the establishment of guilt. The same questions, descriptions and admissions can be construed within the confession ritual in two different ways, or be interpreted as different speech acts – as the search for

morals, knowledge and power

33

and disclosure of the truth, or as the establishment of relations of power. These two levels can no longer be sharply separated and assigned to different modes of speech or ‘discourses’ – as in the ritual of investigation and confession in secular jurisdiction. But it has still not yet been established exactly enough to what extent the confession as a form of truth production ‘is imbued with relations of power’, as Foucault sometimes puts it. First of all the act of confession, as seen by the person who confesses, must be more subtly differentiated. In the act of investigation the enquiry by the person questioning is also pursuit, surveillance and a distribution of guilt which, however, often ends in the granting of absolution and can lead to an approving intimacy. At the same time admission by the penitent is not only a revelation of the truth, but also an admission of guilt and the expectation of damnation and reward – damnation of the act or thought which has been admitted, reward for confessing to it. In other words it is the subjugation of the person confessing, not just to the accepted norms, but also to the competence of the interrogator’s judgement. This interpretation of the knowledge– power connection suggests a performative model: the same utterance can be described performatively as an epistemic assessment and at the same time as an act of submission to a relation of power or an exercise of power. Thus so far two models have been developed for Foucault’s theory of the intrinsic relationship between power and knowledge; a specific ‘invisiblehand’ model and a performative model. Foucault does not specify more precisely the relationship that exists, both on the side of the investigating and of the confessing person, between the level of the production of truth on the one hand, and the level of establishing an individual relation of power and of subjugation on the other. Given the individualistic analysis of the relation of power suggested at the beginning of this chapter, one might suspect a causal relation here. The priest is in a position to induce the penitent to confess the truth because, thanks to the background of given social structures and religious convictions, he has the potential to threaten and constrain: power causally brings about the production of truth, and in the confession ritual it is through the form of the causal relation that it becomes clear that truth does not stand outside power, but is ‘imbued with it’. This description may occasionally be correct, but probably it is often not complete because it is also important to take the intentional aspect of the context into account. Within the framework of the confession ritual the investigating person will often have worthy intentions – he intends to find out the truth and thus save the soul of the penitent. Conversely the penitent submits consciously and

34

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

deliberately to an imperative of truthfulness in order to achieve her own psychic healing and personal deliverance, salvation and forgiveness. On the other hand, the establishment of the power relation, the threat, the coercion and the subjugation within the framework of the confession ritual are rarely intended by the persons involved; they represent an aspect which plays a very minor role from the inner perspective of the ritual, but which is used to describe the confession ritual when it is viewed from an external perspective. This does not rule out the possibility that this (external) perspective can be adopted by the persons involved, but normally this will not be the case. The relationship can be better illustrated using a well-known actiontheoretical situation type: Oedipus killed the beggar at the crossroads, but at the same time the beggar could, from an external perspective, correctly be described as Oedipus’ father, so that had Oedipus known and accepted this description, then the act of killing would have been patricide. Similarly, the priest investigates the conduct and thought of the penitent within the framework of a seriously conducted truth production, yet the confessing person can at the same time be described, against the background of her religious convictions and the prevailing social rules, as a being who is anxious about the salvation of her soul, and who depends on the priest for absolution. If the priest and the penitent were to know and accept this description, then the act of investigation would be the establishment of a relation of power and an act of subjugation. It is the possibility of this description, as well as the possibility that the persons involved accept it, which specifies the form in which in the case of the confession ritual the relations of power and the production of truth seem to be intimately connected. This insight is essentially a counterfactual action-theoretical model of the intrinsic relationship between power and knowledge. What appears as the production of truth when viewed from the internal perspective of a social relationship could also be described from the external perspective as a relation of power. Not just a speech act, as in the performative model, but more generally a whole complex of acts can be described differently, although the differences are defined by a change of perspective and different levels of information. Production of truth in this context, of course, means something very specific. The only methodological rule which plays a part here is the imperative of truthfulness for the confessing person. Furthermore, an important role is played by a precondition which dominated philosophy in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and which today is often regarded as part of the core of the myth of subjectivity – that all persons have a privileged access

morals, knowledge and power

35

to the truth of their own mental states and experiences. Whoever believes this, and pre-supposes that the imperative of truthfulness is fulfilled, must hold the ritual of confession to be a thoroughly reliable procedure in the production of truth. Yet it is obviously decisive for Foucault that not only the intentions geared towards the production of truth which are at work in this procedure, but also the power-relation which is often only visible from the external perspective, are not just side-effects but constitutive factors in this kind of truth production. Hence the relation of power is often not the cause of the production of truth in confession, but is part of the system of rules which – it seems – guides and directs the production of truth in the form of the confession ritual. In so far as this is the case, an intrinsic connection of power and knowledge within the Christian pastoral practice can be discerned directly. Thus a number of types of relations between power and knowledge have been outlined that undoubtedly go beyond conventional standard models, for example a specific form of the invisible-hand model, a performative model, and a counterfactual action-theoretical model. Following up some occasional remarks by Foucault one might be inclined to think that these examples reveal one of the most important aspects of the productive character of power. To put it in short: in the confession ritual power produces truth. But although this description is certainly not wrong, it is clearly superficial. The reason why the power which is at work here seems to be repressive is primarily that it works with sanctions and frustrates the subjugated person. But under such conditions the assertion of its productivity amounts to the trivial thesis that within the framework of the confession ritual repressive mechanisms rely on the possibilities of threats and compulsion to extract true self-descriptions. It would be more interesting to point out, as Foucault does, that the intimate togetherness of confession, and the detailed investigation of sexual activities and fantasies, incite and differentiate rather than repress and obscure these fantasies and activities – in other words, although it is repressive, in this case the relation of power keeps the phenomenon which is to be repressed alive. It even helps it to new vitality, and this despite the fact that power now also tries to subject the mental realm to its control. But this form of the productivity of power is an empirical effect that seems to be linked to particular forms of repressive power in certain circumstances. This account is not particularly helpful in elucidating the productivity of the fundamental, non-repressive power which is the target of Foucault’s analysis. This is not surprising, for the character of non-repressive power has not yet been explicated either.

36

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

Possibly this elucidation cannot be provided by an analysis of the confession ritual within the historical framework of Christian pastoral activity. Presumably those forms of confession would be more suitable which fall outside the scope of repressive religious structures, and which Foucault mentions only very rarely in passing – forms through which we, for example, confess our love to another person, or admit a truth to ourselves that we have long kept hidden away. Here too the confessing person normally follows an imperative of truthfulness and submits to the judgement of a listener, who is important to her – important perhaps in the context of an attempt to lead a good life. In such cases it is by no means misleading to speak of a relation of power which produces truths – but not by means of repressive structures. This relation of power is still asymmetric (and obviously partly reflexive), but is constituted in the context of personal relations between the confessing person and an opposite number who is at least virtually present; and these personal relations are usually specified by conventional performative rules – rules, for instance, which transform a statement into a confession of love or into a confession of a hitherto concealed truth about oneself. Only by, and as a result of, following these rules, can we confess the truth. However, the form of the interconnection between power and knowledge, the character of non-repressive power, and the form of its productivity as revealed by these examples are illustrated by Foucault with reference to discursive practices which appeared historically later than the Christian practice of confession, but which proved to be extremely successful: Foucault labels this intricate complex of practices of discourse scientia sexualis. 3 From a theoretical point of view it is presumably no coincidence that at the beginning of his historical analysis of the scientia sexualis Foucault briefly refers to that other ‘great procedure for producing the truth of sex’ which had evolved in many non-European societies: the ancient ars erotica.45 Viewed superficially, the practices of ars erotica and scientia sexualis are undoubtedly meant to be distinguished from each other, but on closer inspection the ars erotica may well contain aspects which indicate a form of power and a manner of its connection with knowledge that are of systematic interest, and are also apparent within the framework of scientia sexualis. 45 HS 57 f.

morals, knowledge and power

37

The scientia sexualis of the nineteenth century was still aimed at a phenomenon that was regarded as suspicious and problematic, and was to be sanctioned. It was embedded in an imperative of public utility and optimal reproduction which were separated from pleasure. On this basis the scientia sexualis sought to establish a theory which was both explanatory and also partly quantitative, and which was intended to discover mechanisms and structures beneath the surface of various sexual practices and to render these practices causally comprehensible. This does not apply to the ars erotica, the subject of which are sexual practices which are regarded as being the source of sublime sexual lust, and can lead to ecstatic enlightenment. Just like an old ars or techne, the ars erotica is based on ancient experience, and at the epistemic level remains a kind of knowledge of rules that direct sexual practices towards the goal of optimising sexual communication and reaching the height of pleasure. As a knowledge of rules, ars erotica is propositional and can be related unproblematically to a set of true sentences. This knowledge can be articulated in speech, and can therefore be passed on verbally and in writing, as well as being the object of instruction and learning. However, the knowledge which is handed down remains qualitative and reflexive, for it is concerned with the quality and intensity of the pleasure experienced under certain rules within the framework of reflexive self-observation. At the same time, the knowledge involved in the ars erotica, in so far as it is a techne, has a non-propositional aspect in which it is more like a skill, a knowledge how, which is directly expressed in the performance and mastery of sexual practices. This nonpropositional technical knowledge can also be taught and learned – but only through the joint activity and practice of teacher and disciple. Unfortunately Foucault does not address the question of whether the passing on of a technelike the ars erotica establishes or presupposes relations of power, although the question is by no means absurd. Intuitively it is quite appropriate to regard the process of introducing a pupil to a rule-governed practice – especially if this practice is venerable and sophisticated – as a form of disciplining, or regulating, within which the master has the means and the desire to induce the disciple to perform certain forms of sexual practice which the disciple, without the influence of the master, has neither the will nor the ability to carry out. Furthermore, it also makes sense to say that the disciple, once initiated, improves reflexively by her own efforts. This specific relation of the master to the disciple, or of the disciple to herself, obviously fulfils the conditions of an individualistic relation of power as sketched out at the beginning of this chapter. It is equally obvious that this form of power relation is not repressive, because

38

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

the practice it ‘produces’ is not negatively sanctioned but highly valued, and does not lead to frustration, but to the highest communicative and sexual satisfaction of the preferences of all those ‘subjugated’. If it is acceptable to speak of a relation of power in this context, then this relation could initially be explicated by means of a simple additional specification to the account of an individualistic relation of power given above: the power involved consists primarily in the ability to induce other persons to follow certain social rules. This is certainly not a completely satisfactory explication; nevertheless the form of power involved may be specified terminologically with the concept of regulative power. In the case of a technelike the ars erotica, the existence and exercise of regulative power is constitutively connected with the passing on of knowledge of the rules and the practice they regulate. It could probably even be argued that in many cases the exercise of regulative power is a constitutive element of passing them on. Hence regulative power produces the practices which it encourages in a nominalistic sense over and over again. In the case of scientia sexualis, if one considers the ‘means’ by which, according to Foucault, ‘this immense and traditional extortion of the sexual confession came to be constituted in scientific terms’,46 it is soon clear that what is at issue is a catalogue of criteria of scientific rationality like those that are still defended in modern philosophy of science. Scientia sexualis has to satisfy five methodological conditions of adequacy: the data (and also the subjective confessions) are to be objectified in the light of accepted background theories through techniques of observation and interrogation; the central object, that is sex, is assumed to have a comprehensive potential to explain all possible forms of deviant behaviour, and this potential also has a systematising function within the context of the scientia sexualis; sexual mechanisms are posited operating on a level far beneath observable superficial phenomena, and so have to be described in non-empirical terms; a scientific community of sex experts is constituted who, in contrast to the ‘patients’, have relevant background knowledge and a hermeneutical-explanatory capacity at their disposal; and finally, in the domain in which proposed theories are tested in therapies and clinical trials, the employment of normative or moral criteria is rejected, and only the ‘descriptive’ language of the pathologist is allowed.47 To put it in short, it is a question of: 46 HS 65. 47 HS 65–7 characterises these conditions in an unusual and unclear way (as so often when Foucault tries to create his own terminology): (a) clinical codification of the inducement to speak; (b) postulate of a general and diffuse causality; (c) principle of a latency intrinsic to sexuality; (d) method of interpretation; (e) medicalisation of the effects of confession.

morals, knowledge and power

39

– the objectification of the data, – the postulate of causal mechanisms in the field of sex, – the assumption of theoretical depth of hypotheses on sex relative to observable phenomena, – the requirement that background theories be used in the evaluation of data, – the exclusion of normative vocabulary from the science of sex. It goes without saying that Foucault does not want to argue that with the introduction and acceptance of these conditions a science of sex – and therefore sexuality as a scientific subject matter – was constituted, which according to present standards was successful or at least scientifically rational. Rather, from the internal perspective the discursive analysis declares only that the relevant traditional epistemic discourses on the practice of confession in the realm of sexual behaviour in the nineteenth century were suddenly enriched with these demands, suppositions and assumptions. At times Foucault claims that ‘the production of discourses is valorised with a truth value’.48 This mode of expression ought not to be misunderstood. It too is of course a description from the internal perspective: the claims to truth which assert themselves in the valorisation of the production of discourse with truth values are always equivalent to particular methodological rules as they occur historically. Foucault does not commit himself affirmatively to one particular conception of truth, but from the external perspective of present mainstream philosophy it could be argued that Foucault designs his historical studies as if he were using a historically relativised, verificationist conception of truth. Obviously far-reaching philosophical questions emerge at this point, but for the time being it may be noted merely that, in the special case of the scientia sexualis, this was not the first time that the production of discourses on sex was valorised with a truth value. It would be better to say that this had already taken place within the framework of the confession ritual, and that with the establishment of the scientia sexualis the form of this valorisation, that is the form of claims to truth and consequently the form of knowledge, changed dramatically. Because power structures are hardly mentioned, Foucault’s analysis of the scientia sexualis in chapter 3 of HS tends to be read as primarily ‘archaeological’, but a closer look soon reveals that this approach is inappropriate. At a systematic level much depends on recognising just how the intrinsic power structures of the scientia sexualis have changed from those of the confession ritual. For example, it is notable that with the establishment of 48 Foucault 1983, 8.

40

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

a culture of experts there is a new epistemic gap between experts and nonexperts which is structurally different from the relationship between priest and penitent. Thanks to their background knowledge it is the experts, the epistemic inspectors alone, who decide what is to be asked and investigated, and who know why, and with what consequences, it is investigated. And if the phenomenon which is to be analysed is also regarded as mysterious, explanatorily deep and dangerous, then elementary psychological mechanisms on the part of the patient lead to a ‘game of deception and concealment’ as a reaction to the ‘epistemic power’ of the experts. At the same time the phenomenon produces in the experts an increase in the desire for knowledge and in the incentive to observe and control. In his analysis of the confession ritual Foucault had already pointed out that here power conquers new areas and extends its control, for instance to the mental realm, and to the smallest and most secret desires and fantasies. Similarly, the five conditions which are constitutive for the scientia sexualis can be understood as forms of a new and perhaps even broader expansion and sublimation of power. For seen in this way the conditions appear as a bundle of arrangements which further disenfranchise the persons investigated. One of the most important aspects of this disenfranchisement becomes clear if one realises that, according to Foucault’s description, the investigated persons in the scientia sexualis lose the privileged position which they had held within the framework of the confession ritual. There penitents were assumed to have – at least when they followed the central imperative of truthfulness – a privileged relationship of truth to their own mental realm (that is through the authority of the first person). In the scientia sexualis, on the other hand, the content of the admissions is first of all subjected to the interpretation and causal orientation of the experts; it is de-subjectivised and objectified; it is regarded as a problematic indication of deeper causal mechanisms, assigned its place in a comprehensive context of causes and effects and finally described in terms of medical pathology. Even resistance to investigation will be explained theoretically, and the failure of the theory can be attributed to this resistance. One of the most interesting aspects of this transformation is surely the fact that this disenfranchisement at the same time represents the start of the attack on the myth of subjectivity, an attack which today seems to have been brought to a successful conclusion with the total demystification of the myth. But it is far more important not to overlook the fact that the conditions which establish the scientia sexualis at the same time represent the rules and regulations that specify, for instance, how sex should now be talked about,

morals, knowledge and power

41

what kind of object sex is within the framework of the scientia sexualis, which standards of rationality and what evidence decide whether confessions can pass as truths – truths both for the experts who listen and for the patients who observe themselves. According to Foucault, by jointly submitting to these rules, experts and patients produce a new kind of truths. It remains open, and indeed even irrelevant, whether or not these truths are socially sanctioned, and whether or not their production frustrates the preferences of the subjects involved. The ‘subjugation’ to these rules may perhaps take place in different ways, but in the most important cases the future ‘experts’ are induced by the masters to follow these rules within the framework of a collective scientific practice – in this way the decisive scientific community is constituted and reproduced, and in the investigative situation the unsuspecting patients are then induced by the experts to follow these rules and directives. The disciples and patients would certainly never have submitted to this discipline by themselves, nor without this inducement. These relations of power are by no means necessarily, or even usually, repressive. However, they instantiate methodological or operational rules and are anchored in scientific as well as in other institutions, and whether or not they are followed is what makes the distinction between rationality and irrationality, truth and falsity – and in the process the historical contingency of this set of rules is systematically veiled. To be sure, the mechanisms and forms through which these discourses (in the technical sense) come to have the standing they do can be examined – in scientific literature, for instance, or in popular presentations, at congresses and in the educational system. But what is crucial is that the forms of power relation that these discourses represent are quite simply identical with the methods of the production of truth. This form of power is ‘productive’ in the sense that it induces people to follow those rules which open up room and possibilities within which their truths can be produced. This type of power is obviously a specific variant of regulative power: certain persons have the means, opportunity and will to induce other persons to submit to certain rules in their discursive practices which essentially define the possibilities of establishing true sentences, and thereby above all draw a line between rationality and irrationality or reason and madness, as well as between truth and falsity or acceptance and rejection. The ‘inducement’ usually occurs not through explicit prescription, but through common action and practical training in an instructional context. Foucault’s discursive analysis of the confession ritual and the scientia sexualis, together with the references to the ars erotica, seems to seek to delimit this specific

42

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

technological and regulative type of power. The interconnection of this kind of power with deep knowledge in the sense of le savoir is the most intimate that can be imagined, for the historical forms of this specific regulative power are identical with the structures (and so also with the e´nonc´es) of the corresponding historical discourses which aim at the production of truth. Foucault develops this concept of power with reference to very specific ‘truth-producing’ discourses – the discursive practices in which persons are induced to say something about themselves, to admit and to confess. But it is easy to see that this restriction is not necessary. The forms of self-confession and self-observation that Foucault investigates perhaps document the complex interplay of repressive and non-repressive forms of power particularly clearly. But it seems obvious that this regulative power which subjects certain persons to a particular historical machinery for the production of truth is also at work outside the context of the human sciences. The concept of regulative power could obviously be extended so that one could speak of a disciplined subjugation to social rules in general – not only specifically to truth-producing rules – and hence to rules that are central to non-discursive practices. In fact, some of Foucault’s works could indeed be interpreted as developing this more general concept of regulative power. With regard to the general concept of regulative power one could also speak of a more general ‘productivity’ of power; it is the forms or rules to which this type of power subjects the persons of a particular society that open up the space for social action in a very general way in the first place, inasmuch as the forms or rules are constitutive for this action in the usual action-theoretical sense. Yet it does seem to be reasonably clear that Foucault’s interest in general forms of regulative power is secondary and derivative. This is because he is primarily concerned with a history of truth and thought, that is with those transformations which saw the emergence of new truth-producing discourses although, of course, more general forms of regulative power will also be pertinent. At times Foucault describes himself as being mainly concerned with clarifying in particular how certain ‘fields of knowledge’ emerge in the realm of human self-reflection, and this seems to reveal an important aspect of the ‘productivity’ of power: power ‘produces’ fields of knowledge. As far as regulative power is concerned, this description can be easily explained. Obviously this productivity of power ought not to be misunderstood in a strong ontological or even idealistic sense – as if power ‘produced’ domains of objects or ‘worlds’. Rather, if persons accept, or subjugate themselves to, ‘truth-producing’ discursive rules under the influence of regulative power, we should take this to mean simply that persons who have been

morals, knowledge and power

43

disciplined in this way have established a field of knowledge, i.e. a scientific perspective of a particular object-domain. This consideration, which is undoubtedly of great importance for the systematic reconstruction of the analysis of power and Foucault’s programme, should be underpinned with a more exact explication of the concept of regulative power. If (a)–(g) in explication (M*) of the individualistic relation of power49 are acceptable as the set of sufficient conditions for the existence of a power relation between individuals, then a more precise definition of the concept of regulative power could be added to (M*) in the following way: (MR) Person P1 has the regulative power to induce a person P2 to do X if: (1) conditions (a)–(g) in (M*) are fulfilled; (2) X is the act of following a social or methodological rule R; (3) complying with R is constitutive of act X; (4) the form in which person P1 induces person P2 to comply with rule R typically consists in a practice in which R is implicitly included being handed down by P1 to P2 . Clause (3) is intended to provide a differentiation of ‘regulative’ and ‘constitutive’ rules which was suggested by Searle. A rule such as ‘if you want to stay healthy, then don’t eat too much’ is regulative as far as the act of eating is concerned since this act can be carried out and understood independently of following the rule. On the other hand, chess rules are an example of constitutive rules – that is rules which are constitutive for the act of playing chess, since the act cannot be performed without following and (in a certain sense) understanding the rules of chess. Thus constitutive rules open up particular spaces or possibilities for actions (and at the same time delimit the space by implicitly forbidding violations). In the handing down of implicit constitutive rules within the framework of particular practices through the exercise of regulative power, disciplining and the opening up of new liberties are linked in a highly intimate manner. This is how regulative power ‘produces’ possibilities of action and actions, and here the essence of the ‘productivity of power’ becomes apparent. It should be noted that the concept of regulative power as defined in (MR) is still neutral as far as positivity and repression are concerned. But we could consider introducing the following specification:

49 See above, pp. 17–18.

44

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

(MRP) Power in the sense of (M*) or regulative power in the sense of (MR) is positive and non-repressive when: (1) the conditions in (M*) or (MR) are fulfilled; (2) carrying out action X or following rule R furthers the realisation of the desires, needs and interests of P2 by extending the corresponding possibilities of action. (MRR) Power in the sense of (M*) or regulative power in the sense of (MR) is repressive when: (1) the conditions in (M*) or (MR) are fulfilled; (2) carrying out action X or following rule R – frustrates the desires, needs and interests of P2 – or even prevents P2 fulfilling her own desires, needs and interests; (3) the refusal by P2 to carry out action X or follow rule R is sanctioned socially (by the production of feelings of guilt, through judicial punishment or physical injury). Of course these concepts of power can be further differentiated – for example by distinguishing between legitimate and non-legitimate repressive power, between violence, compulsion and influence, or by specifying the means of power (e.g. personal characteristics of P1 such as education or charisma; resources to which P1 has access, such as money or credit, or social elements such as authority or influence; possibilities of threatening physical violence or rational rhetorical abilities). Many of the standard theories of power in fact consist mainly of a classification or hierarchy of the means of power and do not bother to provide a basic explanation of the concept of power itself. Foucault’s analysis, on the other hand, avoids discussing the means of power, but instead has the advantage that it indicates how we can work out basic explanations of the concept of power itself. The semantic distinction between (MRP) and (MRR) perhaps contributes something to the differentiation of positive and negative power, but it is obvious that the concepts of non-repressive and repressive power not only require the difficult explication of desires, needs and interests, but also pre-suppose the subjugation to moral standards which are incompatible with a strict ethical neutrality or relativism – unless one restricts oneself to determining relevant historical standards. But at any rate, the linking of the concept of repressive power to that of regulative power would be one of the hinges connecting the Foucauldian analysis of power to critical theory.50 50 See recently on this subject Sch¨afer (1995), 154–98.

morals, knowledge and power

45

I would like to suggest that Foucault’s analysis of power should be interpreted as being concerned with dissecting and proposing regulative power as the fundamental non-repressive and productive type of power – particularly that specific variant of regulative power that is geared towards the subjugation to methodological, truth-producing rules of discourse. This specific form of regulative power exhibits a general form of epistemic productivity: it opens up space for those speech acts or discursive practices that aim at the production of true sentences. All other forms of this productivity which, as it was shown above, Foucault outlines in his analyses of the confession ritual and the scientia sexualis are only aspects, or partial descriptions, of this more general form – for example the quantitative proliferations of discourses, the recognition of the existence and relevance of the phenomena examined, the causal production of knowledge, the stimulation of fantasies and curiosity, or the establishment of fields of knowledge. Above all, it can be shown that this specific form of regulative power is particularly intimately connected with deep knowledge in the sense of le savoir. All the other kinds of interconnection between power and knowledge which, according to the above, Foucault outlines in his analyses of the confession ritual and the scientia sexualis – e.g. the invisible-hand model, the performative model, the counterfactual actiontheoretical model or the epistemic power of experts over clients – are simply kinds of this most intimate form of interconnection. If this suggestion is acceptable then it would obviously be inaccurate and misleading to follow Foucault in talking of the ‘relations of force’ as the sum of individualistic relations of power in the sense explicated above, as if these relations of force constituted the basis of all forms of power. The asymmetry of every relation of power, even of a non-repressive, regulative, productive relation, doubtless signifies an asymmetrical ‘relation of force’, an imbalance of the possibilities of effect and reaction. But although this structure is necessary, it is in no way sufficient for the form of power that Foucault’s analysis presents as being theoretically fundamental. This is because the existence of social or methodological rules is always conceptually or ‘grammatically’ a precondition of the effectiveness of regulative power. The fundamental form of power which Foucault assumes is therefore not located in a state of nature, devoid of rules and order and in which a brutal war game of interests and forces is being played out, but rather it is to be found within the conceptual framework of a social space. Consequently Foucault’s analysis of power does not have to face the Hobbesian problem of social and political order and it is inappropriate (although suggested by some of his own formulations) to expect a solution to this

46

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

problem from his analysis of power. Rather, in HS Foucault tries to identify a fundamental, non-repressive, productive, ‘regulative’ form of power beyond the traditional repressive, judicial concept. According to Foucault it can be shown that one of the most important variants of this fundamental regulative form of power is connected in a particularly intrinsic way with truth-producing discourses – such that the historical contingency and the historical transformations of these forms of power, of these discourses and their interconnection are comprehensible. Consequently, if Foucault argues that local relations of force can ‘consolidate’ themselves so as to become powerful institutions, social systems or even states, then this does not mean that these entities emerge from a Hobbesian state of nature and play of forces devoid of rules, but only that the social or methodological rules to which the basic form of regulative power is always related can also organise themselves into more extensive and more influential structures. However, even in the context of this more modest problem, the analyses of power and discourse do not appear to me to be intended to be explanatory (even if Foucault expresses himself at times in a way that might suggest this). They do not seek to explain how social orders develop, but to analyse what forms of power exist, how they are connected to the production of truth and how these complexes of truth and power transform themselves historically. They do not claim to be historical or causal explanations, but are structural analyses. However, Foucault appears to take up a remarkably uncompromising attitude on this point: it is not that the analyses of power and discourse simply have no explanatory goals, but at the same time admit that such an explanation might make sense in the framework of other theoretical approaches. Rather for Foucault the possibility of there being fruitful general historical or causal explanations in this context endangers the fundamental contingency of forms of power and knowledge – and therefore his central message of human liberty in the face of apparently all-encompassing complexes of power and knowledge. Hence, for fundamental systematic reasons Foucault would have to reject any demand for an explanatory clarification of the ‘process of consolidation’ by which institutions or states arise. An adequate critique of this point could only be accomplished by discussing these systematic reasons. This completes the treatment of the last two of the four conditions identified above (p. 18) for an adequate interpretation of Foucault’s analysis of power. It has also been shown how the relationship between positive and negative power can be thought of consistently, and to what extent for Foucault positive, productive power can be the fundamental

morals, knowledge and power

47

phenomenon in all networks of power. Furthermore, the central concept of regulative power allows us not only to conceptualise the most intimate interconnection of power and knowledge imaginable, but also to formulate a consistent position on the phenomenon of sub-institutional and institutional or state power. 4 lf one inspects the systematic perspectives that follow from this reading of Foucault’s analysis of power and of discourse, then what is immediately striking is that one of the most brilliant and severe critiques of Foucault’s view of power – expressed some years ago by Honneth – appears in a new light. The general line of the interpretation of Foucault’s view of power which Honneth suggests, and which forms the basis of his criticism, is obvious: Foucault’s analysis of power is reconstructed in terms of the underlying concept of social struggle (as Honneth himself explicitly notes).51 Honneth begins his interpretation with the assertion that within the framework of the Foucauldian genealogy discourses are ‘systems of social knowledge’; that ‘knowledge formations assume the special function of augmenting power’; and that ‘the theory of knowledge becomes the theory of domination’.52 It is only by means of these displacements that, in Honneth’s eyes, Foucault comes close to a theory of society which could be taken seriously. Perhaps one can indeed interpret Foucault in a certain sense as a social theorist, but if the above considerations are correct then Honneth seems to pre-suppose precisely what Foucault wants to avoid – namely that we should conceive of power as domination, or of the analysis of power as a 51 See Honneth (1993), 157. 52 See Honneth (1993), 152–3; more generally chs. 5–6. In the afterword to his influential and stimulating work Honneth does not retract anything substantial in his critique. Some of the questions concerning the systematic reconstruction of Foucault’s analysis of power discussed above are touched on by Taylor (1985 and 1992, 210–20), but unfortunately without any detailed discussion. Taylor considers for instance the nominalistic lack of a subject of power, and various models of its relation to human agents (including the invisible-hand model; he also suggests, at least at one point (175/211), that there might be an intrinsic relation between power and knowledge. But on the whole he seems to be of the opinion that no systematically consistent model of power is apparent in Foucault. Yet, like Honneth, Taylor mistakenly starts out with the two premises that Foucault relates strong explanatory claims to his analysis of power (patterns of explanation are discussed throughout part iii) and that Foucault’s concept of power ‘is closely linked to domination’ (174/220). These premises also induce Taylor to address inappropriate questions to Foucault. In particular Rouse’s (1994) criticism of this is valid.

48

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

theory of domination; that we should subsume the systematic positioning of discourses or social systems of knowledge to the aspect of their function in the augmentation of power; and that we should explain discourse as a ‘social system of knowledge’ and thereby cloud rather than clarify its specificity. In the light of these pre-suppositions it is hardly surprising that Honneth claims that the relation between power and knowledge is ‘not very clear’ in Foucault. Even more significant, and – at least from the perspective of the above reflections – more problematic is Honneth’s interpretation of power (in Foucault) as a social struggle of interests. It is easy to see that this assumption leads to a number of problems: – commonly accepted norms and moral orientations appear to be mere cultural deceptions for Foucault, with no systematic place in the framework of the theory; – the various kinds of regulation (e.g. discipline, control) appear to be mere instruments used by power; – regulation as a decisive means employed by modern power can only be conceived of as a way of imposing a repressive, rigid uniformity, and cannot be connected with the productivity of power in an interesting way; – the assumption that knowledge serves power functionally leaves no systematic space for the orientation of scientific endeavour towards objectivity and truth; – the stabilisation of purely local relations of power into institutions remains implausible and unexplained; – the explanation of the way in which discourses function to increase power unexpectedly appeals to institutions, which contradicts the fundamental role of the local theory of power; – the analysis of power oscillates unstably and unclearly between an actiontheoretical and a system-theoretical approach. These are the essential points of criticism which Honneth brings against Foucault’s analysis of power, and undoubtedly one should concede that the phrasing of some of Foucault’s texts definitely fits Honneth’s interpretation, and is reason enough to raise critical questions. But on the other hand, it is clear that throughout Honneth assumes a repressive concept of power, and does not seriously attempt to determine the productive character of the Foucauldian concept. If one bears in mind the concept of regulative power and the level of forms of power, it is immediately recognisable that norms and forms of regulation are an integral part of power

morals, knowledge and power

49

which at the same time clarify its productive character: making human behaviour conform to given social rules, government, produces particular actions and freedoms, but always pre-supposes the existence of systems of social rules. As has already been suggested above, from Foucault’s perspective the (typical) question (of origin), that is how social rules and institutions that ensure societal stability can arise from conflicts of interest, is hardly systematically appropriate. He is more interested in seeing how through conformity to systems of rules certain actions become possible in the first place, what kinds of systems of rules these are, and what ruptures and transformations are historically observable. One might perhaps ask how sub-institutional and sub-state forms of regulation relate to the institutions and apparatuses of the state, but for Foucault this is not a central systematic question. Although the discursive analysis occasionally recognises the existence of causal mechanisms in this context, it remains sceptical about whether they can be discovered, and whether this would be fruitful. The discursive analysis is primarily interested in other aspects of the power–knowledge complex and it is, at the very least, misleading to specify this question as being one about the relation between struggles of interest and institutions. Thus when Foucault maintains that the ‘moving substrate of force relations’ is the basis of all relations of power, then this does not mean – in terms of regulative power – that the rules and institutions coordinating action arise only from struggles of interest in the first place, and that the analysis of power would have to explain this. Rather, force relations ensure conformity to the respective given social rules, and trivially such rules will continue to hold only when they are thus enforced. But at the same time these rules are productive in opening up and defining new spaces for action. In this respect it is not accurate to separate the conception of power in Foucault derived from the theory of force as ‘a network of antagonistic force relations’ from the allegedly later ‘action-theoretical’ conception of power as a ‘structuring of possibilities of action’.53 Rather, it has to be assumed that both these apparent alternatives can and must be considered together. Social rules can ‘consolidate’ themselves so as to become institutions (institutions are standardly construed as systems of rules enforced by sanctions), but it must be remembered – and this is Foucault’s main concern – that institutions and apparatuses of state are also based on sub-institutional rules and their enforcement in relations of force. What is more, as we have seen, it is incorrect to attribute to Foucault the view that discourses within which truth values are assigned 53 See Fink-Eitel (1978).

50

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

are to be understood exclusively as functioning to preserve or intensify power. Yet this attribution is the only support that can be cited for the rationalist reservations that have been expressed about Foucault’s alleged system-theoretical debasement of truth and objectivity. One of the historical forms of power is rather the conformity to particular standards of rationality and thereby the production of particular objective truths – even if this is also part of a global strategy of power. What is more, this often takes place within the framework of institutions. But this should not conceal the fact that here too the fundamental regulative power is always at work, more or less clearly and undiluted and that, according to Foucault, this form of power is becoming increasingly prominent in the institutions of modern societies. At last we can see that Foucault’s supposed oscillation between theory of action and system theory is merely the consequence of a particular reading of his texts. To get closer to Foucault’s thoughts one must presumably see, and also specify, that and to what extent the analyses of discourse and power are neither action-theoretically, nor system-theoretically coloured, as I have attempted to demonstrate. One of the positive aspects of the interpretation that I have suggested is that this account of the fundamental concept of regulative power may allow us, in the context of Foucault’s later work, to connect the analysis of ancient techniques of the self and modern ‘political technologies of individuals’ to the analysis of power and the archaeological analysis of discourse. Undoubtedly in Foucault’s eyes these domains see a considerable shift in the theoretical questions and problems involved in the analysis of power; but it is more than doubtful whether this theoretical development can be totally separated from the perspective of the analysis of power, and whether this would be desirable from a systematic point of view. If one considers, for instance, Foucault’s remarks on the close interconnection of subjectivisation and objectification, and also assumes that for Foucault the formation of the subject includes the twin aspect of subjugation and reflexivity (see above pp. 9–10, 27), then subjectivisation and objectification can be placed on three different levels: – the individual person submits herself to the rules of the games of truth, and thereby experiences herself as a being that observes itself and decodes. In this way the subject becomes a scientific object; – the individual person submits herself to singular, asymmetrical relations of power, their global strategies and disciplining, and experiences herself reflexively as an active (overcoming resistance) or at least passive

morals, knowledge and power

51

(resisting) being. In this way the subject at the same time becomes an object of standardising bodily discipline; – the individual person submits herself voluntarily to the practical techniques of a good life committed to happiness and perfection, and thereby experiences herself as a being that examines and cares for itself and organises its own self-transformation. In this way the subject becomes the object of a self-transformation through practical techniques. These three levels address the epistemic, the dynamic and the ethical formation of both subject and object, and these can at first sight be attributed to the three Foucauldian axes of archaeology, genealogy and ethics. But on a closer look it is evident that these three levels are no more than an artificial distinction. This becomes particularly clear when we consider that relations of power can also play an important role in the epistemic and ethical formation of subjects and objects, and that conforming to games of truth will be important for the dynamic and ethical formation of subjects and objects. Furthermore it is conceivable that conforming to games of truth that involve the human sciences (for example psychoanalysis), as well as conforming to certain bodily disciplines, is often also linked to a technique of the self or a self-transformation of the subjects. To be sure, Foucault’s general criteria for subjectivisation and objectification are not only fulfilled in the realm of ethics, but are also valid for the context of power and knowledge. However, at the same time the archaeological, genealogical and ethical axes are intertwined in a particularly intimate manner in all three realms. This complex interconnection can be plausibly reconstructed from the analytical perspective of the concept of regulative power.54 For mechanisms of regulative power which can be attributed to the realm of pedagogical disciplining are effective not only in the epistemic, but also in the dynamic and ethical, formation of subjects and objects. Young persons must be made to follow the rules of science if they wish to become scientists, the rules of political strategy if they want to become politicians or the rules of ethics if they wish to develop excellence of character and live a happy life. However, this subjugation is productive: it opens scope for the production of further statements that define fields of knowledge, of 54 Foucault’s increasing tendency to see his various works and ‘programmes’ from the consistent standpoint of the ‘history of truth’, i.e. of particular processes of subjectivisation and objectification in the variants of which different forms of power are effective, is particularly apparent in Martin, Gutman and Hutton (1988) and his Autobiography.

52

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

political decrees that delimit spheres of power and of moral recommendations that structure tested models of a good life. What is more, the subjects who produce these statements, decrees and recommendations can, at the same time, be their addressees. But although it may be possible to separate the three forms of regulative power and the three corresponding types of discursive production analytically, they can, and often are, closely intertwined historically. The rehearsing and learning of scientific methods and games of truth can at times be part of the moral formation of the subject, and may pre-suppose the regulative enforcement of political power relations; or, vice versa, this enforcement may rely on conformity to particular games of truth and characterise the regulative model in dealing with desires; and practical techniques of the self which are intended to produce a self-transformation may themselves represent a particular game of truth, and define the heart of acceptable political behaviour. This interconnection is possible, indeed likely, for these are related forms of the mechanisms of regulative power that contribute, with their different orientations, to a comprehensive context of disciplining. This connection also seems to be emphasised in the last area of research that Foucault dealt with shortly before his death – that is the analysis of the ‘political technologies of individuals’. Foucault no longer had the time to present any detailed historical studies on this subject, but his remarks seem to indicate that he wanted to investigate how the modern idea of reason of state developed against the background of the formation of a ‘police science’ which was concerned with producing a ‘technology of administration’.55 This technology had the task ‘of promoting civil respect and public morality’ in order to ensure law and order. According to this conception, the police was supposed to monitor closely the relations of people to each other, and to encourage them to lead a life that would make them happy – but primarily in order to construct a strong, powerful state capable of development, since the happiness of the subjects was considered to be an important element in this. This new ‘political rationality’ prescribes that the police intervenes in a positive way to organise individuals’ lives – it has to ‘regulate’ social life so as to produce something new that promotes the happiness of the individual and the strength of the state. Foucault explicitly emphasises that this positive government does not employ arms and laws, or protection and prohibition. It is immediately apparent that the power which the police is meant to exercise according to this new political rationality is a variant of regulative 55 See Martin, Gutman and Hutton (1988), 16–49 and 145–62.

morals, knowledge and power

53

power which is, however, now again connected with specific ‘political’ goals, that is with goals that belong to a sphere of power which stands above the individuals. It is no accident that under the heading ‘bio-politics’ Foucault returns in this context to phenomena (for instance population policy) which had already been objects of study in the analysis of power. And it is even less of an accident that the ideas of the ‘new’ political rationality about ‘beneficial’ administration show a strikingly close connection to central perspectives of the political philosophy of classical antiquity – for instance that it is the goal of political science to promote the state (and not the prince or the individual subject); that ruling requires a particular competence, a specific ‘political’ knowledge; that every state (every polis) is in permanent competition with other states (poleis), and that attempts to reach agreement between them cannot prevent this; that every state represents an end in itself which stands in a complicated relation to the happiness of the male citizens (female citizens did not count); and that in general one of the tasks of the state police is to promote public morality and human happiness (a dramatic deviation from classical liberal ideas). Of course Foucault noticed how close modern technologies and ‘police science’ were to central ideas of ancient political philosophy; but he is of the opinion that under the surface of this common ground something new is in the air in the modern age. He emphasises, for instance, that in modern ‘police science’ people and their happiness are only relevant in their social relations, that is as building blocks of a strong state. These remarks are not very convincing, but even if Foucault is right there seem to be a number of interesting features in the political technologies of individuals which strongly resemble ancient ideas. Thus under the heading ‘political technology’ it could be helpful to investigate the ways in which in antiquity individual technologies of the self, epistemological games of truth and the implementation of political technologies were related to each other, and so how the investigation of ethical work can be aligned with archaeology and the analysis of power. It should by now be clear that the concept of regulative power should also play an important role in this context. Seen from the perspective of this reading of the analyses of power and discourse, some of the most important critical questions concerning Foucault’s programme can be put differently from the way they are formulated in much of the current discussion about Foucault. It should be obvious, for instance, that Foucault did not seek to develop a societal theory with explanatory pretensions. But above all we should not assign too much systematic significance to the controversial ‘neutrality’

54

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

of the analyses of discourse and power. Rather, we should regard it as a provocative kind of intellectual coquetry that seeks to oppose a form of moral and rational universalism which presumably nobody any longer seriously proposes. Obviously not even Foucault, as the analyst of discourse and power, can look through God’s eyes, and the analyses of discourse and power are developed from a particular perspective which they cannot leave. This means that not even Foucault himself – or anybody else who carries out interesting cultural analyses – would be able to specify the exact point which identified his view as a specific perspective. Rather their own perspective is, for Foucault as for every other writer, always the universal perspective – universal in the sense that all other specific perspectives must be translatable into it, and Foucault is particularly successful in translating different problematisations, trains of thought or practices into the theoretical and conceptual framework of his own analytical approach. At the same time it has to be assumed that ‘our’ general perspective is not immune to revisions, but remains fallible, and it cannot be ruled out that the study of other historical forms and perspectives, studies of the kind Foucault pursued, could provide good reasons for such a revision. The same holds in particular for the games of truth. Foucault can perhaps show that the historical concepts of rationality, that is the historical forms of ‘games of truth’, differ significantly from the present form (at least as far as the standards of logically valid argumentation or the careful presentation of evidence for historical analyses are concerned); and he can perhaps cite good reasons to doubt that these forms have passed through an evolutionary historical development towards the present form. But at the same time it can, and has, to be conceded that the dominant current form of games of truth is also central to Foucault’s own analyses of power and discourse. It is perfectly consistent with the analyses proposed by Foucault to apply our standards of morality and rationality, those that we have good reasons to defend and therefore can and must regard for the time being as universal, to other historical forms of morality and reason and to critically assess these historical forms from the perspective of the present. But are our standards of morality and reason the general standards? We have good reasons to assume this, and we should continue searching for even better reasons. Yet this does not rule out that our standards may change together with the good reasons (perhaps under the impression of historical analyses or intercultural discussions) – but to an extent that nobody can foresee. This is because at the same time we also have good reasons to assume that our standards of reason and rationality are not immune to revision, and will remain

morals, knowledge and power

55

fallible. Studies of historical forms of games of truth certainly provide some of the reasons for this assumption, and maybe even some indications for a possible revision of our standards. Neutrality and relativism with respect to standards of morality and reason cannot be defended consistently as a philosophical position, but this does not imply a naive universalism. Furthermore, in the specific case of the Foucauldian programme neutrality and relativism would directly contradict his general approach, because the God’s-eye view, which is a precondition of the neutral attitude, is itself evidently incompatible with a sensitivity to the specific nature of the historical forms of moral and epistemic ‘games’. Therefore the problem of neutrality is better played down in discussions of Foucault.56 The analyses of discourse and power may perhaps lose some of their fashionable appeal, but nothing of their cognitive content, if their neutral distance is given up. Instead other questions arise. If neutrality is abandoned, and if the analyses of power and of discourse 56 Foucault’s thesis of neutrality is the element of his thought that is most disturbing for Charles Taylor (1985), 174–8/(1992), 220–39 as for many scholars of Foucault (on this subject see the recent study by Sch¨afer (1995), 103–53. Sch¨afer’s list of objections to Foucault’s ‘antinormativism’ (see 103–5) does not take into account the strongest lines of argument against relativism which are based on an extensional theory of meaning). Taylor’s analysis of Foucault exemplifies the extent to which an overtly strong (and probably unjustified) systematic evaluation of the problem of neutrality threatens to thwart a more detailed reconstruction of other important intuitions by Foucault. Gutting (1989), 262 ff., points out (with good reasons, it seems to me) that Foucault in no way advocated a general relativism because – Gutting argues – Foucault’s analyses are historically always extremely local, and he would never hold a universalistic thesis (not even a relativistic one). What is more, he concerns himself only with ‘dubious’ human sciences and seems to accept the objective truth of the hard natural sciences, and objective truth is not even generally denied for the human sciences. Finally, despite all the admiration for Nietzsche there is no evidence that Foucault has adopted the latter’s extreme perspectivism (as Gutting understands it). Of course Gutting’s remark that the theory-ladenness of acts and the connection of theories to power do not provide a sufficient basis for a relativistic position should be taken into account as well (with regard to Nietzsche, some recent works point out that his philosophy, and especially his concept of ‘genealogy’, perhaps need not involve perspectivism at all: see for instance Geuss (1994), 274–92). Rouse (1994) attempts to counter concerns about Foucault’s supposed neutrality or relativism with the thesis that Foucault was not concerned with formulating true insights into human society or a normative critique of political conditions – and that it is therefore inappropriate to have such expectations of him. Rather, according to Rouse, Foucault wants to present a new interpretation of what it actually means to formulate claims to truth or political criticism. Doubtless Rouse is right in accusing some of the most prominent critics of Foucault of themselves assuming precisely what Foucault attacks when they propose that for normative and relative standards there is either a non-partisan, God’s-eye view, or else that complete relativity holds. Rouse, however, does not discuss exactly what it would mean to give up a God’s-eye view nor to what extent Foucault’s own analyses evade particular (and in some cases local) rational and normative standards.

56

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

regain the confidence to make their own evaluative judgements, then presumably the relation of the Foucauldian programme to traditional critical theory would have to be considered anew.57 In particular the relation of the specific methodological to the general social form of power should be examined more closely, or perhaps reinterpreted in the light of Foucault’s historical analyses. Important questions are also raised by one of the central messages implicit to Foucault’s work, the message that the possible extent of the difference between our and other conceptions of morality, reason, scientific rationality and other central ideas – and therefore the extent of the particularity of our ideas about these things – must and can to a great extent be determined by means of historical and cultural analyses, even if these analyses themselves remain committed to our ideas. In this context we must ask not only how we can determine and assess the extent of these differences, but above all what it means to assert such differences. Foucault does not always manage to demonstrate that the great ruptures and transformations which he describes reveal a degree of cultural difference that goes beyond mere differences of opinion. But even if Foucault were right, the very notion of sweeping cultural or scientific transformations is quite vague, as the discussion of Thomas Kuhn’s work has clearly shown. One of the strongest and most important arguments that has been put forward against a neutralistic relativism, regardless of whether it is meant coquettishly or is seriously defended, holds that the very possibility of successfully understanding even extremely strange ideas and problems – a comprehensibility and interpretability that nobody presumes more decidedly than Foucault – implies a large number of common beliefs and shared forms of morality and reason.58 But where exactly is the boundary between what is common and what is different, and in what terms should this boundary be described? It should be plain that these questions cannot be discussed without reference to that great debate which currently plays a dominant part in the philosophical scene, and which comes under the heading ‘theory of meaning’. Questions of similar importance follow from Foucault’s characterisation of depth structures of power and of knowledge, whose relation to each other in the context of their historical forms is decisive for the messages of the analyses of power and of discourse. Clearly Foucault dissociates himself both from a philosophy of the subject and from theories of 57 See in particular McCarthy (1990) and (1991). 58 See Davidson (1993).

morals, knowledge and power

57

ontological constitution, but then the characterisation of depth structures becomes even more of a notorious problem – not only because it is difficult to determine the historical forms of these depth structures, but above all because it is difficult to determine what exactly depth could mean in this context. Thus, from a systematic point of view it would be interesting and helpful to consider Foucault’s analyses not so much from the abstract point of view of neutrality and relativism, but rather to see how far his analyses are fruitful for, and can be connected to, the current debate about problems of meaning, interpretation, ‘grammatical’ structures and the distinction of scientific from everyday cultures.

2

THE ETHICAL TELEOLOGY

Foucault begins his analysis of classical ancient philosophy by looking at the ethical discourses that deal with sexual pleasure and its problematisation. This he does on the same four levels that he had previously identified as the central aspects of every ethical investigation – ethical substance, the mode of subjugation, the teleology and ethical work (i.e. the practice of the self that the subjects must be engaged in to transform themselves into moral persons).1 The textual basis he employs consists almost exclusively of passages from the works of Plato, Aristotle and Xenophon. The main results of his analyses of these texts can be summarised as follows. The crucial passages studied by Foucault identify the aphrodosia – the dynamic of the interconnection of desires, sexual activity and pleasure which threatens to exceed all confines and destroy all order and reason – as the central subject of moral concern, that is as the ethical substance. Two main parameters are at the heart of the analysis of this dynamic: the quantitative degree of activity and the sexual polarity. It is not the forms of love and its practices that are important for the moral problematisation of pleasure, but the number and frequency of sexual acts, as well as the differentiation between the subject and the object of appetite – that is 1 UP part 1, 33–93; at the beginning of this part (UP 37) the sub-division of Foucault’s four levels suggested in ch. 3 of the introduction (UP 25–32) is explicitly applied to the first four chapters of the first part.

58

ethical teleology

59

matters of moderation and greed, and of activity and passivity, in both heterosexual and homoerotic relationships. Appetite and pleasure are considered to be natural and necessary, and so are not intrinsically bad. Nevertheless, they are a source of concern as they belong to the field of lower activity which humans share with animals, and they are based on forces which have an inherent tendency to excess and to bursting all bounds. Thus, in the use (chresis) of pleasure it is not so much what is allowed or forbidden that is important, but a control and prudence that rely on a rational calculation to determine the degree of yielding, as well as the correct time for the activity, while at the same time taking into account the status of the actors involved. This is the manner in which the robust dynamic of sexuality is to be subjugated, while at the same time it is accepted as necessary and natural. But this subjugation must take the form of an agonal struggle with herself on the part of the subject – for there is no other way of taming the intrinsic immodesty of sexuality. The subject’s soul has several parts, exhibiting a heautocratic structure; the internal struggle implies a self-reference which should end in victory, and lead to the settled state (hexis) of continence (enkrateia), although this must repeatedly be fought for. Domination and mastery are the form of ethical work which classical authors recommend in this context, not investigation and decoding as in Christianity. This form of ethical work has a clear end (telos): temperance (sophrosyne) that is a stable disposition of the control of pleasure, freedom from the enslavement to pleasure, the leadership of reason (logos) and prudence (phronesis), reflexive knowledge and self-control that also legitimates power over others. At the same time this emphasises the ‘virile’, i.e. active, aspect of the ethical teleology, which gains an ‘aesthetics of existence’ inasmuch as it takes on ‘the brilliance of a beauty that was revealed to those able to behold it or keep its memory present in mind’.2 A further, far-reaching consequence is deduced from this characterisation of the teleology: Putting it schematically, we could say that classical antiquity’s moral reflection concerning the pleasures was not directed towards a codification of acts, nor toward a hermeneutics of the subjects, but toward a stylisation of attitudes and an aesthetics of existence.3

It is conspicuous that in the context of this diagnosis Foucault almost completely ignores the intimate relationship between subjectivisation, 2 UP 89. 3 UP 92.

60

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

objectification and power – even when a discussion of this relationship seems to be almost inevitable, for example in the domain of teleology. In this domain, sophrosyne is conceptualised as the result of agonistic ethical work and moral subjectivisation, which at the same time is based on knowledge of the self and practical prudence as forms of a particular game of truth, and is an essential precondition of political power. This deficit is of particular systematic impact as aphrodisia, chresis and enkrateia can hardly be adequately described, and certainly not be comprehended, independently of the teleology. It is the teleology as the model of a good life that determines the central concern about sexuality, the main strategies for reducing this concern and the way in which these strategies are carried out. But Foucault does not focus on this significant approach since he reflects neither systematically, nor by using examples from ancient texts, upon the relationship and the connection between the four different levels of ethical discourse. It is this restricted perspective of the early ethics programme that allows him to trim the ancient teleology into an aesthetics of existence in the first place – an aspect which in many interpretations is quite incorrectly regarded as the core of his programme of ethics. A more precise presentation of how the teleologies which Foucault deals with are presented in the classical sources could help to redress this deficit and to provide a historical basis for the later, extended – and from a systematic point of view more interesting – perspective of the Foucauldian ethics. I intend to expound this using Aristotle’s ethics as an example. First of all I shall (1) present an outline of the ‘teleology’ which attempts to do justice to the complexity of this concept within the framework of Aristotle’s ethics, before (2) proceeding to prove the intrinsic interconnection of this teleology with domains of knowledge and a specific form of ‘games of truth’, and then (3) investigating how, for Aristotle, ethical activity was closely linked to political demands, requirements and relations of power, and (4) how the central concept of ethical work or moral subjectivisation can be more precisely differentiated, not least by considering various forms of regulative power. 1 Foucault is quite right to emphasise that ‘[t]he desires that led to the aphrodisia . . . and the pleasures that could be obtained from the aphrodisia had their cause, according to Aristotle, in necessary things that concerned the body and the life of the body in general’, and as such are natural

ethical teleology

61

and important.4 But Foucault does not take into account the fact that Aristotle embedded reflection on the function of aphrodisia, that is of matters concerned with sexual activity,5 systematically into his metaphysics and ethics. As for the metaphysical background to this reflection, Aristotle emphasises that in the context of aphrodisia all humans experience a pleasure (hedone) of extraordinary intensity (if not always in the manner they should), and that there is a scientific explanation for this intensity that reveals the exceptional tension connected with sexual activity.6 Of necessity desire (epithymia) is connected to this pleasure, for epithymia can be defined as pursuit (orexis) of the pleasurable – it is a deficiency (endeia) in pleasure, or – more precisely – it is caused by this deficiency, and seeks the ‘replenishment (anaplerosis) of this deficiency’.7 Thus, together with pleasure and desire, the aphrodisia form a unity the necessity of which can be described and explained scientifically. Nevertheless, it is instructive that Aristotle presents the core of this explanation in his tract De Generatione Animalium, and thereby indicates quite clearly its deep, metaphysical background. According to Aristotle, the function and the necessity of the unity of aphrodisia, pleasure and desire belongs in the context of the perpetual reproduction of natural species, which in turn refers to the highest end towards which all animals, as well as humans, naturally strive. Procreation ensures the survival of the natural species, which according to Aristotle’s metaphysics are paradigmatic cases of ousiai, that is of those entities which exist to the highest degree.8 It is precisely because they belong to an eternal and natural species that each and every mortal, and finite, animal can participate in the eternal and the divine which, in turn, is the highest end of all living creatures.9 However, the perpetual cycle of birth and death is itself embedded in the most universal of structures, and the deepest of dynamics, which rule the cosmos. For the cosmos, as Aristotle sees it, is ruled by perpetual cycles of which each stage is ‘absolutely necessary’ (anankaion haplos), and which exist partly in the field of perishable things, 4 UP 48, with reference to Ar. NE vii 6, 1147 b23–7, where no more than this is stated. 5 In spite of all the difficulties of translation to which Foucault refers in UP 35–7, the aphrodisia are those aspects of sexual intercourse which are related to the sexual act in a closer sense – conception, penetration, orgasm in men and women. 6 Ar. NE vii 14, together with GA i 18, 723 b3–724 a3. 7 See Ar. An. iii 11, 434 a3; Top. vi 3, 140 b27; An. ii 3, 414 b5 et passim; Pseud.-Ar. PP 930 a28; Ar. NE iii 13, 1118 b19. 8 Ar. An. ii 4, 415 a23–8 and Met. Z. 9 Ar. An. ii 4, 415 a29–b9; see on this Detel (1997a).

62

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

but above all in the field of the perpetual individual things, in other words the divine stars. The perpetual cycles of perishable things, for example the cycle of birth and death, ‘imitate’ the perpetual, mathematically exact changes of the heavenly spheres and try to emulate them as best they can. And vice versa, it is the exact dynamic of divine motion, with the ‘immovable mover’ as it deepest fundament, that is the scientific cause for the perpetual cycle of mortal beings.10 Aristotle identifies pleasure in a very general manner: animals and humans all seek pleasure in the same way,11 and essentially pleasure is a perceptible process towards a natural state, that is a motion through which the soul (in humans consciously) is brought to its natural state.12 Accordingly, desire (epithymia) as a pursuit of pleasure must be an aspect of the will to live.13 Thus, Aristotle felt that according to its function the scientifically observable unity of aphrodisia, pleasure and desire, a unity that so powerfully drives all animals to procreation, is indeed embedded in the deepest cosmic mechanisms. It is only against this background that its naturalness and necessity can be fully understood. From Aristotle’s standpoint embedding the dynamic of aphrodisia, pleasure and desire in the highest ends of all animals, and in the deepest mechanisms of the cosmos, is incompatible with the assumption that this dynamic is intrinsically destructive and a threat to life, for he certainly did not think that the deepest cosmic mechanisms were destructive. So we have a first indication that Foucault failed in his attempt to categorise the function of desire, sex and pleasure adequately. There are many other indications which point in the same direction when we start to consider that aspect of the Aristotelian ethics which Foucault calls ‘teleology’, and which he characterises as the settled state of temperance (sophrosyne). It is important to see that Foucault interprets the teleology in terms of the same model of domination and restriction that is to be found throughout his entire interpretation of classical Greek medical and philosophical texts: sophrosyne is a stable disposition of the control of pleasure and the self. It establishes the leading role of reason (logos) and prudence (phronesis), but this must continually be achieved and secured anew in the agonistic struggle of the parts of the soul, for only so can it lead to freedom, to being free of enslavement of the pleasures: 10 See Ar. GC ii 11; GA ii 1, 731 b24–732 a2; Phys. ii 9, 192 a16–18; GC ii 10, 336 b25–337 a8; Phys. viii 10. 11 NE vii 14, 1153 b24–6. 12 NE vii 12, 1152 b12–14; Rhet. i 11, 1369 b32 ff. 13 NE x 2, 1172 b35 ff.; 4, 1175 a10–21; ix 9, 1170 a19.

ethical teleology

63

Sophrosyne was a state that could be approached through the exercise of self-mastery and through restraint in the practice of pleasures; it was characterized as a freedom . . . Its polar opposite was . . . an enslavement – the enslavement of the self by oneself. To be free in relation to pleasures was to be free of their authority; it was not to be their slave . . . What one must aim for in the agonistic contest with oneself, and in the struggle to control the desires was the point where the relationship with oneself would become isomorphic with the relationship of domination, hierarchy, and authority that one expected, as a man, a free man, to establish over his inferiors.14

It is apparent that on this interpretation the aspects of the teleology (sophrosyne) and of the form of the ethical work (enkrateia) are intrinsically interconnected: for Foucault understands enkrateia, the struggle against and victory over the pleasures, as a central feature of moderation and temperance as a teleological disposition. However, Aristotle carefully distinguishes enkrateia and sophrosyne in the systematic framework of the ethical virtues, and relates them precisely to each other. Ethical virtue is directed at the field of irrational feelings. It is a settled basic disposition, and in action and choice its aim is the mean; for example, with respect to feelings of fear and trust, courage is a mean state of character between cowardliness and recklessness. But this talk of the mean state of character does not imply, as Foucault and many other Aristotelian scholars claim, a doctrine of permanent moderation, but rather being capable of reacting appropriately to individual situations. According to Aristotle this mean state of character does not exclude the possibility of hefty reactions when the situation demands them.15 The parameters on which Aristotle’s concept of ethical virtue is based allow us to differentiate four typical states of character: – Virtue (arete) is a mean state of character with respect to feelings, actions and choice; it consists of a stable basic disposition to choose and do with pleasure what is right. – Continence (enkrateia) is a mean state of character with respect to actions and choice, but not feelings; it consists of a stable basic disposition to choose and do what is right, but with pain and effort. – Incontinence (akrasia) is a mean state of character with respect only to choice, not actions and feelings; it consists of a stable basic disposition to choose what is right, but to do what is wrong, and this with pain. 14 UP 78, 79, 83. 15 See e.g. Ar. NE ii 6, 1106 b8–28; ii 9, 1109 a28.

64

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

– Finally, badness (kakia) is not a mean state of character in any respect; it consists of a stable basic disposition always to choose and do with pleasure what is wrong. This rough characterisation demonstrates the difference between virtue and temperance (arete and sophrosyne) on the one hand and continence and agonistic victory (enkrateia) on the other. The virtuous person (in the ethical sense) experiences pleasure and joy in choosing and carrying out actions which comply with a mean state of character, and therefore focuses her feelings on this mean. However, the person who has to keep her self under control must force her self (and is also capable of doing so) to choose and act in accordance with the mean state of character; in doing so she experiences no joy or pleasure, but pain and disquiet. Aristotle does not regard the latter as virtuous and prudent; to use a Foucauldian concept, the manner of subjugation, the practice of the self as victorious, agonistic enkrateia, must be clearly distinguished from the telos of sophrosyne. For Aristotle enkrateia is a deficient, sophrosyne a perfect basic disposition. Of course this view does not mean that in the field of teleology there is no longer any practice of the self or ethical work. But what is clear is that the model of domination and restriction of enkrateia as a deficient ethical state cannot easily be applied to ethical work within the framework of teleology, as Foucault attempts to do. Seen from the perspective of Aristotle’s texts, Foucault underestimates the central concept of ethical work and assigns it an incorrect systematic role. This is because he does not locate ethical work in the telos of a good life, but in the deficient state of enkrateia, and thus improperly generalises the model of domination and restriction. This in turn reveals another question that Foucault cannot even formulate within the concept of his interpretation – that is the question of what specific form Aristotle thinks that the ethical work that leads from enkrateia to sophrosyne, from self-control to virtue, has. This question can only be appropriately addressed, and the teleology viewed in a genuinely Aristotelian sense, if we free ourselves of Foucault’s focus on pleasures in the realm of sexuality and nutrition. For Aristotle approaches this problem from a remarkably general and subtly differentiated angle; for example, he feels that virtue and continence – each in its own way – generate a relationship to particular pleasures (in the case of continence a relationship of domination), but are at the same time accompanied by pleasure or pain which are not the object but the effect of self-restraint. This already suffices to indicate that as far as the teleology of the ethical life is concerned, Aristotle sees various forms of pleasure,

ethical teleology

65

while Foucault’s special historical interest in the problem of sexual pleasure, i.e. the way in which sexual pleasure is problematised, threatens to shackle and restrict his analytical access to classical texts. On its most general definition, pleasure (hedone) according to Aristotle is a perceptible process towards a natural state – and this is true of every creature that can experience pleasure and pain. Humans and animals thus all seek pleasure in the same way, and the pursuit of pleasure or desire (epithymia) is a basic aspect of the will to live.16 The differences between Aristotle’s analyses of human pleasure in books vii and x of the Nicomachean Ethics are a much-discussed topos of scholarly research: in NE vii pleasure is identified with unrestrained activities, but according to NE x pleasures supervene on the activities which correspond to them.17 Yet, notwithstanding all the differences, both interpretations share the view that just as there are according to Aristotle a variety of activities, so too there are many different forms of corresponding pleasures, not all of which are bad.18 Because human nature is not simple but complex, we will not always find the same things pleasurable, and in particular those forms of pleasure that supervene on good activities are themselves good, while those forms of pleasure that supervene on bad activities are bad.19 For Aristotle our concept of the pleasurable is not external to our model of a good life and of happiness (eudaimonia), for the good implies a picture of pleasure that is essentially linked to excellent, virtuous action, even if even good pleasure is naturally not the ultimate end of our action, but merely supervenes on these ends. The good life does not involve the complete avoidance of pleasure, but a correct view of what is good and what is bad pleasure. If we learn to act excellently, then at the same time we learn – and this is intrinsically connected with it – to experience pleasure in doing so. Remarkably enough, Aristotle also claims that this applies to bodily pleasure, for there is also a correct and an incorrect form of experiencing pleasure in eating and sex.20 These ‘necessary’ forms of pleasure also allow a more or less, an excess or a deficit. So ‘it is the pursuit of this excess, not that of the necessary pleasures, that makes a man bad; everyone enjoys 16 See Ar. NE vii 12, 1152 b12–14; Rhet. i 11, 1369 b32 ff.; NE vii 14, 1153 b25 ff.; NE x 2, 1172 b35 ff.; 4, 1175 a10–21; ix 9, 1170 a19. 17 See on this Festugi`ere (1946); Lieberg (1958); Ricken (1976); Owen (1971–2); Gosling (1973–4); Taylor (1987). 18 See e.g. Nussbaum (1986), 294 f.; Annas (1988), 285–300, as well as the classic article by Owen (1971–2). 19 Ar. NE vii 14, 1154 b20–3; x 5, 1175 b25–32. 20 This interpretation is excellently developed by Annas (1988) (see note 18), who also discusses the problems of the relevant texts in detail.

66

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

tasty food and wine, and sex in some degree, but not everyone to the right degree’.21 And on the other hand: ‘There is also a type of person who finds too little enjoyment in bodily pleasures.’22 Thus, it is not the victorious, agonistic suppression of a threatening urge that is worthy of praise, but finding the right measure in the positive attitude to the physical pleasures that all humans find particularly desirable, and which they experience intensely.23 The right measure excludes not only lack of restraint, but also abstinence. It can only be achieved when the relationship of physical pleasure and sexual activity to other forms of pleasure is correct, and when pleasure and sex can be incorporated into a properly thought out model of the good life as a whole. The species and the values of pleasures are dependent on the species and values of the respective activities to which they are linked. Their purity and stability, their anthropological specificity and their relation to virtue, are examples of criteria for determining the quality of different forms of pleasure. Thus, pleasures that we as humans share with animals are inferior to pleasures that are specific to us; a pleasure that is not mixed with reluctance, and can be long-lasting, is superior to impure, shortlived pleasure; and of course pleasure that is related to virtuous action is superior to pleasure in bad action.24 According to these criteria sexual pleasures are undoubtedly inferior, but this alone is not sufficient reason for Aristotle to be concerned about them, or to problematise their use. The exact form in which he does problematise them only becomes clear when the concept of sexual desire is embedded in the functional, conceptual framework of eudaimonia that Aristotle develops in the Nicomachean Ethics – a relation that is painfully absent from Foucault’s analysis. For reasons of brevity, I would like to illustrate the functional terminology that for Aristotle represents the conceptual framework for the determination of eudaimonia in the form of three explications.25 (A) (i) Where X is an organism, then F is a functional characteristic of X if: (a) F is necessary for the specific end (telos, normal state) of X; (b) X has F as long as X exists; (c) F is explanatory of other characteristics of X. 21 22 23 24 25

Ar. NE vii 14, 1154 a16–18. Ar. NE vii 11, 1151 b23 f. Ar. NE vii 15. Ar. NE x 1–5; see also i 3; esp. NE x 5, 1175 b37 f.; in addition NE vii 12–14. See above all Ar. NE i 6.

ethical teleology

67

(ii) (a) The specific achievement of an organism X is the ability of X to realise its functional characteristics. (b) The ability mentioned in (a) is the specific excellence or virtue of X. (c) The structure that within the context of the specific achievement of an organism X is revealed in the hierarchy of the functional characteristics of X, is the soul of X. (iii) The specific achievement of humans consists, in outline, of: (a) employing growth and perception for the exercise of reason; (b) guiding growth and perception through the exercise of practical reason; (c) when possible occasionally also exercising reason independent of growth and perception; whereby all of this is optimised and occurs as constantly as possible. The ‘reason’ in (A) refers to a very specific ability – contemplative rather than investigative, practical rather than productive. In other words it is the active, practical reason that is characterised by a peculiar correspondence between pursuit and truth – a mixture of theoretical reflection about genuine needs, and a practical wish for full personal development. (B) The active, practical reason; (i) unlike investigative reason, is not directed at what is necessary, but at that which can be different; (ii) unlike practical ability, is not directed at an end outside action (i.e. it is not production), but at an action that is an end in itself; (iii) is connected to the contemplative part of the soul, i.e. it includes deliberation (about the action); (iv) is a kind of unity of pursuit and thought, or a correspondence between correct pursuit and thought; (v) is more closely directed at a concept of the good, happy life as a whole, i.e. (a) it must recognise the really good life (truth); (b) it must also pursue the good life earnestly (correct pursuit); (c) it must deliberate about the role of individual actions in the overall plan of the good life (specificness); (d) it is an end in itself, i.e. it produces action as a constituent of happiness (autarky). Happiness can now be more exactly defined:

68

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

(C) Happiness is an activity of the soul, which leads to action in such a way that the activity is (i) directed by practical reason in the sense of (B); (ii) an excellent specific achievement of humans in the sense of (A); (iii) kept up throughout an entire lifetime. Thus, according to Aristotle we lead a good, happy life when we have transformed ourselves into stable, mature personalities, that are well developed intellectually, physically, socially and emotionally, and make consistent decisions. In particular, the good life is as free and autarkic as possible, it is active and complex, consistent and stable, as well as being unrestricted by extreme personal or financial misfortune. Three aspects must be taken into account when considering the systematic integration of the various types of pleasure into the functional concept of eudaimonia, or the best life. First, for Aristotle all motions and activities that maintain or restore a natural state in conscious organisms26 are incidentally accompanied by feelings of pleasure (in the former case without the addition of pain, in the latter case accompanied by a decreasing feeling of pain).27 Feelings of pleasure effectively supervene on the realisation of the specific achievements of all conscious organisms, and in each case the feelings are appropriate and ‘right, and the same is true, without qualification, of the specific achievements of humans, as outlined in (A)– (C).28 Furthermore, the conception of eudaimonia according to (A)–(C), as well as according to NE i and NE x, is to be understood inclusively: the successful, flourishing life of the happy person is not satisfied with merely scientific-theoretical activity (this would be the exclusive, intellectualistic interpretation of eudaimonia), but includes pleasure, honour, 26 All conscious organisms, that is all animals, experience pleasure and pain, and so also desire see Ar. An. ii 2, 413 b23; 3, 414 b3; iii 7, 431a 10–12. 27 See e.g. Ar. NE vii 13, 1152 b33–1153 a15. 28 As Kenny (1992), 21 is right to emphasise, in Aristotle’s mature ethics as laid out in the Eudemian Ethics, the concepts of the good, the pleasant and the virtuous coincide in their application (see e.g. Ar. EE 1237 a8–9). Thus a truly happy person, who leads the best life, also optimises his pleasures (see e.g. EE 1249 a18–21). According to Kenny (1992), the thesis that a happy life is not directed towards a single end, but should consider different ultimate ends according to the respective current situation and circumstances, and that in life these ends should be adapted to each other reflectively, is more clearly formulated in the EE than in the NE. At any rate, Aristotle generally believed that pleasures make the unrestricted specific human activities (energeiai) complete (NE x 4–5, 1174 b14–1175 b1; 1175 b23–35), or are even identical with them (NE vii 10, 1153 a1–5; this passage is also to be found in EE iv); see on this the classic studies by Festugi`ere (1946) and Owen (1971–2).

ethical teleology

69

reason, autarky, good relationships with family, friends and fellow citizens, and good health as well as external goods, and modest prosperity. Put more precisely, these elements are not means of obtaining happiness, but are constitutive elements of it, just as dance steps are not the means of dancing but constitute it.29 And finally, from (A)–(C) it is clear that happiness more precisely consists of optimising the order of the various constitutive elements of a successful life under the leadership of active reason (practical wisdom), and this order does not optimise just particular individual elements, but an entire life to the ‘good’ or ‘best’ life. To sum up, we can say of Foucault’s comments on the ‘teleology’ with respect to the Aristotelian ethics that he is correct in recognising the intrinsic unity that the aphrodisia forms together with desire and pleasure. However, he underestimates the scientific and metaphysical foundation of this unity which has as its aim a natural normal state in sentient beings, and places sexual pleasure in the broader context of the forms of pleasure. This mistake has serious consequences: Aristotle certainly does not attribute to the dynamic of aphrodisia, desire and pleasure an inherent lack of moderation that can also lead to weakening and over-exertion, and so is to be regarded fundamentally with concern and mistrust. In fact, for Aristotle sexual activity is not only natural and necessary, but the nature 29 The question of whether the Aristotelian concept of eudaimonia is to be understood inclusively or exclusively (that is intellectualistically), has been the subject of lengthy scholarly debate. For example, Cooper (1990) provides a weighty defence of the intellectualistic interpretation, while Ackrill (1980) is an influential proponent of the inclusive standpoint. On the whole Ar. NE i seems to be closer to the inclusive, NE x (esp. ch. 7) closer to the exclusive reading. However, we should note that in NE x – the focus of attention is the restriction of the political and the contemplative life, and therefore particularly the intellectualistic components of the contemplative life are emphasised; – so too some external conditions of the best life are mentioned (necessities of life: 8, 1178 a25–6; food, health, a few external goods: 9, 1178 b33–1179 a9; relaxation, amusement, games: 6, 1176 b28–35); fellow workers (7, 1177 a35; friends, ix 9, 1170 b14–19); – the purely intellectual life is described as being divine and too high for human attainment (7, 1177 b27–1178 a8; 8, 1178 b8 ff.). Thus the best life that humans can achieve will, on the whole, include purely intellectual activities, but also consist of other constitutive elements. One of the most recent and exhaustive discussions of this problem is to be found in Kraut (1989) (esp. ch. 5 (‘Inclusivism’, 267–311)). He successfully defends a highly differentiated variant of the inclusive interpretation against the ‘exclusivists’. In his influential book Kenny (1978) presents the view that in NE the exclusive, in EE, on the other hand, the inclusive aspect dominates, but emphasises in Kenny (1992) that at least NE ii–iv and to some extent also NE i, support the inclusive view (see esp. 6, 28, 93).

70

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

of its dynamic is such that it can be integrated into a consistent and proven good life; it is only immoderate, excessive and threatening in those of a bad mental constitution. Thus the object of Aristotle’s moral concern is not so much sexuality itself, that is the dynamic of aphrodisia, desire and pleasure, but rather that constitution of humans that directs them to a more or less good life, and above all decides the moral quality of their life. Thus the fourth and last of the aspects which Foucault wishes to distinguish in ancient ethics as a whole, the teleology, has been determined within the framework of the Aristotelian ethics. It is only on the basis of an appropriate interpretation of the teleology that the other three aspects and their internal relationship can be correctly understood – an understanding that Foucault renders impossible because he only discusses the teleology after the ethical substance, the manner of subjugation and the ethical work. Therefore I wish to make a few points about these three aspects on the basis of the Aristotelian ethics. From the perspective of the teleology, Aristotle finds the aphrodisia and sexual pleasure morally interesting only in the context of all those forms of pleasure that are important for the good life and eudaimonia. This conclusion is of particular importance for the identification of the ‘ethical substance’ that is at the heart of moral concern about sexual pleasure. If the specific human happiness in the functional sense is to be understood inclusively, then it involves a number of different activities – from nutrition and sexual activity, to taking care of friendships and other social relationships, and political and scientific work – which are all accompanied by specific feelings of pleasure. This means that there is a series of different forms of pleasure which the practice of the self involved in the good life must deal with. The inclusive form of happiness, as Aristotle sees it, quite definitely implies that none of these forms of pleasure should be completely suppressed or given far too much weight. This also applies to sexual pleasure: neither a life of sexual abstinence nor one that is mainly devoted to sexual satisfaction can be a good or best life. The good life is in fact characterised: – by a sensitisation to all forms of pleasure; – by the ability to create in long-term self-interest a stable hierarchy of the pleasures by means of practical reason, and to integrate them into a consistent concept of the good life.

ethical teleology

71

Certainly this involves suppressing or mastering some pleasures, but on the whole as far as pleasure is concerned the telos in fact involves an optimisation of the experiences of pleasure. To be more precise, Aristotle maintains that it is an empirical consequence of the best life that even our most diverse experiences of pleasure must be optimised in the long term.30 Thus, any behaviour, any pursuit, any choice that could endanger our route to complex happiness or its preservation is a cause for concern and a reason for problematisation. Undoubtedly sexual activity is one of them – but only in a particular sense: not because of its inherent, worrying, immoderate dynamic, but because it is intense. Humans of a poor mental constitution could succumb to it and pursue it excessively, or else be revolted by it and choose an ascetic life. Thus sexual activity cannot be inherently worrying or immodest, since in a fundamental sense it is natural and constitutive for happiness. This is the deeper systematic reason why Aristotle does not regard sexual activity as essentially bad or sinful, but instead is mainly concerned with its quantitative aspects, with moderation and reasoned calculation. Overall it is the correct, and rational, relationship between sexual pleasure and the maximisation of all our hierarchically ordered forms of pleasure that are important. But if sexual activity thus only provides a reason for moral problematisation under certain circumstances, and this has less to do with its nature than with the mental condition of humans, then on the other hand it is certainly not the only cause for moral concern. Every type of badness destroys or impedes the highest happiness – for example, cowardice, miserliness or dullness; excessive love of fame leads to a hectic political life that seeks only external recognition, and that will certainly not be the best life; and those who only want to earn money confuse the end and the means, and thereby block their own view of the human telos. In this extensive catalogue of morally problematic activities and attitudes, sexuality is only one of many elements. Hence Foucault’s identification of the ‘ethical substance’ of the Aristotelian ethics, and so of the most influential of all classical ethics, is 30 This is a direct consequence of the wording with which Aristotle claims to explain what pleasure is (in each case) – this is at the end of the long discussion of pleasure in NE vii 11–14 and x 1–5: pleasure is the ‘unimpeded activity of our natural state’ (anempodistos energeia tes kata physin hexeos; see vii 13, 1154 b32–3 with 1153 a14–15: here hexis is the term for a stable disposition of an activity specific to humans and the explication refers to each such specific activity). Owen (1971–2) shows that in principle Aristotle stands by this in EE also.

72

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

both imprecise and one-sided – imprecise because he attributes to sexual activity too great an implicit threat and dynamic, one-sided because he improperly separates the moral problematisation of sexuality from moral concern for the model of the best life. What is more, it is hard to see that the ‘ethical substance’ presents a new analytical category for ancient ethics. The Aristotelian ethics are a theory of the good life that appeals to the clarification of our rational self-interest – a clarification that, among other things, pre-supposes a certain amount of empirical and scientific knowledge. But above all this theory produces a complex, terminologically advanced picture of human happiness, and nothing is more natural than that anything that endangers this happiness should be grounds for moral concern. Any satisfactory interpretation of Aristotle’s ethics that meets normal standards requires determining what Foucault calls ‘ethical substance’, and so Foucault does not seem to introduce a fundamentally new method. Much the same can be said about the ‘use of pleasures’, that is the ethical form of ‘subjugation’. If we take this as meaning the use of sexual pleasures, then it is clear that we can not only claim, but with regard to Aristotle’s complex teleology also justify, and explain, why immodesty is the decisive improper behaviour, and why the strategy of pursuing temperance, of giving way when necessary and stabilising the balance of the pleasures, is morally desirable. This follows directly from the Aristotelian teleology of the good life. We could go one step further and claim that the use of pleasures cannot even be separated from the teleology of the Aristotelian ethics. This becomes immediately clear when one takes into account that the teleology in the Aristotelian sense does not describe a static telos as a structure, but explicitly characterises an activity guided by reason – activity, and not passivity and lack of motion, is a characteristic of happiness. For this reason the correct use of sexual pleasures is a constitutive element of the good life, and the description of, and instructions for, its use are part of Aristotle’s ethical teleology. Thus, in this context the category of the form of subjugation becomes part of the category of the teleology. At this point it is certainly not wrong to point, as Foucault does, to the aspect of subjugation; but it is more appropriate to emphasise that for Aristotle the achievement of happiness, of autarky and of competence in ethical judgement includes an act of subjugation – subjugation to the end of a consistent concept of a good life, of which the appropriate hierarchy of pleasures and their maximisation are part. The telos of the good life itself includes this subjugation, and therefore does not stand beyond

ethical teleology

73

the act. But at the same time it is clear that the term ‘subjugation’ can be misunderstood, at least in this context. For Aristotle it is rather a reasoned decision to integrate sexual activity into the model of a good life in a consistent manner. From his standpoint the category of the use of pleasures is defined too narrowly if only the sexual pleasures are considered. Nor can it be restricted to just the physical pleasures, but must include all forms of pleasure and their appropriate use. In his eyes the use of sexual or physical pleasures cannot be appropriate when they are not set in the correct relation to the use of the other pleasures, and vice versa. Finally, attention must be drawn to the fact that for Aristotle neither the ‘identification of the correct moment’ nor the social status of the actors plays a part in the use of (sexual) pleasures. It is not the person who seeks to preserve fame, respect or authority who should use her sexual pleasures appropriately, but the person who wishes to be happy in the best sense. From the Aristotelian perspective the form of ethical work or practice of the self must also be described in a more complex way than Foucault suggests. It was demonstrated above that the model of domination and restriction of enkrateia, which is a central concept for Foucault, is in Aristotle a stage of human development that in the ethical sense is deficient, and is at best part of the process of one’s transformation into a good and happy person. But it is important to remember that for Aristotle the good life as the ethical telos also includes a particular practice of the self. For eudaimonia is also a form of activity – but one which is not so much work on the transformation of ourself, as a constant endeavour to fully realise our intellectual, physical and social capacities. This endeavour undoubtedly demands reflective self-control – but not in order to restrict and conquer the threatening dynamic of sexual pleasure, rather so that we repeatedly optimise anew the functional structure of our specific achievements, and thus also the sublime balance of all of our pleasures, in the light of a rational model of the best life, and in the face of changing circumstances in our lives.31 This form of the practice of the self no longer consists of an agonal, painful and ultimately successful struggle against pleasure, for the reasoned telos of the good life has already become the driving motivation 31 Nussbaum’s (1986) influential study focuses on the ancient insight into the contingency and fragility of happiness and competence, as expressed not only in philosophical texts, but also by many poets (above all the tragedians). In particular ch. 10 (‘Non-scientific deliberations’) shows how according to Aristotle practical reason should constantly adapt anew the way we deal with the changing contingent circumstances of our lives to the rational model of the good life.

74

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

for action. Rather it is a reflective and controlled integration of concrete practical decisions and actions into the telos of life – a goal that is not easy to achieve given the contingency of the condition humaine. 2 Thus, from the perspective of the Aristotelian ethics, Foucault does not do justice to the conceptual complexity and systematic relevance of an ethical teleology. As could be shown, this not only leads to a distorted identification of the problematisation of the pleasures (ethical substance), of the use of pleasures (the form of ethical subjugation) and of work on the pleasures (the ethical work), but the close relationship of the ethical model of the good life to knowledge and power that Aristotle proposes is also neglected. Thus Foucault denies himself the chance of studying interesting systematic relationships between archaeology, genealogy and ethics on the basis of classical philosophical texts and nor can he develop a richer concept of ethical work that goes beyond the narrow and implausible boundaries of the aestheticisation and stylisation of our own existence. I would like to support this view with a few additional remarks on Aristotle’s ethics and its systematic environment. The functional definition of eudaimonia, which distinguishes the best life, is essentially concerned with the concept of practical reason (phronesis).32 According to Aristotle practical reason is neither a practical knowledge (for it is not directed instrumentally at ends outside of action) nor an investigative prudence (for it is not directed at that which is necessary). But although its most valuable fields are the contingent, which can also be different, and action, which contains its end in itself, it is nevertheless an important form of knowledge. The Aristotelian ethics describe phronesis as a peculiar unity or correspondence between pursuit and thought: on the one hand it contains the impulse and the motivation to realise the truly good life earnestly, on the other hand it requires an acceptance and understanding of our reasonable self-interest and the pattern of the truly good life, as well as the ability to consider and incorporate particular situations and decisions into this pattern.33 Thus, according to Aristotle, phronesis is an important cognitive component of the ethical teleology that is concerned with a complex field of knowledge. Foucault was 32 See NE i 6 and (A)–(C) above, pp. 66–8. 33 On the individual tasks of practical reason see above all Ar. NE vi 5, 1140 a24–b7; vi 2, 1139 a3–15; a29–31; b4–7.

ethical teleology

75

certainly aware of this component, and of its historic roots in the Socratic– Platonic doctrine of the unity of virtue and knowledge – sophrosyne ‘cannot be understood without reference to truth’. But it is significant that his understanding of practical reason is extremely restrictive and abstract. Foucault’s interpretation is heavily coloured by his model of the control involved in enkrateia: moderation and control of pleasure imply a sovereign and regulative position of the logos with regard to appetites (the ‘structural form’ of practical reason), as well as the decision what one should do, and how and when one should do it (the ‘instrumental form’ of practical reason). According to Foucault, only in Plato does a third element play a role – knowledge of the self, that is knowledge of one’s own soul (the ‘form of the ontological recognition of the self by the self’).34 But this tells us more about the function than the content of the cognitive component of practical knowledge, and as for the form of the relevant ‘game of truth’, in other words the appropriate method, Foucault says nothing at all. At the beginning of the Nicomachean Ethics Aristotle emphasises that knowledge of the greatest good, that is of the appropriate conception of eudaimonia, ‘is of great importance to us for the conduct of our lives’, and that is it should be an integral part of eudaimonia, since this knowledge allows us ‘like an archer to hit better’ the targets in life which we all have in mind in one way or another.35 However, this is not just everyday, common, trivial knowledge, but political science of a general kind, which aims – and is also necessary – to make humans (as citizens) virtuous. Ethics is a branch of political science, just like other forms of knowledge such as property management or public speaking.36 But to understand the important role of political science, it is necessary to bear in mind that Aristotle regarded living in political communities as a distinctive feature of humans, and thought that a good, justifiable life was only possible for us if the political constitution of the state in which we live was also good. Thus, for him, practical reason refers to a large number of different cognitive contents – in fact to all those fields which he himself covers in his ethics and in the Politics. At the beginning of the Rhetorics he remarks that the art 34 UP 86–9 esp. the summary 88 f.: ‘be it in the form of a hierarchical structure of the human being, in the form of a practice of prudence or of the soul’s recognition of its own being, the relation to truth constituted an essential element of moderation. It was necessary for the measured use of pleasures, necessary for controlling their violence.’ 35 Ar. NE i 1, 1094 a22–5; see also 1095 a3–6 (the end of ethics is not knowledge, but action); i 10, 1099 b23–32 (the end of political science is noble action on the part of the citizens); ii 2, 1103 b27–9 (ethics contributes to virtuous action); x 10, 1179 a34–b31 (ethics is necessary, but not sufficient for virtuous action). 36 Ar. NE i 1, 1094 a27–b12.

76

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

of public speaking is related to dialectics and political science (including ethics), so that just like the good citizen and happy person in general, so too the good speaker must have an appropriate view of what constitutes a happy life and excellence of character. He must be able to distinguish and assess the various types of political constitution, to recognise the characteristics of voluntary and involuntary action, as well as to name the motives for wrongdoing, to appreciate the value of friendship, to know the various complex definitions of what is pleasurable and just, as well as to have gathered a comprehensive knowledge about feelings.37 Effectively this is a description of the main subject matter of Aristotle’s writings on ethics and politics. Comprehensive, complex and sound knowledge of humans and the polis are included in the ethical teleology that he develops: the ‘relationship to truth’, which sophrosyne and phronesis also have on Foucault’s interpretation, is certainly not vague or abstract. On the contrary it is quite specific and concrete. This is particularly true of the methodological aspects of this knowledge, that is – to use Foucault’s terminology – of the game of truth that is constitutive for practical reason. At the beginning of the Nicomachean Ethics Aristotle not only makes quite clear that this is a knowledge that is guided methodically (ethike, politike), he also refers in some detail to a number of methodological peculiarities: we cannot expect exact knowledge in this context, but must be satisfied with a smaller degree of certainty which at best allows us to comprehend what is for the most part so (to hos epi to poly); we should always start with that which we know, and attempt to move on from there to more general principles, while at the same time being satisfied with determining the facts, and not trying to discover the causes.38 In a famous passage at the beginning of book vii of the Nicomachean Ethics Aristotle explains the methods of ethics more exactly: 37 Much of the first book of Aristotle’s Rhetorics sketches the contents of this knowledge, with the exception of the ‘theory’ of feelings presented in Rhet. ii 1–19. His arguments in the Protrepticus, passages of which are preserved in Iamblichus’ exerpts, are more forceful and general. The Protrepticus is a riposte to the Antidosis written by the influential orator Isocrates, a fictional defence speech, which, among other things, complains about the uselessness of academic philosophy. In the Protrepticus Aristotle not only pointedly refers to the great value of ‘useless’ activities that do not have a specific purpose, for example philosophical activity (see frag. B11–B14, B25, B27, B42–3, in the edition by During ¨ (1969)), he also points out that even theoretical philosophical knowledge of nature is important for adequate action: ‘This knowledge may be in itself theoretical, but it provides us with the possibility of modifying our action in accordance with it’ (frag. B51, see also B38, B41, B46–7). 38 Ar. NE i 1, 1094 b11–22; i 2, 1095 a31–b13.

ethical teleology

77

Here . . . we must first set out the evidence [phainomena], and after calling attention to the difficulties [aporiai] proceed to establish [deiknynai], if possible, all the received opinions [endoxa] about these affections, or failing that as many as we can of those that are best supported. For if the discrepancies are resolved, and received opinions left validated, the truth will be sufficiently demonstrated.39

According to this description the ethical method consists essentially in considering the quite different, often even incompatible, accepted opinions regarding a particular question, examining them on the basis of empirical evidence, and then rendering them as consistent as possible by means of a suitable interpretation that is not at odds with the evidence, so arriving at plausible opinions. Quite clearly the methodological game of truth that is employed in Aristotle’s ethics is dialectics (in the ancient sense).40 But he certainly does not restrict it to ethics and politics: rather the dialectic method, much like logic and the theory of science, is not limited to a specific subject, for one of its specific characteristics is that it can help us in the discussion of any problem we are presented with.41 On the other hand, it is true that the dialectic method is particularly prominent in ethics, and together with the subject matter of ethics constitutes a ‘game of truth’ that is specific to it.42 Perhaps we can follow Foucault in interpreting the Aristotelian ethics as a recommendation for a ‘subjectivisation’, by means of which persons as actors constitute themselves as moral subjects – in the rather trivial sense that we should lead a life that is being examined constantly in such 39 Ar. NE vii 1, 1145 b2–7; see also Phys. iv 4, 211 a7–11. 40 It is frequently stated that dialectics is related to the endoxa, assesses the problems and seeks to render the endoxa consistent; see e.g. Ar. Top. i 1, 100 a30–b22; An. Prior. i 1, 24 a22–4; i 30, 40 a9–10; SE 11, 172 a21–6; Met. iii 1, 995 b23–4; Rhet. i 8, 135 b35; An. Post. i 6, 74 b21–6; i 11. The literature on Aristotle’s ethics is immense. The recent studies by Nussbaum (1986) and Reeve (1992) are interesting and influential, while Detel (1993) ii, 243–5 reviews a number of important works. Nussbaum and Reeve attempt to describe the close connection between teleology and ethical (dialectic) method in different ways: Nussbaum tends to separate the ethical method and ethical knowledge more clearly from demonstrative science, while Reeve prefers to emphasise their common ground. At any rate, their work is impressive proof of the intrinsic interconnection of ethical teleology with both the methodology and the content of a specific practical knowledge in Aristotle. 41 See Ar. An. Post. i 12, 78 a10–13; Top. i 1, 100 a18–20; i 11, 172 a12; Met. iv 4, 1004 b19–20; Rhet. i 1, 1354 a1–3 on the relationship of dialectics and (demonstrative) science see Detel (1993) i, 151–7 (with a list of texts in Aristotle with a non-ethical, dialectical argumentation). 42 See on this Barnes (1980); also Mueller-Goldingen (1988), 461–82 (with further literature); Irwin (1981), as well as the classic Owen (1967).

78

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

a way that by a permanent process of self-control and self-reflection we subjugate ourselves to the demands that a rational model of the best life makes of us. But if this is correct, then according to Aristotle the subjectivisation is intrinsically connected with an ‘objectification’ that opens up a rich and complex field of knowledge in the form of ethics and the science of the polis, and within which a clearly defined and surprisingly complex ‘game of truth’ is played in the guise of the dialectic method.43 Persons themselves belong to this field of knowledge – as rational actors and good citizens. Thus at the same time, within the context of the objectification connected with ethical subjectivisation, we make ourselves the objects of a knowledge that of necessity includes knowledge of the self in the objective sense. According to Aristotle a particular feature of this knowledge and its associated field is that in principle they should, under favourable circumstances, be accessible to all humans – in the environment of the classical polis at least to all male citizens who are involved in political processes. The general applicability of the dialectic method corresponds to this universal epistemic accessibility of the field of knowledge, that is of the relevant game of truth which is indeed not the topic of a special science, but of education (paideia).44 According to Aristotle a universal ethical and political objectification is linked to ethical subjectivisation, inasmuch as this objectification is a constitutive element of the ethical teleology. Quite clearly Foucault dramatically underestimated the factual content, the methodological specificity and the systematic weight of this objectification within the context of the ethical teleology. The ethical work of the ancient world is at the same time educational work in a much more comprehensive and complex sense than Foucault is prepared to admit. 3 As Aristotle sees it, ethics as the theory of and instruction in the good life is closely connected with the ‘theory of the polis’, that is ‘politics’ or ‘political technology’. Politics in this sense is identified as the supreme science for the accomplishment of the best life in the polis, and as such pursues the same end for the polis as a whole as ethics does for each individual.45 Sometimes Aristotle seems to talk about the happiness (eudaimonia) of the polis as a whole, but this should not be interpreted holistically: Aristotle 43 Of course it is not just the general comments cited in notes 38–42 with which Aristotle characterises dialectics. It is above all in the Topics that he provides a comprehensive and complex arsenal of dialectic argumentation. 44 See Ar. PA i 1, 639 a5–12; Met. iv 4, 1006 a5–9; NE i 4, 1044 b12–27. 45 Ar. NE i 1, 1094 a 27–b10; i 13, 1102 a5–13; ii 1, 1103 b3–6.

ethical teleology

79

does not presuppose that the polis is a supra-individual entity to which we can meaningfully attribute happiness. Rather the polis as such is ‘happy’ when its citizens are – and the polis is happy to the same extent as its citizens. What is more, although the ‘political technology’ is a science (or ‘technology’), which is used and employed by the rulers, this should not be interpreted in a totalitarian sense: Aristotle does not assume that the rulers prescribe what the individual citizens should understand as the good life. Instead the polis should have a just constitution which enables all citizens to lead a good and proven life. The ‘political technology’ serves to establish and stabilise such a constitution (politeia).46 Foucault only refers to a single line connecting ancient ethics as a practice of the self and political conditions of power in the ancient polis, and this line only represents an indirect relationship: only those who achieve the state of self-control and government of pleasure (in the form of sophrosyne, or at least in the form of enkrateia) can be regarded as suitable for a political career and to be trained in political rule.47 But if the state (polis) and its constitution (politeia) primarily serve to enable its citizens to enjoy a good, happy life as laid down in the ethics, then the power structure of the state must be intimately tailored to the structure and the conditions of eudaimonia. This connection can indeed be found in the Aristotelian Ethics and Politics, above all within the framework of the difficult relationship between the contemplative and the political life. When he first introduces the distinction between four ways of life (the contemplative, the political, the pleasure-seeking and that which revolves around money) in the first book of the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle takes the opportunity to point out that apart from the contemplative way, none of them fulfils the criteria for a happy life.48 His argument that this is 46 According to Pol. iii 1–3 each state (every polis) can be identified criteriologically on the basis of its constitution (politeia), but it is ontologically identical with the sum of its citizens. In Pol. vii 1–3 a state is good if it enables and encourages a good life in its citizens and the criteria for a good life and the good state are identical; finally, it is possible, although not desirable and therefore no contradiction, that the citizens as a whole are honest (in the form of their majority decisions), but that at the same time individual citizens are not. Thus, the happiness of the citizens is not identified with the happiness of the state as a supra-individual entity – Aristotle did not propagate a metaphysical holistic concept of the state. Furthermore, the state does not decide the happiness of the citizens, but rather the eudaimonia as a plan is explicated independently of state institutions (e.g. in the Aristotelian ethics), but requires a good state in order to be realised – Aristotle does not propagate a state totalitarianism of values. The discussion of the best constitution in Pol. vii explicitly pre-supposes the concept of eudaimonia and of the good life that are developed in NE (see Pol. vii 1, 1323 a14–1324 a4). 47 See UP 69–77. 48 Ar. NE i 3, esp. 1095 b22–31 (on the political way of life).

80

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

particularly true of the political way of life is of enormous significance: the end of the political life is honour, but ‘honour is felt to depend more on those who confer it than on him who receives it, and we feel that the Good is something proper to its possessor, and not easily taken from him’. Honour and recognition as values are not compatible with autarky, which is an essential characteristic of eudaimonia – in our chase for these values we humans are dependent on the opinion of other humans.49 A good life should be so structured that it is as independent of contingent factors as possible, and this is definitely not the case for a life of which the highest end is the maximisation of recognition and honour, for these are permanently influenced by external circumstances and judgements.50 For Foucault one, if not the main, characteristic of ancient ethics is that the ethical subjectivisation and objectification ‘open onto an aesthetics of existence’, in that the recommended good life ‘took on the brilliance of a beauty that was revealed to those able to behold it or keep its memory in mind’. It is through this ‘stylisation of attitudes’ that ‘one would be able to give one’s conduct the form that would assure one of a name meriting remembrance’.51 Perhaps for Aristotle recognition, honour, glory, beauty, remembrance, or an aesthetic way of life can often be side-effects or consequences of a proven life guided by eudaimonia. But his arguments against the political life as a form of the best life imply that these consequences cannot also be the main goal of the best life, as they involve more contingency, dependence and hectic activity than would be compatible with the autarky of the happy life. However, Aristotle’s position on this matter is more complex than the above comments suggest. At the beginning of the Nicomachean Ethics he already makes quite clear that the autarky of the happy life by no means requires absolute independence from social relationships, nor the solitude of the hermit’s existence: The same conclusion seems to follow from another consideration. It is a generally accepted view that the perfect good is self-sufficient. By self-sufficient we mean not what is sufficient for oneself alone in a solitary life, but something that includes parents, wife and children, friends, and fellow-citizens in general, for man is by nature a social animal.52

49 See also Ar. NE x 7, where he also points out that the political life requires power and does not guarantee sufficient leisure. Both increase the dependence of political activities. 50 See NE i 10, 1100 b33–1101 a8; also x 8, 1178 a34–b3; i 7, 1097 b14–16. 51 UP 89, 92 f. 52 Ar. NE i, 1097 b7–11.

ethical teleology

81

As far as recognition is concerned, Aristotle regards friendship as certainly the most important of all the social relationships that a developed, happy person can engage in, particularly if the friends are similarly developed, happy persons. The mutual respect of free and equal persons is a constitutive element of the flourishing and happy life, but in this case the respect of the other person coincides substantially with confident and justified respect for oneself. For the developed and free citizen respects exactly the same things in his similarly developed and free friend as he respects in himself – namely the realisation of eudaimonia in the course of a complex and stable ethical work with all its ethical and cognitive elements.53 The stable assessment of the self, together with the calm respect of the developed other person, the coincidence of love of the self and love of the friend, are for Aristotle the form that recognition of a good life in the reactions of others assumes as an essential element of eudaimonia. This reciprocal relationship between the free and equal is not in danger of losing autarky (in the correct sense of the term); it remains independent of contingent, changing circumstances and it is beyond criteria such as glory, admiration and remembrance, which have more to do with the pursuit of honour (thymos) than with the realm of reason (logos). These criteria have their roots in the judgement of lesser humans, and, as Greek tragedy so dramatically illustrates, can often swiftly and cruelly turn into their opposite. 53 The emphatic discussion of friendship in NE viii–ix accentuates that friendship is the greatest of all external goods (ix 9, 1109 b9–10), that the happy and excellent life necessarily requires friendship (viii 6, 1157 b19–21; ix 9, 1169 b17–19) and that humans are by nature created to live together, and thus friends are by nature close to each other (ix 9, 1170 a13–14, b13–16). Of course, it is not primarily a friendship for the sake of benefit, or of what is pleasant, but that form of friendship that has as its end excellence (viii 3). This form of friendship is well balanced and reciprocal: it is characterised by mutual respect and goodwill and unselfish action in the interest of the other (viii 2, 1155 b31–4); viii 4, 1156 b6–12; ix 4, 1165 a2–9; see Rhet. 1380 b36–1381 a2). But at the same time all forms of friendship are cultivated for the sake of self-advantage (NE viii 4). But this is not a contradiction, for the relationship of the excellent person to himself is structurally identical with his relationship with the excellent friend (we wish the friend all the best; we wish the same as the friend and want to be together with him always; and we share pleasure and pain with the friend – and all of this is also true when we ourselves are the friend; see viii 4). The excellent person acts towards his friend, who is ‘another himself’, in the same way as he does towards himself (ix 9, 1170 b6–9), and this respectful relationship is justified because that which we love in both ourselves and our friend is objectively and reasonably lovable (ix 8). Furthermore, recognising and respecting excellence in a friend also contributes towards the development and stabilisation of our own excellence (see ix 9, 1169 b22–1170 a12). See on this the important article by Cooper (1980); also Nussbaum (1986), 354–72; Kraut (1989), ch. 2 (78–154); Reeve (1992), 114–22 and 173–82; Kenny (1992), 43–55.

82

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

The political life, that is the life that is dedicated to politics, is for Aristotle certainly not the best life. But the inclusive form of eudaimonia, and the fact that social relationships should be consistent with the autarky of the good life, are important indications that political activity could nevertheless be a significant element of eudaimonia. Indeed, it can be shown that Aristotle defends this view in a complex series of arguments.54 At the same time these arguments allow a closer examination of the way in which the Aristotelian teleology is intimately interconnected with the propagation and support of political relations of power – an interconnection, incidentally, that goes well beyond anything that Foucault is prepared to accept, namely that self-control and stylisation of conduct are important conditions for the political career of a full citizen. So how does Aristotle think that the sphere of politics is interwoven with the ethical teleology? First of all we can say that for him a publicly organised education, guided by good political laws, is an important condition for the development of a good character;55 for the unity and cohesion of the polis is in danger when education is left to the private discretion of parents. Even after the completion of education, moral practice in the public sphere of the polis remains an important means of maintaining and further developing the good character, and without this a good life is impossible.56 Thus, education and moral practice in the public political arena are for Aristotle certainly necessary for the development of a good character, which is in turn a precondition of eudaimonia. But beyond that, political activity is also an intrinsic telos and a constitutive element of the best life. Perhaps not all rational plans of the best life will include the demand that every opportunity for political action should be realised, but the right to hold political office must be upheld, for without this right life remains alienated and uprooted – a state that would be incompatible with eudaimonia.57 After all, we humans are ‘political creatures’ – political activity is part of our nature. Here Aristotle not only points out that we cannot survive outside political communities, but stresses that we cannot lead a good and 54 The best summary of these arguments is to be found in Nussbaum (1986), ch. 12 (343–77). Kraut (1989), ch. 1 (15–77) and ch. 5 (267–311) offers a detailed discussion of the relationships between the contemplative and the political life. 55 NE ii 1, 1103 b23–24; x 10, 1179 b23–1180 a24; Pol. viii 1, 1337 a21–9. 56 NE x 10, 1180 a1–4. 57 MM ii 12,1212 a34 ff.; Pol. iii 5, 1278 a34–8; accordingly, the best politeia should be organised so that all full citizens have a lifelong right to hold public office; see MM i 33, 1194 b5–23, Pol. i 6, 1255 b20, v 2, 1261 a39, iii 4, 1277 b7, iii 17, 1288 a12, ii 12, 1274 a22 ff., iii 4, 1276 b38 ff., vi 2, 1317 b2–3, b32 ff.

ethical teleology

83

happy life outside them either – a life without political and social activity could hardly be regarded as fully human.58 From this perspective we can also understand that justice as a fundamental ‘rational’ value is the ‘complete’ virtue under which all other merits of character can be subsumed: a self-centred non-political life would lead to the loss of all other merits of character.59 More interestingly, Aristotle believes that this close interconnection between ethical teleology and political activity implies very specific political structures and relations of power. It is a well-known fact that according to his political theory the state is ‘a community of equals aiming at the best possible life’; the perfect state with the best constitution can best realise eudaimonia, and a state is excellent when its citizens are excellent.60 What is more, the state is so complex that it not only consists of parts, but also pre-supposes necessary conditions and structures that are required for its survival.61 The parts of which a political community consists are precisely its full citizens, whose complete development in relation to eudaimonia is to be guaranteed by the best constitution (politeia). Thus, the full citizens are free and equal, that is they should be able to choose how they lead their life prudently and independently, and be each others’ equals in intellectual and social self-development.62 But how can this fundamental freedom and equality, as a constitutive element of the ethical teleology, be consistent with the distinction between rulers and ruled, or the politically dominant and dominated? Aristotle feels that there is only one political condition that ensures this consistency, namely the rotation of political power among the full citizens: One principle of liberty is for all to rule and be ruled in turn . . . For equals the honourable and the just consist in sharing alike, as is just and equal. But that the unequal should be given to equals, and the unlike to those who are like, is contrary to nature . . .63

To put it more precisely, the political rulers will always be members of the group of full citizens, always be voted for by the full citizens or chosen from among them by lot, and give up their office to other full citizens by See NE ix 9, 1169 b16–19; Pol. i 2, 1253 a1–7 (on this Nussbaum (1986), 349–51). NE v 3, 1129 b26 ff. Pol. vii 8, 1328 a37–8; vii 13, 1332 a3–6, 31–3. Pol. vii 8, 1328 a21–36. Pol. vii 14, 1332 b11–12. The citizens participate in a ‘life of free choice’ (Pol. iii 9, 1280 a32–4) and, in contrast to slaves, are ‘their own’ (Pol. i 4, 1254 a14–15); what is more in their eudaimonia and excellence they are ‘equals’ (see Pol. vii 8). 63 Pol. vi 2, 1317 b1–2; vii 3, 1325 b6–9.

58 59 60 61 62

84

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

regular rotation. A direct, non-representative, grassroots democracy of all full citizens is thus the only form of political rule that is consistent with the ethical teleology and its fundamental role in the best politeia. Of course this picture must be expanded by two further basic assumptions that bring with them far-reaching consequences. On the one hand, any state necessarily includes a functional division of labour of which the most important elements are securing food, the production of tools, military protection, the provision of financial resources for public services such as building programmes and the police, as well for war, the cultivation of religion and finally the public procedure of deciding what is appropriate and just.64 On the other hand, the development and maintenance of excellence – including political activity – demanded a degree of leisure and necessary wealth which went far beyond what the ancient economy could provide for everybody who lived in and around a particular polis.65 Consequently, if the functional division of labour within the state requires a division of the classes into farmers, craftsmen, soldiers, the rich (!), priests and magistrates, and judges, then it is clear that farmers, craftsmen and above all slaves, as ‘philistines and labourers’ do not have sufficient leisure to attain excellence and eudaimonia, and thus must not only be excluded from political power, but also by definition do not belong to the parts of the state (only to its necessary preconditions).66 Much the same applies to all those additional persons who for other reasons cannot attain excellence, such as children, adolescents and women. Thus, if the highest human end, a state consisting of citizens living happily, is to be realised then not only must it have a non-representative, grassroots democracy, but, given the economic conditions of the ancient world, it must also have a sufficient number of persons who work to achieve this end, yet who at the same time must be excluded from the privileges of political activity and from the opportunity of conducting ethical work. In other words, in the best state there will of necessity be people who have reached very different stages of development with regard to the ethical teleology, and if social value is to be assessed on the basis of the degree of this development, then the fundamental social relations of recognition such as love or respect will also include asymmetrical relationships,67 and 64 Pol. vii, 8–10. 65 Pol. vii 9, 1329 a1–2; see NE x 7, 1177 b4–6; Pol. ii 9, 1269 a34–6; Pol. ii 11, 1273 a32–b7; Pol. vii 14, 1333 a37–1334 a10; Pol. viii 2, 1337 b4–14; 1338 a1–13; on this Nussbaum (1986), 347. 66 Pol. iii 5, 1278 a15–21; vii 9, 1328 b39–1329 a2, 1329 a34–9. 67 See e.g. NE viii 8.

ethical teleology

85

these can only be transformed into reciprocal forms of recognition of equal value among the fully developed (male) full citizens.68 Beyond these central political and social structures of the best state, a number of additional, more trivial and external preconditions can be deduced from the demand that the ethical teleology be realised for all male full citizens. The state should be large enough for the underprivileged working class to be able to provide the economic conditions that the full citizens require in order to pursue intensive ethical work and prudent political activity. On the other hand, the number of full citizens should be small enough to guarantee a non-representative, grassroots democracy that is based on its members knowing each other. Its territory should be sufficiently large and suitable to ensure economic autarky, but small enough to be defended properly, so that the ethical work of the full citizens is not restricted by economic or military dependence on less perfect states. Finally, the state should, of course, be peace loving, and seek only modest prosperity, for too much martial glory and luxury pervert even the best character.69 In this way instruction in moral ‘subjectivisation’, which can sometimes lead to an aesthetic stylisation of conduct (although this is certainly not its chief purpose), is intimately linked in the Aristotelian ethics to a number of definite and very concrete political relations of power, and these are the direct result of the close systematic interconnection of ethical and political ‘science’ as a specific field of knowledge with a uniform game of truth. By making themselves the objects of a self-transformation towards the ethical telos, the individuals must at the same time become the objects of political human science and strategies of power. This process includes the subjugation of the individuals to teleological ideals and ethical rules of ethical work, to methodological-dialectical rules and games of truth, as well as to political strategies and ends. What is more, this process is accompanied by continual self-observation, self-control and self-interpretation. In short, the process of objectification is at the same time – on all three levels – also a process of subjectivisation in the Foucauldian sense of ‘subject’. Perhaps we can follow Foucault in interpreting the Aristotelian ethics as instruction in ethical subjectivisation, or the formation of the moral subject in the guise of particular practices of ethical work. But it is only when we look at the complex ethical teleology that the intrinsic interconnection of ethics, archaeology and genealogy (in Foucault’s sense) becomes 68 NE viii 3–7. 69 Pol. vii 4–7.

86

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

visible. Yet this, paradoxically, is missing from Foucault’s own interpretation of ancient ethics. At the same time, it is precisely this interconnection that, at least in the case of the Aristotelian ethics, requires that the central concept of ethical work be differentiated, with far-reaching systematic consequences, above all for the concept of power. The methodological status of Aristotle’s ethics as a discipline of the human sciences assumes a complex and interesting relationship with the forms of ethical subjectivisation which it itself recommends.70 One of the main indications of this is the application to ethics of the difference between the facts (the ‘that’) or what is ‘known to us’, and the causes (the ‘why’) or what is ‘known absolutely’ – a difference that is to be found in Aristotle’s theory of science. According to Aristotle’s view, in ethics we should also proceed from the ‘that’ (the phenomena which are known to us), and move on to the ‘why’ (the explanation of the phenomena),71 even though the ‘that’ and the ‘why’ will not have exactly the same meaning here as in the natural sciences. What exactly Aristotle understands to be the factual starting-point of ethical science and instruction becomes clear in those passages that emphasise that apart from a natural disposition, the ethics also pre-supposes an ethical habit and conduct. This precondition has volitional, cognitive and practical aspects: whoever wishes to study and apply ethics in the Aristotelian sense successfully, must already pursue the end of becoming excellent in the ethical sense; he must also know that particular actions are excellent and he must already be accustomed to act in an excellent sense.72 The Aristotelian ethics is not intended to recommend virtue and excellence to all humans. The Aristotelian ethics does not address those who despise virtue and excellence; it does not want to turn bad people into humans who act and think excellently, for arguments and instruction are wasted on people who do not have both feet firmly on the ground of the ethical ‘that’, or the ethical phenomena. Rather, ethics is intended to reveal to those who already have experience of the ethical habit and the capacity for factual moral judgement, exactly what they do thereby, what further ethical development would amount to, and why they should achieve it. This 70 On the following, see above all the excellent article by Burnyeat (1980). 71 On the scientific distinction between ‘that’ and ‘why’ see Ar. An. Post. i 13, 78 a22–8; i 27, 87 a31–2; ii 1, 89 b23–31; ii 8, 93 a16–18; Met. vii 17, 1041 b14–16 (in PA i 1, 639 b6–11; 640 a13–16 Aristotle says ‘phenomenon’ instead of ‘that’; see in general Detel (1993) i, 244–7; ii, 547–9); on the application of this distinction in the ethics see NE i 2, 1095 b2–13; i 7, 1098 a33–b4 (on this subject see Burnyeat (1980), 71 ff.). 72 See e.g. NE i 1, 1094 b29–1095 a11; i 3, 1095 b6–13; x 9, 1179 b20 ff.; Pol. vii 13, 1332 a39–b10; vii 15, 1334 b6 ff.; viii 3, 1338 b4–8. Of particular relevance in this context is the much-discussed chapter NE ii 1.

ethical teleology

87

knowledge is for its part an essential precondition for the development of that stable, mature and complex character that should distinguish free and equal citizens, and guarantee their eudaimonia within the framework of a rational plan for the good life. 4 Thus in Aristotle’s view ethics as the theory and instruction of the formation of moral subjects is based on far-reaching preconditions, about which a great deal can be said. The systematic place for this context is apparently the discussion of upbringing and education (paideia), the role of which in the framework of classical ethics cannot be underestimated. What is of importance here is not the structure, function and content of elementary education (grammar, gymnastics, music and arithmetic), but rather the form and direction of moral upbringing. For Aristotle this must make use of an inborn part of our animalistic nature – the pursuit of pleasure. Thus our discussion of the Aristotelian teleology returns to the topic with which, in harmony with Foucault, we started our thoughts, and takes the form of an investigation of its preconditions. According to Aristotle there are processes of learning that primarily develop the human ability to enjoy something, or to experience pleasure from it. In this way we can sometimes learn that something is pleasant or agreeable. In particular it is possible to learn to enjoy something in an appropriate manner, to experience pleasure in it in an appropriate manner and above all to find the right activities pleasant. The upbringing and education of children and the young should guide this process of learning.73 This ‘learning’ is to be understood in an emphatic sense: it is not only a matter of knowing that certain actions are excellent, but also of carrying out these actions for the sake of their intrinsic value, and experiencing enjoyment and pleasure for the sake of this value, in doing so – and to achieve this requires time and practice, in short ‘habit’. The life of the young may essentially be characterised by feelings and the pursuit of immediate pleasure,74 but many of them experience shame (aidos) in the process, and therefore have a sense of what is appropriate and excellent which can be made use of in their education.75 As a feeling for noble and excellent action, shame goes well beyond plain fear of punishment, and is 73 See NE ii 3, esp. 1104 b3–13; also i 8, 1099 a17–21; ii 9, 1109 b1–5; iii 4, 1113 a31–3; iv 1, 1120 a26–7; x 1, 1172 a20–3. 74 NE i 3, 1095 a4–8; viii 3, 1156 a31–3. 75 NE iv 9, 1128 b10–12, 15–21.

88

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

an important condition for the transformation of the passionate pursuit of immediate pleasure into an intensive effort to experience pleasant feelings when performing actions of intrinsic value: ‘It is a regrettable fact that discussion and instruction are not effective in all cases . . . the mind of the pupil has to be prepared in its habits if it is to enjoy and dislike the right things.’76 Thus for Aristotle there are two steps in the transformation of the child into a mature moral subject, which he distinguishes terminologically with the concepts of ‘habit’ (ethos) and ‘teaching’ (didache). From this follows that the formation of moral subjects and the corresponding ethical work take on three different forms in Aristotle – depending on whether we are in the phase of habit, teaching or maturity. The phase of habit is concerned with more than just disciplining childlike appetites. Certainly the bad manners of children are a kind of ‘licentiousness’ that ‘passes all bounds’ and thus must be ‘rendered docile and submissive’, and certainly it is the aim of this that ‘the child ought to live in accordance with the directions of his tutor’, and that ‘the desiderative element’ aligns itself with reason.77 However, as was mentioned above, this obedience to the rules and directions of the tutor means that the child’s will and impulse are directed at a suitable end, which in turn is conceptualised by particular opinions about correct and excellent action. But the appetition (orexis) and the concept of the end (logos ho heneka tinos) are the origin of the choice (prohairesis), which itself is the origin of action (praxis).78 Thus by specifying appetition, end and choice, the pedagogical disciplining of children and adolescents during development of the ethical habit opens up to them the scope for moral action. In so far as children and adolescents are actually capable of ethical work, the main concern during this phase is to employ observation of the self and selfcontrol, aided by shame, to follow the ethical rules set by the tutor, and thus to gain access to the field of moral action. But the stable and excellent character that is an essential element of moral maturity and eudaimonia is still a long way off. For ‘the virtues we do acquire by first exercising them, just as happens in the arts’: ‘[a]nything that we have to learn to do we learn by the actual doing of it’, and so ‘we become just by performing just acts, temperate by performing temperate ones, brave by performing brave ones’.79 It is only by constantly acting morally that we form ourselves as moral subjects, and so we must direct 76 77 78 79

NE x 9, 1179 b23–6. NE iii 12, 1119 b1–17. NE vi 2, 1138 a31–1139 b5. NE ii 1, bes. 1103 a30 ff.

ethical teleology

89

our entire life according to a conscious and examined decision to act in this way. This decision requires the help of ‘teaching’, and initiates the second phase of moral subjectivisation. At this stage it is necessary to gain an appropriate concept of the best life and eudaimonia, and this is only possible within a framework of complex, extensive reflections, such as are presented in the Nicomachean Ethics. Part of these reflections consist of participating in the dialectic game of method which guides ethical reflection; but the main concern is constantly to relate individual decisions on courses of action to the concept of eudaimonia that dialectics produces and, vice versa, to test this concept on the basis of important types of such decisions. This procedure still demands discipline and self-control, but now at a higher level that is characterised by a higher degree of autonomy, and by its alignment to an overall model of how to live. Thus, both these phases of the moral formation of the subject include not only various forms of ethical work, but also interconnect the ethical work of the subjects that are being formed with forms of productive, regulative power. According to the Aristotelian view, at the most elementary levels of moral subjectivisation, that is of the moral formation of the subject, this regulative power should not just consist of private education and personal instruction, but also be conducted in the public, political sphere. The pedagogical disciplining of children and adolescents should be carried out in public educational institutions, and above all take into account the legislation of the polis.80 Here it is in effect the political rulers who exercise this regulative power that is inextricably enmeshed with growing ‘accustomed’ to excellent action. On the other hand, in the second stage of moral subjectivisation it is primarily the dialecticians and moral philosophers who introduce those individuals who pursue eudaimonia earnestly and at leisure to the rules of the theory of argument which are to be employed. It is by means of these rules that a complicated network of regulations is developed from the complex concept of a good, proven life, and the initiates must submit themselves to these regulations if they wish to practise those actions which finally lead to the stabilisation of a good character.81 However, within the systematic framework of the Aristotelian ethics there is a third stage of moral subjectivisation – the final stage in which subjectivisation is complete and the excellent character is irreversibly stabilised; this is the stage of moral maturity as an essential element of 80 See above all NE x 9, 1179 b20 ff.; Pol. iii 1. On this Nussbaum (1986), 346 f. 81 These can, of course, only be basic rules, which do not anticipate all details; see NE i 7, 1098 a21–5.

90

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

eudaimonia. This phase poses delicate questions about the categories of ethical work and productive power which interested Foucault, for it is reasonable to assume that the eudaimon (the happy person) has completed the ethical work, finished the stylisation of his conduct and has even freed himself from productive relations of power. However, this assumption would be an over-simplification. First of all we must remember that even according to the inclusive interpretation of eudaimonia scientific contemplation played an important part in Aristotle’s plan of the best life. To achieve this it is necessary to educate not just the ethical, but also the intellectual virtues;82 to play not just the game of truth of dialectics, but also that of the demonstrative sciences which Aristotle develops in a particularly complex and subtle fashion in the Analytica Posteriora.83 It is probably impossible to decide whether Aristotle could accept that a gradual education as a scientist, with its specific ethical work, and all its methodological forms of regulative power, was an element of eudaimonia; if so, then it would be easy to specify a particular case of ethical work that even covered the stage of the fully developed and formed subject. But even if we had to assume that, at the level of eudaimonia, scientific and contemplative education was complete, the precarious and unfinished business of scientific work could nevertheless be described within the framework of the category of a practice of the self. Support for this view is provided by the fact that Aristotle – contrary to a commonly held view – was not an epistemological fundamentalist, but always assumed that scientific results were ‘vulnerable’ and that scientific research was never finished.84 Even after the completion of a thorough scientific education, in the changeable business of scientific work, in the ups and downs of scientific success and failure, and in his discussions with his colleagues and friends, the scientist will have to be careful to maintain self-control, find the right measure and constantly act in accordance with the ethos of scientific contemplation.85 In the process particular attention must be paid to abiding by the methodological rules that have been laid 82 NE x 7 and ii 2, 1103 a14–17. 83 See on this Detel (1993) i, especially the summary 289–334; on the relationship between dialectics and demonstrative science see 151–7. 84 This anti-fundamentalist interpretation of Aristotle’s theory of science is defended in detail in Detel (1993). 85 In the Posterior Analytics Aristotle emphasises the point that ‘it is hard to be sure whether one knows or not; for it is hard to be sure whether one’s knowledge is based on the basic truths appropriate to each attribute’ (An. Post. i 9, 76 a26–8). Furthermore, there are numerous references to the various errors and mistakes which can be made in the course of scientific research (see on this Detel (1993) i, 328–32 with references).

ethical teleology

91

down, for although there will no longer be any clearly asymmetrical regulative relations of power, the circle of scientists involved or the community of cooperating researchers will regularly insist on following methodological rules in the form of reciprocal regulative power. This sort of argument also applies to the life of the eudaimon as a whole. Eudaimonia is an activity that may be based on a stable, excellent character, but nevertheless has to rely on external and relational goods, and is thus essentially vulnerable and fragile.86 For action takes place within the context of contingent events that cannot be fully controlled, or foreseen by humans. Accordingly the corresponding game of truth of practical knowledge is not as precise as demonstrative scientific knowledge.87 For this reason Aristotle criticises the ethical ‘theory of good conditions’ which maintains that the eudaimonia of morally mature humans who have a stable character cannot be restricted by any contingent events. In particular, he recognises that even in the field of excellent activity there can be moral conflicts that can only be solved with great difficulty, as is so often described in classical Greek tragedy. If we want to lead a rich and complex life, then according to Aristotle we must accept and deal with the contingent events and risks connected with our practical activity.88 The ethical work of the eudaimon consists mainly of dealing with this contingency without seriously endangering his excellent character. The delicate deliberative balancing act that constantly mediates between the various intrinsic values of practical activity, as well as the contingent events of life, is in principle never complete, and requires the highest level of practical and theoretical attention. But this effort generally helps the excellent character to stabilise itself in the tempest of life, and constantly to optimise the balance of pleasures. For Aristotle free and equal friends are the most important aids for the ethical work of the eudaimon.89 Not only do they contribute to reducing the contingencies of life by helping to maintain the external goods, or aspiring to ensure the justice of political activities; the excellent character of the eudaimon can also be reflected in them. We recognise ourselves in a friend, and so friendship is an important precondition for the eudaimon’s 86 The ‘vulnerability of the good character’ is the subject of Nussbaum’s (1986) excellent and successful book on the ‘fragility of goodness’, which is the source of much of what follows (on Aristotle see in particular chs. 11–12). 87 See NE i 1, 1094 b11–13; ii 2, 1103 b31–1104 a11; i 7, 1098 a21–35. On the uncertainly of life see e.g. NE i 11, 1100 b22–1101 a13 (further passages are referred to by Nussbaum (1986), 330–6). 88 For details see Nussbaum (1986). 89 On friendship see above all NE viii–ix.

92

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

reflexive knowledge.90 This self-reflection is particularly valuable when the eudaimon is faced with extreme misfortune, or confronted with moral conflicts that endanger his character and eudaimonia. The stabilising work that he must perform in this situation is made all the easier if his dealings with his friends can constantly remind him of the intrinsic value of his and their characters. As the scholarly community in the special case of scientific activity contributes essentially to maintaining the stability of good scientific research, so in the general case of practical activity the community of free and equal friends contributes essentially to maintaining the stability of eudaimonia. Reciprocal regulative relations of power exist between friends, and they constantly help them to renew their pledge of excellence of character in the face of the contingency of life and the fragility of eudaimonia. To sum up, we have seen that the model of domination and restriction that Foucault develops for the concept of ethical work in the ancient world does not go far enough, at least not in the case of the Aristotelian ethics. Enkrateia only plays a role in the first phase of ‘habit’, but even then this role is deeper than Foucault realises – opening up the broad and complex scope for moral activity. On the other hand, during the phase of ‘teaching’ and in the state of eudaimonia, it is the establishment and maintenance of the stability of the good character that matter. At the same time the attitude to pleasure should be rationally transformed, and the overall balance of pleasures optimised. There are various forms of regulative power that have an influence on this. From the perspective of Aristotle’s ethics it is not so much a case of a model of domination and restriction, as one of stabilisation and transformation that characterises ancient concepts of ethical work. The stylisation and the glory of conduct, which can sometimes accompany the stabilisation of the excellent character under a wide variety of contingencies, is more of a side-effect than an intrinsic goal which is to be sought earnestly. 90 One of the texts that bring this point out most clearly is to be found in the Magna Moralia (1213 a10–26).

3

THE SCIENTIFIC REGIMEN

According to Foucault, classical medical texts on the guidelines for an ideal regimen provide further instructive illustrations of the ways in which sexuality was problematised in the ancient world. One of the most important results of his analysis of these texts is that ancient dietetics develops a comprehensive perspective of bodily activity: it regulates nourishment, physical exercise, sleep, bathing and sometimes sexuality too. Foucault points to a number of important parameters that ancient dietetics relies on – the quantity, the overall state of the body, the length of time, the season, the general climate, general human nature; nor should the relationship of all these aspects to each other be forgotten.1 As Foucault sees it, ancient dietetics does not just suggest isolated rules for good health, but an overall regulation of life that covers both the mental and the moral aspect. Ancient dietetics pre-supposes not only that the care of the body and of the soul are mutually dependent on each other, it also maintains that mental discipline is a precondition of a successful regimen; above all, the primary aim of dietetics is not the unqualified prolongation of life, but the optimisation of the quality of life, that is the maximisation of pleasurable health within natural bounds. This goal depends on a concept of 1 The author of De Victu (the names of most of the authors of the works in the Corpus Hippocraticum are unknown) presents a particularly long and impressive list at the beginning of book i; see ch. 2.

93

94

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

the good life, for following rational dietetic regulations is an indication of the mental self-control which is an intrinsic part of a good life. Finally, in Foucault’s view ancient dietetics represents a reflective technique of existence, since essentially it relies on reflexive vigilance and the patient’s concern for her own body. The regulation of daily life prescribed by dietetics not only demands the observation of external factors, but also a ‘serial’ vigilance, a conscious and active application of the rules that goes beyond passive internalisation and open discussion with doctors.2 For this reason his discussion of ancient dietetics is of particular significance for the development and the details of Foucault’s programme of ethics. However, seen from the perspective of texts on dietetics of the classical period, Foucault’s diagnosis proves to be violent and one-sided, a thesis that I would like to justify and explain in detail. First of all (1) I shall demonstrate the ambivalent systematic role that dietetics and its associated practices of the self played in ancient health care, before (2) investigating the relationship between medicine and ethics in its historical dimension; then (3) I shall reconstruct how in the history of ancient medicine dietetics was reduced from being a concept of an entire art of life to physiological regulation as just one of many elements of the good life, and how this historical development was interlinked with the formation of a new domain of knowledge, a new scientific discipline and a new game of truth; finally, (4) I will show how, from the perspective of this ‘archaeological’ process, the attitude of ancient dietetics to sexual activity and its consequences can be identified. 1 In ancient medicine dietetics played a prophylactic as well as a therapeutic role. Although as Plato, for example, often emphasises, mental discipline may be required of the sick in following dietetic rules as part of a therapy in order to get healthy again in the long term, it is above all prophylactic dietetics that aims to regulate life as a whole and to maintain and optimise health. If Foucault understands ancient dietetics as an ‘art of existence’ or an ‘art of life’ that demands a serial reflexive vigilance and represents the ancient form of the constitution of the subject, then this applies above all to prophylactic dietetics, although this specific form of dietetics does not play a particularly important part in surviving classical medical texts.3 2 UP 101–8. 3 An example of purely prophylactic dietetics is the short treatise De Victu Sano in the Corpus Hippocraticum.

the scientif ic regimen

95

Certainly there were forms of prophylactic dietetics that aimed to provide a comprehensive regulation of the way of life; the treatise Hygieina, which is attributed to the doctor Diocles of Carystus, is a prominent example. But even in the ancient world there was a great deal of criticism of this branch of the discipline, and interestingly enough this criticism was based on the relationship of this form of dietetics to rational models of the good life. One of the leading sceptics was Plato. Foucault reads his reservations as an objection to exaggerated and excessive forms of regimen,4 but on closer inspection we can see that Plato rejects the (then) new form of dietetics as an art of life lock, stock and barrel and describes it (and not only its excessive application) as petty regulation for rich hypochondriacs who do not even bother to find a decent job.5 Plato seems to recommend a modest (vegetarian) diet,6 but that is because it corresponds to a natural life and not as the result of a practice of the self as an art of life. Plato’s main objection, though, is that the ‘petty regulations’ recommended by dietetics are not consistent with a good life directed at prudent dealings and reasonable political aims. Not only does personal subjugation to a tightly woven set of dietetic rules unacceptably restrict the economic and political activities necessary for the state, it also prevents the reflexive learning that was supposed to encourage the development of virtue: fussiness about one’s health, in excess of normal physical training . . . makes any kind of study or thought or private meditation difficult . . . you will always be prevented from exercising and proving your talents, and never stop worrying about your health.7

For Plato a regimen guided by medicine was diametrically opposed to moral subjectivisation as part of a rational model of the good life and is a clear symptom of lamentable and decadent political structures. The author of De Victu defends himself indirectly against such accusations, for he explicitly specifies dietetic regulations that apply to the majority, ‘the great mass’ who could only afford to feed themselves normally. He assumes that ‘the great mass’ must go about their business and so do not have ‘the chance of neglecting everything to concentrate on taking care of their health’. But beyond this he also provides instructions for 4 5 6 7

UP 105 f. Plato Polit. iii 405c–408d. Plato Polit. iii 372a–b; Tim. 89d. Plato Polit. iii 407 b–c. Aristotle warns against excessively intensive and exhausting athletic training in children and adolescents; see Pol. vii 16, 1335b; viii 4, 1338b–1339a.

96

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

the regimen of those who are ‘thus favourably situated’ because they are ‘convinced that neither wealth nor anything else is of any value without health’.8 These passages clearly reflect a critical debate on the function and value of prophylactic dietetics. But what is more surprising is that the author seems to accept that dietetics either – in the life of ‘the great mass’ – only plays a subordinate role, or else – in the life of ‘the free’ – pre-supposes privileged social status. At this point the political dimension of prophylactic dietetics as a comprehensive art of life is evident. However, Foucault does not seem to regard this aspect of dietetics as being particularly important, for he only mentions it briefly in connection with excessive forms of diet. But it is unclear how the excessive diet is to be differentiated from diet as an ‘art of life’, if the latter has to take into account ‘numerous elements in the physical life of a man, or at least of a free man’ and follows the course of an ordinary day, moment by moment, from waking up on through to the evening meal and the onset of sleep, with attention given along the way to the very first exercises, the ablutions and massagings of the body and the head, the walks, the private activities and the gymnasium, lunch, napping and another round of walking and gymnasium activities, oiling and massage, dinner. At all times, and encompassing all of a man’s activities, regimen problematized the relations to the body.

Thus it is no wonder that ‘dietetics . . . required what might be called a “serial” attention’ that the individual must constantly maintain.9 The dietetics which Foucault describes as an art of life or of existence is – it would seem – the excessive prophylactic form which Plato castigates with such intensity and derision, and to which the author of De Victu alludes. On the other hand, dietetics for ‘the great mass’ appears as an art of life neither in its prophylactic nor in its therapeutic form. Yet it is not only the role and function of dietetics as a whole that is ambivalent – the same is true of its status as a ‘practice of the self’. Certainly an excessive diet may have required constant observation of the self and reflection, and anyone who could assume that the dietetic directions of doctors were sensible and successful may indeed have regarded ‘hygienic’ observation of the self as a stylised practice of the self; but Foucault fails to see that – mainly non-medical – texts that propagate reflexive concern for one’s own body also have a social background that is not always particularly pleasant. The fact is that the reason why the system of ancient health 8 See De Victu iii 68 (beginning), iii 69. 9 UP 101 f., 106.

the scientif ic regimen

97

care – if indeed we can talk about one – required everyone to have a practical interest in medical knowledge and in self-observation of their physical state was that often no doctors were available. What is more, access to the medical profession was not controlled, there was no education in medicine and there were no professional licences. Generally doctors had a miserable reputation and were widely mistrusted, for their successes were on the whole less than modest; serious experts could often not easily be distinguished from quacks whose only interest was money.10 Thus much of ancient dietetic and medical techniques of the self had the form of a desperate programme of self-help rather than an aesthetic stylisation of life as a whole.11 In other words, when Foucault describes classical ancient dietetics as an art of existence, a practice of the self and an aesthetic stylisation, this description has an extremely restricted application. It is only true of the excessive prophylactic diet which was regarded as a reliable form of knowledge and regulated all aspects of life – but which was therefore of interest to free and affluent male citizens, and thus pre-supposed those ‘unequal, hierarchical and authoritarian institutions’ that were generally required for scientific activity in the ancient world.12 2 In order to justify his understanding of ancient dietetics, Foucault should be able to prove that dietetics saw itself in general as a doctrine that was not only concerned with physiological balance, but also with psychological equilibrium, mental discipline and moral formation. Significantly, Foucault does not rely on many texts to support this interpretation, and the few that he refers to are drawn exclusively from non-medical sources – Plato, Xenophon and the Pythagorean tradition.13 This is no coincidence, for not a single passage supporting his view is to be found in the texts that Foucault otherwise normally relies on, i.e. the De Victu and the De Victu 10 The Hippocratic oath (see The Oath in the Hippocratic corpus) can be seen as a reaction to this; it obliges doctors not only to pay attention to the well-being of the patient, and not only forbids abortion, euthanasia and the surgical removal of stones, it also regulates the passing on of medical knowledge, pensions for doctors, medical confidentiality and the social behaviour of doctors towards their patients; that is, it attempts to establish medicine as a profession (in the literal sense). 11 See on this Frede (1986); also Horstmannshoff (1990). 12 See Lloyd (1991b), 370. 13 See UP 101–5 with notes. Foucault seeks here to establish a broader understanding of ancient dietetics.

98

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

Sano in the Hippocratic corpus and the Hygieinia of Diocles of Carystus. Only the author of the De Priscina Medicina (probably Hippocrates himself) notes at one point that those who have nothing other than immediate pleasure in mind (and so who are completely without any control, we may add) have no use for a regulated diet – a statement that borders on the tautologous.14 This lack of textual evidence reveals far-reaching historical and systematical difficulties in Foucault’s work on ancient dietetics, and thus it must be commented on. It is true that Foucault’s strategy could be supported by pointing out that in the classical world doctors and philosophers – above all in the pre-Socratic period – always assumed the unity of body and soul, and thus there was traditionally a close connection between medicine and philosophy.15 The study of the soul was generally taken to be an analysis of the various life functions of humans, such as procreation, nourishment, growth, breathing, perception and thinking. Thus it was not unusual for doctors to write treatises on the soul, or to base the diagnosis and therapy of psychological disorders on physiological aspects.16 On the other hand philosophers regarded it as their task to treat the principles of illness and health,17 and from the fifth century onwards there was a widespread tradition that saw philosophy as a therapy of the soul – a therapy that, for the reasons indicated, cannot be clearly separated from concern for the body. In the Platonic dialogue Charmides, Socrates claims that Thracian doctors were forbidden by their divine King Zalmoxis to treat the body without the soul.18 Certainly the ‘material’ interpretation of the soul – for example the assumption of the pneumatic nature of the soul, or that it 14 See Prisc. Med. ch. v. 15 See on this and what follows Wehrli (1951); Frede (1986), 225 ff.; also Carella (1981). 16 For example, Asclepiades of Bithynia, Sopranus and Sextus Empiricus wrote works on the soul. Hippocrates is reputed to have defended physiognomics (see Gal. Progn. 1 xix 530 K; Corp. Hipp. Epid. ii 5, 1; ii 6, 1), and in the Corpus Hippocraticum mental states are often interpreted as the expression of physical ones (e.g. Aphor. ii 33; De Victu i 35, iv 86; Epid. iii 14, 98; an instructive example is the attempt to refute the thesis that hydrophobia is a purely mental phenomen in Cael. Aur. Acut. iii 13). 17 See Ar. Sens. 436 a17–22; Resp. 480 b28–30. Diogenes Laertius reports that Pythagoras was the first philosopher to be interested in medicine (viii 12) and that Alkmaion’s medical writings mainly took the form of natural philosophy (viii 83; see Ar. Met. 986 a22 ff.). But it was probably Empedocles who played the most important philosophical role in the history of ancient medicine. He attempted to build a physiology as a systematic basis for medicine on his doctrine of the four elements. Two of his most famous students (Pausanias and Acron of Acragas) were doctors, and all important pre-Socratic philosophers after Empedocles worked on physiology, in particular Anaxagoras, Diogenes of Apollonia and Democritus. 18 Plato Charm. 156 d–e; see on this Coolidge Jr (1993).

the scientif ic regimen

99

was to be found in the blood – will have contributed to these views and strategies.19 In the fourth century the opinion was still widespread that black bile caused madness. The compiler of the Hippocratic aphorisms talks of mental illnesses that are caused by climatic factors,20 while the author of the De Victu, who only works with the elements of fire (heat) and water (cold) in his dietetics, talks of mental and physical health as a balance between the two elements, and develops on the basis of the relative strength of the two elements a typology of human intelligence.21 Some Hippocratic doctors rely on physiological methods to treat particular psychic disorders, above all hellebore (elleboros), the effect of which was proverbial in the Hellenistic period,22 and in the De Victu of course a change in the fire–water relationship is recommended as a therapy.23 Thus medical concern for the body was at the same time philosophical concern for the soul. But it is going one step further to see the traditional concern for of the body–soul complex as concern for the control of pleasure and an ethical way of life – and it is this additional step that Foucault would have to prove in order to provide satisfactory support for his extended interpretation of ancient dietetics. As Foucault quite rightly points out, this particular complex can be traced back historically to the Pythagoreans,24 but he pays no attention to the route that the development of ancient medicine then took from these beginnings. This is unfortunate, for it is this route that puts ancient dietetics and its approach to the regulation of sexual pleasure in a very different light from that which Foucault would like to convey. Due to problems of the (non-) survival of ancient texts, it is hard to determine the content of early Pythagorean therapeutics, but the doxographic evidence provides enough proof to support the close connection between dietetics and ethics that Foucault also propagates. For instance, in Porphyrius’ and Iamblichus’ biographies of Pythagoras there is a close, almost automatic, parallelisation of body and soul,25 while Diogenes Laertius reports that the simple way of life (which was regulated by 19 The soul as pneuma in the orphic texts (1B11), in the Pythagoreans (58B1), in Xenophanes (21A1), Anaximenes (13B2), Diogenes (64A19, B5) (DK); located in the blood in Empedocles (31B105, A86, 10) (DK). 20 Aphor. iii 20; see Aphor. vi 56, Epid. ii 6, 1 and Pseud.-Ar. PP xxx 1 on melancholy. 21 See De Victu i 35. 22 Epid. vii 45; De Victu i 35; see Hor. Sat. ii 3, 82; Epist. ii 2, 137; on this also Pseud.-Ar. Physiognomica ii 35. 23 De Victu i 35–6. 24 UP 102. 25 See e.g. in the Pythagoras-Vitae Porph. 22 and 35; Iambl. 7, 34 and 31, 96.

100

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

dietetics) leads to both physical health and a sound mental state.26 Music, which was an important element in Pythagorean therapeutics, was also supposed to have an effect on body and soul.27 But above all we hear that the Pythagoreans assumed that correct dietetic conduct had an educational and a moral effect: the correct mixture (eukrasia) of eating and drinking had an important contribution to make to excellence of the soul.28 So the Pythagorean way of life as a conglomerate of dietetic and ethical behaviour was subjected to rigorous self-control and self-reflection, which demanded of the members of the school that they constantly gave account of their daily life.29 If a ‘serial vigilance’ over one’s own physical state and moral conduct as an integral part of dietetics and ethics is to be found anywhere, then it is in the Pythagorean bios. The close connection between medicine and ethics was probably not restricted to the Pythagorean circle, although evidence of this connection can hardly be found in the few pre-Socratic fragments that have survived. Democritus is an exception; his interest in the Pythagorean school is confirmed by his writing a treatise on Pythagoras, and he probably wrote a Dietetics of his own that was presumably of an ethical nature30 – to judge by his references to the analogy between medicine and ethics, to the dangerous effects of immodesty and to the application of a general ethics of the mean.31 In any case, the effects of the interconnection between ethics and medicine can still be clearly found in the classical philosophical texts of the fourth century, but they now take on a specific form that is quite instructive and allows us to draw important conclusions about the development of medical dietetics. In a famous passage in Plato’s Phaedrus Socrates draws an analogy between the art of medicine and philosophical rhetoric, before going on to maintain that Hippocrates’ method is exemplary for any investigation of the ‘nature’ of things. Just as medicine relies on its skills in making bodies healthy by using appropriate food and drugs, so rhetoric employs fine speeches and rules of conduct to impart convictions of excellence to the soul. In both cases the ‘nature of the whole’ must be taken into account, and generally one should follow Hippocrates in analysing whether things are simple or complex, what effects they have on other 26 Diog. Laert. Pythagoras 13. 27 See the praise of music in Iambl. 115, 64 and his report on ‘good health through music’ 25, 110–111. 28 See Gal. i 768; Iambl. 3, 13; also Plato Tim. 86b ff., Polit. 600a; Diog. Laert. viii 19; Porph. Vit. Pyth. 34 (see Frede (1986), 231). 29 See Iambl. 29, 165; 35, 265; Diog. Laert. Pythagoras 22; Seneca, De Ira iii 36. 30 See Dem. 68 A33, 68 R26 c (DK). 31 See Dem. 68 B31, 68 B159, 68 B234, 68 B191, 68 A167 (DK).

the scientif ic regimen

101

things, and what effects other things typically have on them.32 Thus it is above all in methodological aspects that medicine has a paradigmatic function for ethics as a therapy for the soul, but at the same time both deal with clearly separate matters: the division of labour of medicine and philosophy now becomes increasingly evident, even though as technai both disciplines have a great deal of methodological common ground. Plato says much the same in many other passages of his dialogues.33 Plato’s most influential student – and at the same time the most famous philosopher child of a doctor – continues this tradition of emphasising the analogy between medicine and ethics, though with much sharper methodological acumen. In the Nicomachean Ethics (particularly in books i, ii, vi and x) Aristotle draws a number of parallels between the methods of medicine and ethics: – they are practical, not theoretical forms of knowledge; their aim is not explanation but above all action; – they are concerned with individual, contingent situations; practical knowledge depends not only on knowledge of what is general, but also above all on knowledge of the specific circumstances of the concrete case; – they both pre-suppose universal knowledge of their field (the soul and the body); – they must be satisfied with a lesser degree of accuracy than mathematical and theoretical sciences.34 In a number of important cases Aristotle even uses medical analogies and illustrations to justify and support ethical theses; in particular the doctrine that humans have a specific function (ergon), the description and definition of excellence (arete) and finally the doctrine of the moral mean (meson).35 But perhaps a passage in the discussion of voluntary and involuntary action in the third book of the Nicomachean Ethics comes closest to Foucault’s interpretation (it is disconcerting that Foucault does not quote this passage): It is not only the vices of the soul that are voluntary; physical defects too are voluntarily incurred by some people, and we blame them for it. Nobody blames those who are naturally ugly, but we do blame those that become so through lack of exercise and care for their appearance. Similarly too in 32 Plato Phaedr. 270 b–d. 33 See e.g. Plato Gorg. 464a ff., 55e ff., esp. 502a–b; Nom. 857c–d. 34 See e.g. Ar. NE ii 2, 1104 a4–10; 5, 1106 b2–7; vi 7, 1141 a28–32; x 9, 1180 b8–10; b23–8; Pol. i 10, 1258 a10; iii 11, 1281 b38–1282 a4. 35 See in more detail Lloyd (1968); also Wehrli (1951), 83–7.

102

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

the case of physical weakness and disability. Nobody would criticise a person who is blind by nature or as a result of disease or injury – but anyone would blame a person whose blindness is due to heavy drinking or some other selfindulgence. Thus physical defects for which we are responsible are blamed, but those for which we are not responsible are not blamed.36

Aristotle seems to regard it as a moral rule that we should do all we can to remain handsome and healthy – or at least as much as is consistent with eudaimonia as a whole in so far as it includes physical well-being. But this does not mean that medicine becomes a branch of ethics, if only because much of what affects health is not within our power. The same applies to (therapeutic) dietetics, which was a constitutive element of medicine in the ancient world. What is more, Aristotle knows perfectly well that his – preferably methodological – analogies between ethics and medicine are no more than that, analogies.37 Not only are the aims of both disciplines different, in spite of their methodological common ground their scientific status is also quite different. If we follow Aristotle in dividing the sciences into the practical, productive (poietical) and theoretical,38 then ethics is a practical, but dietetics more of a productive (poietical) science;39 and regimen is only one of the means of achieving its end (health).40 But above all medicine is linked to (theoretical) sciences in a way that ethics certainly is not. A comprehensive account of theoretical scientific knowledge will conclude with a presentation of the principles of health and illness; and medicine – at least when it is ‘philosophically formed’ – will begin with a justification of its principles that is drawn from more fundamental sciences. In this way the general scientific theory of the universe and its principles arrived at by science coincides with the beginning of medicine as a theory.41 This relationship is partly due to the fact that one element of medicine deals with the general and the causes, and the other with the individual case. The doctor knows that for this type of fever (today we can say that the many fevers described by ancient authors are different forms of malaria) this drug is typically helpful (and he may even know why), but it is this fevered Socrates who is to be cured, and about whom the doctor therefore needs to know as Ar. NE iii 5, 1114 a21–30; similarly Plato polit. iii 405c–d. This is also emphasised by Lloyd (1968), 251. See Met. vi 1. See e.g. Top. i 3, 101 b8–10; 110 b18; i 5, 143 a3–8. An. Post. 12, 77 a36–41 makes it clear that medicine has its specific principles. 40 Top. i 3, 110 b8. 41 See Sensus et Sensibilia 1, 436 a17–b1; De Iuv. 480 b21–30.

36 37 38 39

the scientif ic regimen

103

many individual details as possible. The former is a matter for science, the latter of experience, and often highly experienced doctors have more success than doctors who have concentrated on obtaining more general knowledge.42 But general medical knowledge certainly has its foundations in theoretical contemplative science.43 The origins of ancient healing, and in particular of dietetic medicine, rooted as they are in the early Pythagorean school, are characterised by an intrinsic fusion of ethics and medicine. By the end of the fifth century only a faint echo of this remained, in the form of methodological comparisons and analogies between ethics and medicine. Perhaps dietetic concern for one’s own body and health from the philosophical perspective can be regarded as a component of reasonable models of the good life within the boundaries laid out by the structure of eudaimonia, and is thus an element of reflexive moral subjectivisation; but at the same time the division of the domains of ethics and medicine, and the separation of the disciplines, had finally taken shape. In the process not only had prophylactic, non-excessive dietetics assumed a particular and defined systematic role within the context of the pursuit of excellence and eudaimonia, but this also reflected a historical process which had led to the re-shaping of dietetics. Thus it is both an over-simplification and an exaggeration to follow Foucault in describing the diet that was recommended by the regimen of the new dietetics as an ‘art of life’, ‘that . . . was a fundamental category through which human behaviour could be conceptualized. It characterized the way in which one managed one’s existence.’44 Perhaps Pythagoras would have agreed with this phrasing, but a Hippocratic doctor, or even Plato or Aristotle, would have objected to such a simplistic assessment. 3 Foucault quotes the authority of Plato and of the author of the muchdiscussed Hippocratic treatise De Priscina Medicina (Ancient Medicine, probably written by Hippocrates himself),45 to arrive rapidly at the opinion that in classical antiquity regimen was regarded as an art of existence and life.46 In spite of their different accounts of the history of medicine 42 See Pol. iii 11, 1281 b38–1282 a7; Met. i 1, 981 a2–b9. 43 See also the first book of the early peripatetic Problemata Physica, which deals only with medical questions of a general kind in a causal sense. 44 UP 101. 45 See Pichot (1991), 501. 46 See UP 99–101.

104

f o u c au l t a n d c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y

and their opposing attitudes towards dietetics,47 both authors indeed talk of the dominance of dietary rules in contemporary medicine (that is in the first half of the fourth century). But it requires some sophisticated implicit arguments to progress