Nationalism and the Mind: Essays on Modern Culture

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Nationalism and the Mind

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Nationalism and the Mind: Essays on Modern Culture LIAH GREENFELD

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NATIONALISM AND THE MIND Oneworld Publications (Sales and editorial) 185 Banbury Road Oxford OX2 7AR England www.oneworld-publications.com © Liah Greenfeld 2006 All rights reserved Copyright under Berne Convention A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library ISBN-13: 978–1–85168–459–5 ISBN-10: 1–85168–459–X Typeset by Jayvee, Trivandrum, India Cover design by Design Deluxe Printed and bound by The Maple-Vail Book Manufacturing Group, Braintree, MA, USA NL08

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CONTENTS

A Student’s Introduction 1. Reflections on Two Charismas

vii 1

2. Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature: A Sociologist’s Perspective

20

3. Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England

43

4. Nationalism and Modernity

64

5. The Modern Religion?

93

6. Praxis Pietatis: A Tribute to Edward Shils

115

7. The Political Significance of Culture

135

8. Science and Literature as Social Institutions

145

9. An Invitation to a Dialogue: A Comment on Neuroscience and Culture

162

10. Nationalism and Modern Economy: Communing with the Spirit of Max Weber

176

11. Nationalism and the Mind

203

Index

225

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A STUDENT ’S INTRODUCTION Jonathan R. Eastwood

This is the first book of essays that Liah Greenfeld has published1; it brings together a small number of journal articles and lectures written from the mid-1980s to the present. The initiative to publish such a volume was not hers: her students strongly encouraged the collection and publication of the papers that, along with the classic works of Weber, Tocqueville, Durkheim, Marx, and the best writings in the human sciences since these founding figures, have been among the guideposts of our education. It was time, we felt, for some of her most important essays to be assembled in one volume. Moreover, the selected essays were suggested by her students, and those which we felt were most important in our own education (or which those of us who have now completed our graduate studies and are teaching hope to use in our own pedagogical practice) appear here. Greenfeld is best known, of course, as a theorist of nationalism, and although her early work was on the sociology of art, it was the publication of Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity in 1992 that cemented her international scholarly reputation, to be enhanced by her more recent The Spirit of Capitalism: Nationalism and Economic Growth. Nationalism represented a major breakthrough in a field of study long stifled within the confines of an old unproductive paradigm, in which the phenomenon was regarded as a product of the “structures” and processes of modernization. Liah Greenfeld proposed, instead, that nationalism was the constitutive element of modernity, basing her view on the recognition of the autonomy of culture and the vision of the human social reality as fundamentally

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viii Nationalism and the Mind cultural – constructed on the basis of symbolic models. Within this different ontological framework it became possible to explore the hypothesis of nationalism as the cultural foundation of modern society, a hypothesis supported by Greenfeld’s extensive and meticulous comparative historical research that also led to the definition of nationalism as a secular image of reality, the socio-political component of which consisted of sovereign communities of equal members – nations. Reviewing the manuscript for the press, Michael Walzer predicted: “No one will write about nationalism again without starting here”; his prophecy almost immediately came true. In The Spirit of Capitalism Liah Greenfeld extended her analysis into the economic sphere – considered fundamental within the old paradigm – proposing that nationalism was the cultural foundation of the modern economy as well. In this revision of Weber’s classic thesis it was the inherent competitiveness of nationalism that spurred the incessant competition between nations in the economic sphere and so led to the economy of sustained growth. John Gray, in a review of The Spirit of Capitalism, wrote that the argument of the book was strong enough to “bring about a paradigm shift in the understanding of economic growth.”2 The attention that these monumental and provocative works have received, however, threw into relief the parochial tendencies of the academy and of the contemporary social sciences, and Liah Greenfeld was categorized as a “nationalism expert.” Once placed in this niche, several of us have noticed, her work has not been brought fully into the conversations in social philosophy and study of culture, and specifically those in sociological theory and the sociology of culture, despite the important contributions that it makes to discourse in these areas. Even if Greenfeld no longer considers herself a “sociologist,” her work falls squarely in the tradition, now largely neglected, to which that name was applied by Weber and Durkheim. Before, during, and after the publication of Nationalism and The Spirit of Capitalism, she was preoccupied with a series of essentially sociological questions at its center: what are the bases of social integration? What is the role of the individual in social life? How do the biological, psychological, and sociological realms interrelate? What accounts for social and historical change over time? How is it that humans construct meaning? What is distinctive about modernity, and where did this modern world that we inhabit come from? Faithful to this Weberian-Durkheimian

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A Student’s Introduction ix inspiration, Greenfeld, in her essays, has consistently drawn bridges across insular academic debates, attempting to engage disciplines as diverse as literary studies, political science and international relations, history and philosophy of science, economics and economic history, and, most recently, psychology and even neuroscience. The nature of contemporary academic publishing – and indeed the very growth in scale of academe and the commonly lamented disciplinary specialization that has ensued in its wake – has necessarily limited the audience of essays contained here and previously published in academic journals. The British Journal of Sociology or American Sociologist are unlikely to attract the attention of philosophers or literary theorists. Essays published in such journals as Slavic Review and the Brown Journal of World Affairs are certain to be missed by mainstream practitioners of sociology. Some of her work Greenfeld never made any attempt to publish. If the most central of her essays were collected in one volume, we reasoned, they could more easily be brought into each of the many conversations to which they are relevant and which, despite the lip-service now increasingly paid to interdisciplinary scholarship, remain rather internally focused and preoccupied with the establishment of (the academics’ own) occupational niches. The eleven essays in the present volume are arranged chronologically. While this presentation may seem to give the book’s over-arching argument(s) a circuitous feel, these arguments are nevertheless there and this text affords the possibility of tracing the development of Greenfeld’s thought over time. It is, therefore, very much worth reading from end to end, though, of course, each essay stands alone. In tracing this development, one encounters two central themes: (a) the question of the distinctiveness of human beings or the nature of humanity; and (b) the tightly related and notoriously problematic question of the definition of culture. Few scholars nowadays, after so many failed attempts, would try to develop a novel understanding of culture: that is, to take another stab at providing a satisfactory definition, one that actually succeeds at defining the phenomenon in question.3 Owing to the criteria by which the essays were selected for inclusion, the reader may find some repetition, such as in the analysis of types of nationalism, in several essays (it would behoove the reader, however, to read on even if a page or two seems to treat themes familiar from previous chapters). For similar reasons, the reader may find internal inconsistencies, and it is best remembered that these essays

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x Nationalism and the Mind span two decades of intellectual development – the reader who judges this a fault of the current text is encouraged to maintain the same views, without any change, for the next twenty years – and that, therefore, certain notions, such as the interpretation of the Weberian conception of meaning, change over time. The first essay here,“Reflections on Two Charismas,” published in 1985 in the British Journal of Sociology, was written during Liah Greenfeld’s stay at the University of Chicago and was the first essay she both conceived and wrote originally in English. It seems at first glance to be a largely exegetical work, focused on the clarification of Weber’s treatment of “charisma.” But it is more than this. Even at this early stage, one can see in Greenfeld’s thinking nascent ideas about the centrality of order and status in social life. The connections drawn between the receptivity to charismatic authority and anomie – here found by way of clarification and critique of scholars such as Blumer, Fromm, and others who attributed a rise in such receptivity to the “mass society” – lead to Greenfeld’s unique formulation of that concept, which, though of course it has roots in Durkheim, Merton, and Parsons, is anything but the dominant formulation. Anomie is, for Greenfeld, “a condition of acute inconsistency between different values, norms, and cognitions, including the perception of reality, which, as a result of this inconsistency, neutralize each other and lose their authority.” Here she touches upon a long tradition, again rooted in Weber and Durkheim, but also notable in more recent thinkers such as Shils, Geertz, and Berger, of treating human beings as essentially “unfinished”: as lacking the sort of biologically preprogrammed models of the world (and for life in it) that other animals possess.4 Over time, the centrality of the status-system as a fundamental ordering mechanism (one which constitutes both a model of the social order and a model for how to live in it, to make use of Geertz’s classical distinction) would become clearer in her thinking: not surprisingly, when one thinks of social structure in higher animals (in this case genetically transmitted social order) one largely thinks of status hierarchies the structures of which remain constant even as the individuals that fill certain positions might change. Moreover, the principles of such change in, say, wolf societies remain constant, further evidence of their genetic transmission. The clarification of the central Weberian concept of charisma – as she puts it, not an exercise in scholasticism but a contribution to contemporary thought – is fundamentally about a much broader

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A Student’s Introduction xi question: the delimitation of the biological from the cultural realm, a question which, again, is tightly bound to the issue of anomie, itself a function of human beings’ relative genetic deprivation and the need for order. As Greenfeld would herself acknowledge, her treatment of the Weberian conception of “meaning” is in the earliest essays here under-interpreted: at this stage in her thinking she takes “meaning” to be virtually a synonym of “knowledge,” and doesn’t yet see that the realm of the meaningful is indeed the emergent phenomenon of culture. In subsequent essays, this is made explicit and further developed. The centrality gradually assumed by Durkheim’s concept of anomie alongside Weber’s idea of “meaning” in Greenfeld’s evolving understanding of the phenomenon of culture later will lead her to articulate the deep affinity between the two great theorists who are usually regarded as proponents of two widely differing and unrelated approaches and to recognize them as founders of her own mentalist tradition. Like “Reflections on Two Charismas,” “Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature: A Sociologist’s Perspective,” originally published in Slavic Review in 1987, seems, at first glance, to be a primarily exegetical work. Part of its goal is to bring the essentially sociological approach to literature developed by the Russian Formalists (a school of literary criticism ordinarily taken by American and British sociologists to be the quintessential non-sociological approach) into dialogue with recent English-language traditions in the sociology of art and literature (particularly British Marxist approaches and the American “production-of-culture” tradition) and, indeed, to show that it is in many ways preferable to the conventional sociology of literature. The Formalists’ approach to literature as a social institution, she argues, specifically, is consistent with the Weberian account of the autonomy of institutions, which contemporary sociologists of culture have largely forgotten. But Greenfeld goes further than simply bringing two conversations together: she begins the development of a more fully articulated Weberian theory of institutions as such.5 A social institution, from her neo-Weberian view, is to be understood as a form of patterned human activity “that possesses an internal logic; although susceptible to influences from the outside and constantly interacting with the rest of social reality, it must be in this sense autonomous.” It is a constantly changing process, one that is “oriented towards a definite goal, value, or function,” often, though not exclusively, a goal that lies beyond the bounds of culture, such as

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xii Nationalism and the Mind in the paradigmatic case of a social institution, the family, which has as its central point of orientation biological reproduction. Literature, like science, is also a social institution. In this case, the central point of orientation is the sensual enjoyment of linguistic form. The notion of “palpability” as the central quality of “literariness” refers to linguistic patterns that are experienced as pleasurable. It is not precisely their novelty that renders them palpable, yet the palpability of a given form – much like in music, interestingly – does recede and ongoing sensual appreciation depends upon innovation.A full-blown sociology of literature, of course, would not remain entirely “formalist”in this sense: the sociological analysis of the meanings of literary works is another aspect of the internal focus of the sociology of literature that recent works in this sub-field have avoided. While this essay gives little evidence of this, Greenfeld has in her teaching in recent years paid particular attention to less explicitly formalist readings of literary works. The comparative analysis of these two institutions – literature and science – is the focus of a later chapter, “Science and Literature as Social Institutions,” prepared as a lecture for, and originally delivered at, a Yale conference on science and literature in the wake of the famous Sokal hoax in 1997. This important – and previously unpublished – article is both a development of the theory of institutions noted above and a spirited defense of the institution of science. Starting with the core goals, or propensities served, of each institution, Greenfeld traces, among other things, the characteristic patterns of change within both of them. The distinctive feature of scientific change, contrary to what Kuhn and the many critics of science who have followed him might argue, is its progressive character: Unlike the mechanism of literary evolution, which allows for zigzagging and cyclical patterns of development, including the revival and ascendancy of previously automatized forms ... the mechanism of change in science systematically pushes it in the direction of progressive elimination of inconsistencies, or in the direction of increasing “verisimilitude” in the sense Popper attributes to this word, of theories whose “truth content” more and more exceeds their “falsity content,” making every succeeding successful (that is rigorously tested) theory, in terms of its correspondence to facts, a “better approximation to truth,” than the preceding one.

This is a voice raised against those theorists who believe, with Barry Barnes, that science is a part of culture like any other, and therefore is

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A Student’s Introduction xiii thoroughly permeated by extra-scientific factors: in short, against the view that the results of science are to a considerable degree determined by causes external to the institution itself, Greenfeld argues that all social institutions are autonomous in the sense that they are oriented toward the satisfaction of a particular goal or propensity. She readily acknowledges that external factors impact the operations of all institutions (their autonomy is not to be interpreted as independence).Yet the very goal that lies at science’s center – the desire to satisfy the passionate curiosity of the scientist, which necessitates the scientific method – provides a bulwark against the imposition of external factors. While from time to time external factors do intrude, so long as science operates normally and without intentional interference specifically from the state this is minimal. “Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England,” published in 1987 in Minerva, is the first of the essays contained here that deal explicitly with nationalism. Readers of Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity will recognize a portion of the argument contained here. The essay is framed in relation to Robert K. Merton’s classic early work on the possibly Puritan origins of English science. There is a common object of explanation: not the emergence of scientific practice, which has existed since antiquity, making sporadic, though occasionally great, progress, but the institutionalization of science: regularized, patterned activity surrounding the scientific vocation, and a dramatic transformation in the social valuation of this activity: science, Merton and Greenfeld agree, was institutionalized in this sense in late seventeenth-century England. The “Puritan origins” thesis was inconsistent with important historical evidence. Could nationalism have been the cause of the institutionalization of science? Such a claim might strike some readers as a stretch. This reaction is particularly likely if one is inattentive to the definition of nationalism that Greenfeld provides: the claim is not that some form of jingoistic patriotism gave rise to the institutionalization of science (though seventeenth-century English nationalism was not without its jingoistic patriots), but that nationalism, an entirely novel image of the social order (as, in the present volume, is made most clear in “Nationalism and Modernity”), the cultural blueprint for modern societies, played the decisive role. This was so, she argues, first because there was a sort of affinity between the character of English nationalism and scientific reason. As she puts it, according to the self-understanding of seventeenth-century English nationalists,

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xiv Nationalism and the Mind “the properties of English nationality were asserted to be the independence of thought comprising a critical mind, an ability to arrive at decisions on the basis of the individual’s own – preferably first-hand – knowledge and logical deliberations, a love of practical knowledge, a desire to be appealed to in a rational, not emotional or authoritative manner, a dispassionate nature, and a distaste for enthusiasm.” It is important to note here that despite the surface-level resemblance to such accounts Greenfeld is not making reference here to the characteristics of English “national character”: there is no suggestion, à la Ruth Benedict, that such an approach is likely to provide insight. Instead, she is focusing upon the values proclaimed by the social actors in question to be constitutive of their identity. Here, it is not hard to see, many of those same values happened to be those institutionalized in science. Still, in itself, the affinity between self-identified value orientations among seventeenth-century Englishmen and the core values of science does not account for science’s institutionalization. The crucial factor was the inherent competitiveness of nationalism – a result of the dignity implied by national identity and the resulting commitment of the population as a whole to the prestige of the nation. Given the early English nationalists’ sense of their nation’s intellectual standing vis-à-vis continental Europe, specifically their feeling that it lagged behind others in classical learning, science, a modern activity, suggested itself as the area of cultural competition in which England had a fair chance of winning. The discussion of nationalism returns us to anomie, because it is both a response to anomie and because the society it spawns is one in which anomie is endemic. As is discussed in “Nationalism and Modernity” (published in Social Research in the Spring of 1996), the very first case of nationalism, the English, was an imaginative solution to the problem of status-inconsistency in England in the early Tudor years: status-inconsistency generated both by the damage inflicted on the nobility during the Wars of the Roses and by the Tudor tendency to promote commoners and lower gentry to important positions. The concept “nation,” which previously had meant an elite, was used to rationalize the otherwise incomprehensible experiences of these upwardly mobile Englishmen: this was tantamount to the ennoblement of the entire population of England. Each of the successive cases Greenfeld has studied shows the same pattern: status-inconsistency among the nobility in France preceded and prompted their receptivity to nationalism, which likewise seemed to solve their status-related

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A Student’s Introduction xv problems; status-inconsistency among “middle-class” intellectuals of various German lands preceded the formation of German nationalism among them, and so forth (Greenfeld’s more recent work on Japanese nationalism, as well as my own on Spanish and Latin American nationalisms, has produced similar findings6). Just as nationalism is a response to anomie (in the form of statusinconsistency), it gives rise to it in a chronic, low-grade form, precisely because of nationalism’s egalitarianism: by rendering all social hierarchy illegitimate in principle, the national image of the world is likely to contribute to identity problems at the individual level. Here Greenfeld’s argument is somewhat reminiscent of Tocqueville, who, in the second volume of Democracy in America, also saw linkages between equality and what would later come to be called anomie: as Tocqueville noted, the “constant strife between the desires inspired by equality and the means it supplies to satisfy them harasses and wearies the mind.” Moreover, “the more equal men are, the more insatiable will be their longing for equality,” though “democratic peoples ... will never get the sort of equality they long for ... that is the reason for the strange melancholy often haunting inhabitants of democracies.”7 These ideas have been most fully developed in recent years and appear in the last chapters of the present collection, particularly “Nationalism and the Mind.” There is another important argument in “Nationalism and Modernity” that deserves special mention here. In Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity there is an implicit argument about the relationship between nationalism and the state: one that inverts the typically argued relationship. Conventionally, many scholars have read nationalism as a function of the state. Some scholars see the state merely as the agent of the capitalist system (or of the ruling class): in such cases, nationalism is not really a function of the state, which is just a proxy, but a function of capitalism itself. In either case, it is often argued, by theorists such as Gellner, that industrial modernity requires not just the state but a homogenized, socially mobile, interchangeable, relatively educated and literate population: nationalism, for Gellner, is essentially the cultural strategy through which this is accomplished. For others, such as Breuilly, the assertion is that the state – independent of its association with capitalist development – is itself the cause of the rise of nationalism.8 As has already been discussed and as will be known to anyone familiar with her work, Greenfeld proposes an alternative

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xvi Nationalism and the Mind macrosociological account of the rise of nationalism focused on (usually elite) status-dynamics: one that, while not ignoring the state, makes no a priori assumptions about its role. In “Nationalism and Modernity,” she again returns to Weber, this time to his oftenmisunderstood definition of the state. As she notes, many have thought Weber’s essential definition of the state was as that which exercises a monopoly on the legitimate use of force in a given territory. Yet an attentive reading of all of Weber’s writings on the state yields a fuller picture of the state’s distinctive characteristic being its impersonality (often the source, and consequence, of its bureaucratic structure). The state, in this sense, is a modern phenomenon, and thus the phrase “the modern state” is redundant. There is no denial, of course, that what we might call “state-like” political institutions preceded nationalism historically, and sometimes they were called “states”: the term état in absolutist France, for example, by the seventeenth century came to mean a state in the conventional sense, but in relation to Greenfeld’s interpretation of Weber’s definition it was in many ways the inverse of the idea of the state (and certainly was the inverse of the idea of the state implied by nationalism). According to Greenfeld, just as nationalism radically transformed social life, it radically transformed politics. The fundamental ways in which it did so were intimately bound up with one of its two core principles: the principle of popular sovereignty. It is not hard to see, once this has been pointed out, what the principle of popular sovereignty might have to do with the impersonal state. Louis XIV was, in every sense of the word, the sovereign. By 1789, Louis XVI was nominally the sovereign, but no longer truly regarded as such by important segments of the population. Instead, that population itself was imagined to be the bearer of sovereignty, the true source of all political legitimacy. Given the impossibility of resolving every matter of governance by plebiscite, this implies representation. Louis XIV did not “represent” the French people: he ruled them. National governments do not rule, they govern, and they can only be regarded as doing so legitimately if they can present themselves as representing the national will. Even the most impressive and charismatic personalities of national history (think, for example, of just the leaders of the major powers during the Second World War: Stalin, Hitler, as well as FDR, de Gaulle, and Churchill) are, therefore, mere office-holders. Such is the state. “Nationalism: A Modern Religion?” (yet another of the Spring 1996 essays, which appeared in Critical Review) takes up the question

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A Student’s Introduction xvii of the relationship between nationalism and religion, an issue which, however important it may have seemed in the mid-1990s when this essay was published, has only grown in significance given today’s geo-political climate. Greenfeld rejects the common claim that nationalism constitutes a “modern religion,” the supposition usually being that both nationalism and religion are essentially irrational, perhaps likely to lead to violence, certainly likely to lead to self-sacrifice. As she notes, such confusion (like so much confusion in both popular and scholarly versions of social-scientific theories) is the product of a failure to define either of the two phenomena under consideration. Nationalism, as was pointed out above, is essentially secular. This is, again, a function of the principle of popular sovereignty. Genuine authority, nationalism proclaims, is of this world that we inhabit: it resides in the earthly national community. There is no higher arbiter. In expropriating divine authority, nationalism endows this world with ultimate meaning.“The perception of the mundane as meaningful in its own right,” Greenfeld writes, “implies its sacralization. With nationalism, the heavens, so to speak, descend to earth; this world becomes the sphere of the sacred.”Religion, whatever its stripe, carries a very different world-image. The authority of any power of this world is essentially limited. Most important, all truly religious world-images include a belief in some other world beyond this one: the essence of the religious world-image is the belief in some sort of transcendence of this, corporeal, world. While replacing religion as the main cultural mechanism of social integration, nationalism often uses religion in pursuit of its own, secular – usually political – ends. It is such use that lies at the basis of so-called “religious nationalism”or “religious fundamentalism.”Most religious nationalisms are ethnic nationalisms, namely, of the type that tends to reify the community and to sacrifice the well-being or rights of individuals to it: “In ‘religious’ nationalism, religion is likely to be the most important distinction, sometimes the only one, differentiating a self-conscious group from others in its vicinity … religion becomes an ethnic characteristic, an ascriptive, unalterable attribute of a collectivity, and as such a reflection of necessity, rather than personal responsibility and choice … a reflection of race.” To confuse religion with religious nationalism is extremely dangerous: the respect due to the profession of religion as the chief expression of the liberty of conscience in this case is given to a secular ideological construction based on the denial of such liberty.

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xviii Nationalism and the Mind People who consider themselves religious do not like being told – by social scientists, no less – that they are not. Yet according to this definition of the religious, it is very possible that many contemporary “religious” movements are not, in fact, religious at all. One thinks about the more radically Marxist proponents of “liberation theology,” for example, yet one might also pause to wonder whether Al Qaeda is, as both the media and social science tend to depict it, truly religious: or are their true motives the product of a violent variety of essentially secular, ethnic nationalism? The role of political culture – and specifically the role of the various types of national political culture – in collective violence is the subject of Chapter 7.“The Political Significance of Culture” was written in response to a request to help the readers of the journal in which this first appeared to understand not just the role of culture in politics more generally, but specifically the role of “culture” in the various instances of large-scale political violence that took place in the 1990s (in addition to the role of “culture” in the development of the former Soviet states). As Greenfeld persuasively argues, the very question posed reveals a serious misunderstanding of the nature of culture, treating it as a sort of appendage to social life, rather than as coterminous with human society itself.“All politics,” she notes “are politics of culture.” Indeed, if we understand the concepts of “power” and “political order” in Weberian terms, this is abundantly clear (though, of course, Weber did not even approach the explicit claim that the political is cultural). For Weber, power is defined as “the chance of a man or a number of men to realize their own will in a social action even against the resistance of others who are participating in the action.”9 That is, power is seen in a relatively minimal sense, and in one that is largely consonant with the use of the term in everyday language: power is the ability to do things that one wants to do as well as to get others to do what one wants to do. The “political order” of a society can be understood as the system by which power is distributed. It lies alongside two other orders, the social order (the order by which prestige or honor is allocated or distributed) and the economic order (the order by which material goods and services are allocated or distributed), and societies vary in terms of the precise relationships that obtain between these orders. In certain types of societies, one’s position in the economic order – one’s “class”position – is largely constitutive of one’s position in the political order, or, to put it more directly, power is “economically conditioned.” In some societies, the

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A Student’s Introduction xix social and the economic orders are largely isomorphic – this is the case, for example, in most modern societies, wherein educational achievement and wealth, indices drawn principally from the economic order, serve as the basis for the social order. Variation occurs not just between societies, of course, but also between individuals within a given society (that is, some individuals are particularly attracted to power, and enjoy it for its own rewards, as an end in itself, while others, in circumstances where prestige is attached to power, pursue power as a means to that further end). All such “orders,” it is plain to see, are “cultural” in the broadest sense, or rest, anyway, on cultural foundations. Modern culture, according to Greenfeld, as is made clear in “Nationalism and Modernity,” is national culture, and so if one wants to understand the nature of modern politics the best available strategy is to focus on the distinctive qualities of types of nationalisms. This she does here, noting especially the potential relationships between ethnic-collectivistic nationalisms and authoritarianism and political violence. “Praxis Pietatis” (prepared as a commemorative lecture and originally published in American Sociologist) has essentially three purposes: the appreciation of the work of Edward Shils, an interpretation of the place of his work in the tradition of sociological theory, and the development of Greenfeld’s own thinking on the nature of culture. The first of these goals is, for Greenfeld, a very personal one, and it would be inappropriate (and unnecessary, given the clarity of the essay) for it to be discussed in this introduction. The second can only really be understood when Greenfeld’s central claims about the nature of culture are grasped. This essay most clearly develops her conception of culture as an emergent phenomenon, analogous to life, “a complex phenomenon that cannot be reduced to the sum of its elements, a case in which a specific combination of elements, the possibility of which is in no way given in any of the elements, produces a certain emergent, new quality.”Culture, the distinctively human form of society (what should be, she argues, the central subject matter of sociology, though she wouldn’t agree with the conception of “culture” predominant there), is irreducible to the matter of which it is composed and which provides boundary conditions for it, but this matter [here matter is understood figuratively, whereas matter is literally the stuff, of course, from which life emerges] is humanity, living, potentially creative, intelligent beings. Nothing in our constitution as biological or

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xx Nationalism and the Mind psychological organisms explains it; as biological or psychological organisms, each one of us is as absolutely powerless, insignificant, and uncreative vis-à-vis it as any particular atom of inanimate matter is vis-à-vis a living organism; we become empowered, creative, and significant only as carriers of culture, exposed to its magic touch; it truly transforms us: in it, we acquire a different, social nature. Without us culture would not exist, but neither would we without it, and it is culture which makes us what we are.

This emergent phenomenon, she argues, developing ideas already apparent in “Reflections on Two Charismas,” is itself a functional equivalent to genes: its function is the provision of order, the keeping at bay of anomie. Yet as she notes, a functional explanation is, from a scientific point of view, worth very little, given that, in this case anyway, it is essentially beyond empirical proof. How can one understand culture? This is one formulation of the age-old question of how humanity might understand itself. The fact that we are immersed in culture, that in attempting to understand it we are using it, that this at least seems to point to a sort of circularity, is also well-known. As Greenfeld argues, one reaction to the contemplation of culture, characteristic even of those who believe themselves to be approaching the subject scientifically, is something essentially akin to worship. Culture indeed does produce awe. Those scholars who study it yet who feel no such awe may be insensitive, indeed, to their object of study.Yet one cannot, as Durkheim and Shils both ultimately did, allow this awe to override one’s empirical orientation. Weber’s solution to this problem – a focus exclusively on culture’s myriad forms without asking questions with regard to its essence – seems to be far more productive. Greenfeld clearly admires Weber’s intellectual restraint, yet she would not similarly restrain herself, instead attempting to get beyond the historical analysis of cultural forms and, if not to ask questions of culture’s essence, to pursue alternative strategies that might shed light on its nature. In “An Invitation to a Dialogue,” written five years after “Praxis Pietatis,” she suggests a new approach to the age-old mindbody problem. The invitation is prompted by the book Memory: From Mind to Molecules by the eminent neurobiologist Eric Kandel, a winner of the Nobel Prize in medicine, and the cognitive psychologist Larry Squire; it is extended to the neuroscience community. Beginning with a discussion of the authors’ inversion of Descartes’ famous cogito ergo sum argument, Greenfeld notes that neither

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A Student’s Introduction xxi Descartes’ nor Kandel and Squire’s accounts of the relationship between the mind and the body are empirically and logically adequate. Perhaps the understanding of culture as an autonomous emergent phenomenon can provide a way out of this philosophical impasse? Such an understanding, she argues, would force us to focus on the process of interaction between culture and our neurophysiology, leading to a novel conception of the human mind. The mind, in this new framework, would become “culture in the brain,” a process that necessarily relies on both cultural, or symbolic, stimuli from the environment and on the mechanisms of the brain, and we might be able, experimentally, with the help of procedures and technologies available to neuroscience, to work out what specific roles culture and physiology play in both basic and advanced human cognitive processes, and exactly how they interact. Before this work is done, one may formulate certain hypotheses. It may be reasonably argued, for instance, on the basis of comparative zoology, if nothing more, that culture produces will (agency) and identity. It “determines the individual’s likes and dislikes, programming the brain to will certain things”; culturally produced “identity presents to the individual the possibilities, helping to establish their subjective ranking: because you are what you are, you must will this and not this. It commands the will what to choose and to decide. In terms of the brain systems which support them, the agency and the identity are likely two different processes, but in terms of their expression in behavior, they work in tandem and are parts of the same mental process.” It may also be argued that culture creates the mind with the help of the imaginative capacity of the brain (its capacity, that is, to generate new information), which in turn enables the mind to take part in the creation of culture. Of course, at this point one cannot move beyond speculation with regard to the neurophysiological systems that support and underlie the processes Greenfeld delineates – and here the invitation to a dialogue is meant in all earnestness. But her imaginative sketch does offer an alternative possibility of accounting for human nature that is completely novel in modern philosophy and that escapes both dualism and monism, whether materialistic or idealistic, on the one hand, and between materialism and idealism, on the other, and which is both logical and open to empirical investigation. “Nationalism and the Modern Economy: Communing with the Spirit of Max Weber” was prepared for a conference commemorating the 100th anniversary of the publication of Weber’s Protestant Ethic

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xxii Nationalism and the Mind and delivered there in June 2004, to be published in the special anniversary issue of Max Weber Studies a year later. A discussion of the role of nationalism in the emergence of the modern economy, it, like most of Greenfeld’s essays, does at least a double duty. It develops ideas first intimated in the “Invitation to a Dialogue,” establishing the mind as a central subject in the study of culture and thereby arriving at a much fuller interpretation of the Weberian conception of “meaning.” Greenfeld thus takes a further step in the construction of the general theory of culture – a step that both makes clear and deepens the philosophical implications of this theory. Outlining the argument of The Spirit of Capitalism: Nationalism and Economic Growth regarding the inherent competitiveness of nationalism (familiar to readers from “Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England”), which, in the economic sphere, creates an incessant race for supremacy, and therefore leads to sustained growth, the essay makes clear why Greenfeld’s thesis in fact supercedes the one Weber proposed a century ago. But while “laying the great Weber’s thesis to rest,” Greenfeld hopes to bring his underlying theory of social reality to life and make it productive again. It is the first of Greenfeld’s essays to employ the term “mentalist.” She uses it here to characterize Weber’s (and so her own) position on culture as an empirical reality, symbolic rather than material, whose only active element – and therefore the focus of its study – is the mind. Most relevant to the themes mentioned in this introduction, as noted above, in this essay is Greenfeld’s understanding of the Weberian notion of “rationalization,” which leads her to a definition of the nature of the historical process or history more generally. She writes: The general meaning of “rationalization” which emerges out of the discussion of, and allows its application in, such widely differing “departments of life” as mystical contemplation and economy is that of articulation and organization, primarily cognitive, of an area of experience. The need for rationalization arises from the inherently disorderly nature of reality to which human beings are born … “Rationalization”, in other words, refers to the fundamental process of ordering of reality, or its cultural, i.e. symbolic, i.e. mental, construction.

This implies that the “fundamental thesis” of Weber’s mentalist sociology is the notion of history as the march (or, rather, ramble) of rationalization, the endless succession of disconnected attempts to introduce order into experience

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A Student’s Introduction xxiii which does not carry it within itself. The process of rationalization is natural, as is humanity; but man-made things are, by definition, artificial, and so are the products of rationalization … there is nothing inevitable about them, they do not occur of themselves, they are not self-evident.

Durkheim’s name is not mentioned in this context. But we can see how Durkheim and Weber are yet again brought together in Greenfeld’s thought. Rationalization is the core cultural process, a response to anomie; there is a constant anomie-rationalization dynamic that lies at the basis of cultural development and change. Greenfeld’s articulation of the concept of anomie probably receives its fullest expression in this book’s closing chapter, “Nationalism and the Mind,” which also demonstrates her recent thinking about its role in socio-historical change. “Nationalism and the Mind” was delivered in April 2004 as the Tenth Annual Gellner Lecture of the Association for the Study of Ethnicity and Nationalism at the old theatre of the London School of Economics. In the Summer of 2005 it appeared in the ASEN journal, Nations and Nationalism. Though written several months earlier than “Nationalism and Modern Economy,” it in many ways ties together the various strands of argument in the present collection. Among other things it reviews and offers succinct formulations of the nature of nationalism and its main implications for modern societies. It then focuses on the main social implication – egalitarianism – and the psychological consequences of egalitarianism for members of national societies. In short, as noted above, though a response to anomie designed to resolve it, nationalism nevertheless renders essentially permanent a low-grade form of it. It has a tendency to lead to the emergence of identity problems among a significant minority of the population: the advantages of modernity come with a heavy price-tag. The greater is the choice one is given in forming one’s destiny, the heavier is the burden of responsibility for making the right choice. The more opportunities one is offered to “find oneself ”, the harder it is to decide where to look. Life has never been so exciting and so frustrating; we have never been so empowered and so helpless. Modern societies, produced by nationalism, because of their very secularism, openness, and the elevation of the individual, are necessarily anomic.

As Greenfeld puts it here, anomie is “the ultimate cause of cultural change.” Since culture’s function, if not its essence, is to hold anomie at

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xxiv Nationalism and the Mind bay, to provide order to a species that has no genetically transmitted order, it stands to reason that cultural innovation, the imaginative solution to cultural problems, which are, of course, problems of order, is a response to breakdowns, gaps, or inconsistencies in that order. In characteristically provocative fashion, Greenfeld argues that nationalism as a form of culture “inhibits the formation and normal functioning of the human mind.” Critics might take issue with the notion of such “normal functioning,” assuming that such a designation presupposes a “natural” state of culture from which nationalism deviates, a sort of cultural “golden age” in which the need for order was fully satisfied. Moreover, as Greenfeld notes, most human minds function perfectly “normally,” even in this modern world that we inhabit. Yet the essential point, expressed in this way, among other things, for rhetorical impact, stands: modern, national society is particularly anomic, meaning that it can be a difficult culture to live in for large numbers of persons with greater than average sensitivity. The essay, therefore, brings within the orbit of Greenfeld’s work psychology and, perhaps, even psychiatry. The perennial focus of this work, culture itself, is, by 2004, much closer to having received a satisfactory definition. It is not simply an emergent phenomenon (though, of course, it is that), but a process, one both “symbolic” and “mental,” by which it is meant that it takes place in the minds of individuals. Like the mind which it creates (and by which it is created) it is also a product of the interaction between the human biological constitution and the autonomous logics of symbolic systems. As such it weaves its way between Cartesian dualism, on the one hand, and materialistic or idealistic monism, on the other; and between materialism and idealism. It could not be more real, but its reality is not material, although it exists within material boundary conditions and is supported at every step by material mechanisms. The eleven essays which the readers have before them were chosen because each makes a particularly valuable contribution to the field (or fields) of study of which it treats. They were pertinent to the interests of Professor Greenfeld’s students in many disciplines and, we hoped, would be pertinent to the interests of other students (whether undergraduate or professors) in many disciplines. “Reflections on Two Charismas” and “Praxis Pietatis” should appeal to those interested in sociological theory; “Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature” to sociological theorists, as well as sociologists of art and

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A Student’s Introduction xxv literature, and literary theorists; “Science and Literature as Social Institutions” would add to this list of audiences also historians, philosophers, and sociologists of science. “Invitation to a Dialogue” should be of interest to philosophers in general and, who knows, might even draw in an occasional neuroscientist. The set of six articles dealing with aspects and implications of nationalism – “Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England”; “Nationalism and Modernity”;“The Modern Religion?”;“The Political Significance of Culture”; “Nationalism and Modern Economy”; and “Nationalism and the Mind” – in addition to students of nationalism coming from various disciplines, should also interest historians, philosophers, and sociologists of science; political scientists, students of international relations, and, perhaps, even security studies; students of religion, of economic history, and economic growth; psychologists and psychotherapists; and, again, sociological theorists. But together these essays combine into something greater than the sum of its parts – a perspective which unifies these usually disjointed disciplines into one coherent approach to culture, focused on the mind. This perspective becomes clearer from essay to essay, gradually building up from “Reflections on Two Charismas,”in which it is barely intimated, to “Nationalism and the Mind,” which makes it explicit. Taken as a whole, the collection turns into a text in philosophical anthropology, a systematic discussion of human nature, and as such addresses anyone interested in humanity. Of course, the theory is incomplete. In accordance with the view of the mind as a self-proliferating creative process, some of the ideas here have already developed further, and in essays written since the Fall of 2004, Liah Greenfeld took additional steps in the analysis of nationalism – the modern culture – and toward the understanding of human society and culture in general. While these new essays await their volume, we have sufficient food for thought in the one before us to last us in the meantime. We’ll do well (to use an appropriate term) to ruminate on it. NOTES 1.

2.

In English. In 1999 a small volume of essays, Nationalisme i Modernitat, was published by the University of Valencia Press in Catalan. It contained five essays written in the course of the 1990s. John Gray, “The Global Mirage,” TLS, 7 June 2002.

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xxvi Nationalism and the Mind 3.

4.

5.

6.

7. 8. 9.

For a survey of historical attempts to define culture see Adam Kuper, Culture: The Anthropologists’ Account (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999). On cultural models “of” and “for” see Geertz, “Religion as a Cultural System” in The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1973). On the centrality of order in human social life and in humans’ relative genetic deprivation in this respect see Shils, “Charisma, Order, and Status,” in Center and Periphery (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1975); Peter Berger and Thomas Luckman, The Social Construction of Reality (Garden City, NY: Anchor Books, 1967); and Geertz, op. cit. Indeed, Greenfeld believes that the theory of institutions that she develops is implicit in Weber, but it remains largely undeveloped. The notion that a social institution has as its core a single human propensity or goal, upon which the very concept of the autonomy of institutions rests, can be seen in his discussion of science in “Science as a Vocation.” Regarding Japanese nationalism, see Greenfeld, The Spirit of Capitalism: Nationalism and Economic Growth (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001). On nationalism in Latin America, see Jonathan R. Eastwood, The Rise of Nationalism in Venezuela (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, forthcoming). Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America, trans. George Lawrence (New York: HarperCollins, 2000), pp. 537–538. Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983), and Breuilly, Nationalism and the State (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994). Max Weber, Economy and Society, p. 926.

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1 REFLECTIONS ON TWO CHARISMAS*

ABSTRACT

The concept “charisma”was used by Weber in relation to two different categories of phenomena: proximity (whether of institutions, people, or objects) to the ultimate values of a society (transformed and routinized charisma); and a personal ability to generate and express intense excitement (genuine charisma). The latter aspect of “charisma” has been largely neglected in sociological literature and is analyzed in the present paper. The two varieties of charisma fulfill the important social function of providing models for conduct; both are, thus, connected to the human need for guidance in action. However, what makes their influence possible is different in the two cases: the influence of genuine charisma relies on the propensity for unreflective imitation of others, whereas the influence of routinized charisma is based on the propensity for internalization of symbolic constructions. Being ultimately dependent on properties of the human mind both charismas can be found in any society irrespective of its level of complexity.

* I am deeply grateful to Professor Edward Shils, the primary source of inspiration behind this paper, for intellectually provocative conversations and exceptional tolerance in reacting to views with which he disagreed. I must also thank Professor Joseph Ben-David and anonymous assessors of the British Journal of Sociology for valuable comments, and Mindy Shimmel for her help in making the English of this paper readable.

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2 Nationalism and the Mind The goal of this paper is to explore the dual meaning of the concept of “charisma” as used by Weber and to bring to the fore a certain aspect of this concept which, though usually disregarded in sociological literature, seems to apply to a class of phenomena universally present in human life in groups and thus fundamental to the understanding of society. Such an exploration is important not for the scholastic reason of establishing what Weber actually meant, whatever it was, but rather because what he really meant – according to the present interpretation – can be helpful in dealing with the most profound problems in sociology. These are the problems related to the basic question of order: How is society possible? What are the sources of, functions of, and conditions for the categorically different types of human behavior – rational and irrational, institutional and collective? In short, what is the nature of society and man? The re-evaluation of “charisma” may also be helpful in a critical assessment of sociological models and classical typologies of the “Gemeinschaft vs Gesellschaft” kind.

USES OF “CHARISMA” IN ECONOMY AND SOCIETY

The concept “charisma” was used by Weber in Economy and Society to denote two distinct categories of phenomena each of which included a number of sub-species. The term “genuine charisma,” or “pure charisma,” was reserved for the first category, which occasionally was referred to simply as “charisma.” It is this category which will be at the center of our attention here. “Genuine charisma” denotes an important distinct phenomenon for which no other general concept was used. When Weber used “charisma” in relation to the other category of phenomena, which included Gentilcharisma (kinship charisma), Erbscharisma (hereditary charisma), Amtscharisma (charisma of office) and other instances in which the term was used in the context of the routinization and transformation of genuine charisma it was, actually, no more than a stylistic abbreviation. In contrast to the “genuine charisma,” “charisma” in this second sense did not denote a phenomenon sui generis, different from any other known and named phenomena such as authority, deference to authority, legitimacy and,

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Reflections on Two Charismas 3 less frequently, ultimate values in terms of which this legitimacy was bestowed upon the power-holding persons, lineages, offices, etc. thereby transforming their power into authority. What distinguished authority, deference and legitimacy in those instances in which the concept “charisma” was used and what, therefore, justified the substitution of this term for the generally accepted terms in relation to them, was their ultimate character (usually, but not necessarily religious): their being derived from the most fundamental, irreducible definitions of a given order. Since “genuine charisma” was frequently interpreted in terms of such ultimate, irreducible definitions, Weber sometimes used the concept “charisma” in the second sense in those instances in which the alleged source of the genuine charisma was appropriated as a legitimating value, namely, when authority was legitimated by some relation to this alleged source of genuine charisma.1 In fact, in the second sense of the concept “charisma” any authority or value is charismatic; this has been noted and emphasized by Shils.2 Therefore, Amtscharisma – the charismatic authority residing in an office – differs from the rational-legal authority which may reside in it only in its degree of proximity to the ultimate source of authority. The same is true in regard of the difference between Erbscharisma and Gentilcharisma – the charismatic authority of descent or kinship – and traditional authority of the lineage. Both rational-legal and traditional authority are, so to speak, twice removed from the fundamental definitions of a society, while charismatic authority derives therefrom directly.3 The recognition that Weber uses the concept “charisma” in two entirely different ways makes it possible to resolve the apparent contradiction between his claim that genuine charisma is an extraordinary phenomenon, existing outside the institutional order and only in statu nascendi,4 and his frequent usage of the concept “charisma” in the discussion of institutional orders, suggesting that genuine charisma is perpetrated, albeit transformed, in institutions. When the concept “charisma” is seen, in this latter context, as an abbreviation for “authority related to or derived from ultimate values,” or “legitimacy in terms of the ultimate values,” it becomes clear that what is perpetuated and transformed is not “genuine” charisma, but the relation to the ultimate sources of authority. One can find support for this view in Weber’s discussions of the routinization and transformation of charisma. While he frequently uses the two terms “charisma” and “authority”

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4 Nationalism and the Mind (or “legitimacy”) interchangeably,5 he never treats routinized charisma as an independent variable in explanations of authority and related phenomena (such as legitimacy, deference, ultimate values). Charisma, in this context, is not treated by Weber as different or even distinguishable from authority.6 “Genuine Charisma” – The Definition Weber was rather specific in his treatment of “genuine” or “pure” charisma. He defined such charisma as “a personal quality which turned whoever possessed it into an impressive personality.”7 This quality was inborn and extraordinary 8 and was, in a twofold sense, not a part of the normative order of everyday activity: it had no pattern, it was exceptional in the sense that not everyone could achieve it since it could not be learned; and it had no symbolization preceding its actual occurrence and was thus frequently symbolized retrospectively as extraordinary, meaning “superhuman.” For example, “where the idea of God had already been clearly established” it was symbolized as “divine.”9 The process of symbolizing and stereotyping this quality, by creating a pattern according to which it could be learned and artificially induced (as in charismatic education10), were parts of the routinization of charisma, which actually meant the routinization of an authority structure based upon charisma. According to Weber, this implied the transformation of genuine charisma into something totally alien to its nature. Genuine charisma exists only in statu nascendi and “every hour of its existence brings it nearer to (its) end.”11 “Pure” or “genuine” charisma expresses itself through ecstasy, manic seizure or other manifestations of utmost excitement. Whatever example Weber chooses to give – a berserk warrior, a prophet, or a demagogue – it is this external expression (including rolling eyes and uneven breath), and not its causes, which is important.12 This is contrary to the view that a prophet is a paradigmatic example of a charismatic person, which implies that charisma in the prophetic vision. Such a view reflects an understanding of charisma in the second sense of proximity to ultimate values. In fact, the best example of a (genuinely) charismatic personality is the “berserk”warrior. Though he creates a frenzied commitment to the battle among his comrades, the ideal-typical berserk warrior does not have a message to those whom he inspires. His effectiveness is due solely to

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Reflections on Two Charismas 5 his overtly expressed extreme excitement. This is explicitly stated by Weber,13 and it is for that reason that he brings berserk warriors as the first, presumably the purest and most obvious, example of genuine charisma in the two chapters where the concept is defined. To be sure, prophets – who do bring messages – are charismatic personalities too. But if both prophets and berserk warriors are examples of charismatic personalities then charisma must be defined by what is common to both and not by what is a characteristic only of one. It is excitement which makes a prophet charismatic, not his message or vision (though this may be the cause of his own excitement).14 Strange as it may seem in the discussion of charismatic prophets, the powerful effect of excited behavior is a rather common phenomenon. It is known that all the higher animals are extremely sensitive to a display of excitement, while in sociology the hypnotic qualities of such displays were noted by early students of the human crowd.15 In episodes of crowd behavior extremely excited individuals become focuses of attention and objects of imitation by others. It is because of this ability to internally generate extreme excitement – which is charisma – and thus become objects of imitation, that charismatic personalities (persons possessing such natural ability) are able to become leaders. This definition is not to be found in Weber in such explicit terms; however, the interpretation of charisma as a non-cognitive, nonsymbolic ability is supported by the fact that Weber did not include charismatic action among the types of social action.Weber referred to charisma in the pages preceding the discussion of the types of social action; and it is safe to say that it was present in his mind all the time. It was not a lapse of memory or lack of consistency which was responsible for his omission. Charisma is not included because it does not belong to the realm of social action. Its expression in the behavior of a person who possesses this quality, or who is affected by it, is not meaningfully oriented; thus charisma cannot serve as a basis for meaningful orientation in action.16 “Meaningfully oriented action” meant for Weber action of a self-conscious actor, action based on knowledge. His awareness of and indeed emphasis on the ideal-typical nature of the types of social action made it all the more possible for him to identify social action with conscious action, to lay stress on this characteristic, so rarely to be met in reality in its pure form.17 It follows that traditionally oriented behavior is behavior based upon knowledge of customs and norms; behavior oriented in an instrumentally rational

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6 Nationalism and the Mind way is behavior based upon knowledge of practical goals and available means for the achievement of these goals; behavior oriented in a value-rational fashion is based upon a knowledge of values (“good,” “sacred,” etc.) and appropriate ways of living up to them; and affectively oriented behavior is behavior based upon one’s own feelings and the socially sanctioned ways of expressing them. To say that a person’s behavior is determined by his love of someone does not mean that it is determined by a psycho-biological agitation caused by the attraction to another human being.Although this agitation is necessarily present, and is an important condition for the formation of cognitions about one’s own feelings, a psycho-biological state would not, in some cultures, be interpreted as love at all. Rather it is determined by socially conditioned recognition of the causes of such agitation and its socially conditioned implications. The frequently made assumptions that charismatic behavior corresponds to valuerational behavior or that it corresponds to affective action are equally mistaken. It is of the utmost importance that, speaking of social action, Weber explicitly states that he means only action meaningfully oriented toward others, that is, action based on explicit symbolic representation of the components of the action situation. Charismatic behavior, important as it is for Weber, does not represent a type of social action because it is meaningless in the above sense: not symbolic. It exists together with crowd behavior (which is worth noting) on the verge of the pre-social.18 It is important to keep in mind that we are dealing with analytical concepts which do not adequately describe complex social situations but correspond to aspects of concrete reality which usually can be isolated only in theory. In reality the non-symbolic ability to generate excitement is rarely effective if unaided by successful manipulation of value complexes relevant to the situation. (The interrelation between values and genuine charisma will be emphasized below.) The isolation of genuine charisma for analytical purposes seems unjustified since there are significant – albeit rare – cases of purely non-symbolic leadership (berserk warriors, as seen and discussed by Weber, belong to this category,as do spontaneously emerging leaders of the lynching crowds, riots, etc.), and since in many much more common cases in which both symbolic and non-symbolic elements are present, the effect of the symbols the leader uses is sometimes largely due to his non-symbolic “genuine” charisma.19

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Reflections on Two Charismas 7 THE TWO BASES OF CHARISMATIC AUTHORITY

Genuine charisma thus means the ability to internally generate and externally express extreme excitement, an ability which makes one the object of intense attention and unreflective imitation by others. It is this quality which makes it possible for a charismatic person to become a leader; and it is in this ability to provide a basis for charismatic authority that the sociological importance of charisma lies. The concept of “charismatic authority” was derived by Weber from R. Sohm’s notion of “charismatic organization.”20 Sohm perceived “charismatic organization” as an authority structure, “the way in which humans are given to understand what they are – and are not – to do.”21 Peculiar to this particular type of authority was direct contact between the leader and the led unmediated by previously existing perceptions and laws. A charismatic organization was a teaching organization while teaching was perceived as giving direct guidance in action: teaching of moral commands, of revealed and therefore indisputable truth which should be accepted solely on the basis of faith, an unconditional surrender to the authority of the teacher. It was this directness of contact – disregarding all the previously existing norms and values – and unaccountability of authority which was incorporated by Weber. The other aspect of Sohm’s argument – the necessary spirituality of charismatic organizations, its embeddedness in the specific meaning of the Christian teaching – was rejected by Weber, in whose opinion it restricted the possibilities of the concept’s application.22 Although charisma is, of course, a necessary condition for the appearance of an authority structure of the charismatic type, it is not a sufficient condition for it. Charismatic authority is based mainly on the recognition of charisma; that is, on some symbolization of it. Charismatic authority is power made legitimate in terms of the recognition-symbolization of this exceptional quality. (In this sense charisma is attributed.) The revolutionary quality lies in its potential eventuation in charismatic authority which is the basis of most important revolutionary changes. The question of when (in what conditions) charisma can actually develop into charismatic authority is, therefore, a crucial sociological question. What makes people susceptible to the hypnotism of excitement displayed by one of them and able to imitate the object of their intense attention without reflection? It is this condition of suggestibility, of

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8 Nationalism and the Mind heightened sensitivity to the influence of others, when the ordinarily powerful internalized norms and values lose their authority, that characterize the participants in episodes of crowd behavior. Usually this suggestibility is interpreted as a result of physical-psychological processes (which are also found among animals), such as milling leading to rapport, and of the phenomenon of social contagion, all of which create a feeling of belonging together and of mutual support and increase the individual’s sense of power, ego-expansion and rectitude.23 The susceptibility to influence may, thus, be interpreted as a function of the spatial juxtaposition of people, a product of some “physical energy” (to use the phrase actually employed by Durkheim for the description of a similar phenomenon24) which is transmitted among people in spatial concentration. But, though the subject of the studies of crowd behavior were indeed actual crowds, most of the early commentators on this subject, including Le Bon, Park, and Blumer, espoused the view that more important than the spatial juxtaposition of the individuals is the psychological state of each of them, which is actually the defining characteristic of the crowd and which is, therefore, the factor responsible for crowd behavior, so that a nation at some times can constitute a “psychological crowd” in Le Bon’s sense.25 This psychological state is the loss of critical ability and “the disappearance of all individual and particular self-consciousness in members of the group.”26 Since crowd behavior is not exclusively the behavior of psychically abnormal individuals the question arises of why such psychological states are activated. In theories of collective behavior the answer has usually been some vague postulation of the preceding state of deprivation or social unrest.27 The theory of mass society offered a different explanation of the heightened susceptibility to influence and pliability of the participants in collective behavior. This theory derived from the concept of “mass” (as defined by theorists of collective behavior – e.g. Blumer28) and, unfortunately, disregarded the concept of “psychological crowd” with all its implications. The suggestibility of people in mass society was perceived as a function of such society’s being a mass of atomized individuals, a result of the process in which the boundaries of collectives mediating between an individual and the supreme power of central elites are destroyed. The individual thus becomes accessible to the direct influence of these elites and, being alone and unprotected, has no other choice but to surrender.29

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Reflections on Two Charismas 9 The reliability of this conclusion is admittedly dubious in view of the exceptionally strong extra-familial primary groups and personal ties – such as friendship – in two major examples of mass societies, the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany. Still, there is some metaphorical truth in the theory of mass society. The pliability of the individuals is indeed due to the fact that they are unprotected and accessible. But it is not the collectivities which cease to protect them. In collective behavior, collectivities become the source of moral support, the source of the feeling of righteousness and ego-expansion of influenced individuals. The theory of collective behavior contains truth too, for these individuals are undoubtedly characterized by the loss of critical ability and self-consciousness. The sociological concept which captures the meaning of the metaphors of unprotectedness and accessibility, and explains the psychological state leading to the inability to use individual judgment, however, belongs to a branch of sociology unconcerned (or at least not explicitly concerned) with collective behavior. This concept is “anomie.” “Anomie” denotes a condition of acute inconsistency between different values, norms and cognitions, including the perception of reality, which, as a result of this inconsistency, neutralize each other and lose their authority.30 It is this destruction of the authority of previously binding values and cognitions which leaves the individual unprotected and makes him unusually susceptible to social influence. His ability to use his individual judgment is impaired by the cognitive confusion in which he finds himself, since it becomes very difficult to account for and defend this judgment. The impairment of this ability destroys the basis for individual action and leaves one hardly capable of being an individual in any but a physical sense; in contrast to the conception of atomized individuals in the theory of mass society, only a collective self, metaphorically speaking, is possible in this situation. Therefore, what makes people particularly responsive to charisma is the condition of anomie which renders values and norms incapable of guiding people in their actions. The individual is left groping in normative darkness, yearning for the authority of a confident leader to show him the way out of this situation. A charismatic personality provides such leadership, offering through his contagious excitement a badly needed model for behavior and restoring to the confused individual his sense of order.

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10 Nationalism and the Mind SYMBOLIZATION OF GENUINE CHARISMA

While lack of values is, itself, a sufficient condition for the receptivity to charisma – so that an individual whose values are confused can be affected by a charismatic personality with no one else present – the presence of others intensifies the effect of charisma. This is so because, as was noted by students of collective behavior, the sharing of the excitement, circular reaction and the sense of belonging and of being a part of a collective self, all lead to feelings of moral righteousness, power, and ego-expansion.31 Furthermore, if the effect of charisma on an individual is not shared and intensified by others it will be no more than a passing emotion. This is due to the experience of a cognitive dissonance which necessarily arises when others’ experiences contradict one’s own.32 Paradoxically, while one way to fight cognitive dissonance is to reconcile oneself to the experiences of others and to forget the impact of a charismatic personality on oneself, the other way is to symbolize charisma. Symbolization of charisma includes systematization of charismatic experiences and their rationalization in terms of some broader symbolic framework (it is not coincidental that, according to Weber, charisma was interpreted as divine only where the idea of God was already well developed33). Both are to a large extent a function of the cognitive dissonance aroused by the discrepancy between the unconditional surrender to the influence of a charismatic personality and the lack of ready justification for the bizarre behaviors which are the product of such influence. The influenced person feels a need to rationalize these behaviors to himself; but more than that there is a need to justify them to others. It is through the persuasion of others that one regains the peace of one’s mind.34 Charismatic authority, which presupposes some duration of the effect of charismatic personality 35 does, therefore, also necessarily presuppose a multitude of individuals. Charisma is recognized because of the excitement (so different from the restlessness of the anomie) which it produces. It is this excitement which is symbolized as an extraordinary quality (sometimes as divine) and attributed to the charismatic individual – the primary source of the excitement and the focus of attention. Charismatic behavior is legitimated in terms of the symbolization of this excitement in any particular case; these terms may be and often are provided by the charismatic individual himself (as in cases of

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Reflections on Two Charismas 11 prophets or political leaders), but they need not be (as in the case of berserk warriors). The provision of terms in which to symbolize and legitimate genuine charisma and the behavior of those affected by it is a question totally separate from that of the nature of genuine charisma itself and of the responsiveness to it, or susceptibility to charismatic influence, which is responsible for the emergence of charismatic authority. Instead, it has to do with another basic question: namely the question of the nature of human creativity and its relation to society. There is a hint in Weber as to how to answer this question. Weber refers to intellectuals as the creators of creeds and religions (meaning symbolic configurations which lie at their basis) and explains this by the fact that intellectuals have a need for the meaningful organization of life, which need is different from the various needs of those who accept these creeds and religions. (It is important to notice that in this context Weber does not speak about charisma.36 It is also important that for Sohm, intellectuals were not charismatics at all.37) The propensities and capacities of the human mind are diverse, unequally distributed and fairly autonomous. The charismatic propensity (here a propensity for either generating excitement or being affected by the display of it) is different and independent from the propensity for meaningful organization of reality. The same difference between intellectuals (creators) and non-intellectuals may also be conceptualized in terms of sensitivity to inconsistency. Some people, especially intellectuals, are very sensitive to inconsistency and are motivated to try to eliminate it through cognitive reorganization of the world and creation of new world views. Most people are less sensitive to inconsistencies or are sensitive only to gross inconsistencies and thus do not have this need. However, they are able to accept (especially in cases of preceding confusion of values) or slowly adapt themselves to newly proposed systems of values and cognitions if such systems broadly correspond to their social reality and do not place on them unbearable psychological strains in the form of impossible demands. (The necessity for such broad correspondence between social reality and the system of values and conditions which is to account for and meaningfully organize it is, indeed, the basis for different religious propensities of different status groups, a topic which Weber discusses at length.38) Inconsistencies may be more acutely perceived during periods of social change – thus, there may be periods of more and less prophetic or other intellectual activity.

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12 Nationalism and the Mind It is important to distinguish between these two questions: the nature of genuine charisma and the nature of creativity. Creativity per se, when it is not related to charisma and the development of charismatic authority (as in the case of prophets), is not revolutionary in the destructive sense in which charisma is. Creativity may be a basis of gradual, rational change. It is not the intensely creative character of the ideas, or the experiences of charismatic personalities, which is responsible for the explosive effect of charisma, but the way in which the excitement – that is, genuine charisma as defined here – of such personalities affects others.39

KINSHIP OF THE TWO TYPES OF CHARISMA: THE NEED FOR ORDER

In this paper, genuine charisma has been defined as a personal capacity for a certain kind of impressive non-symbolic behavior which, though not very rare in itself,40 can become sociologically important only in rare cases of extraordinary social situations. But, as was already noted, Weber’s use of the notions of routinized and transformed charisma makes possible the perception of charisma in a totally different fashion, as a transcendent symbolic force, an “awe-arousing centrality”41 inherent in any authority and representing the connection of authority to ultimate determinants of an order. In spite of the contrasting notions of the two charismas (one is non-symbolic, the other is “ultimately symbolic”42) and the seemingly contradictory relationship between them (the emergence of a genuinely charismatic authority is possible when there no longer is any – binding – charisma in existing authority structures; genuine charisma is necessarily revolutionary, as it destroys the previous connections to the ultimate sources of authority that constitute routinized charisma), the two nevertheless share one very important characteristic. Charismatic sensitivity – namely sensitivity to charisma – derives in both instances from the same fundamental human need for order. The two charismas – the capacity for extreme excitement which initiates unreflective imitation, and the proximity to ultimate values – are the two integrative forces in society, the two forces which hold society together. The human need for order is indeed the ultimate cause of social

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Reflections on Two Charismas 13 integration, the single most important factor in making human society possible.43 Society in general seems to be a necessary corollary of life at the advanced stages of biological evolution. The preservation of a species demands co-operation of its member organisms (sometimes with detrimental effects for the individual organisms). In animals, for whom nature provides in the form of instincts detailed “models for”44 any ordinary activity, the ability to co-operate, the capacity for integration in general and in particular is inborn. The basic fact of human existence is that humans lack built-in “models for” behavior in groups. Social integration and co-operation are necessary for the human species (as well as its individual members), but there is no innate knowledge of how to accomplish such co-operation. Thus, there is a constant search for models, a need for created order among humans. The two charismas – each in its own way, sometimes jointly and sometimes separately – fulfill this need by providing guidance for conduct and thereby sustain human society. Though sensitivity to charisma in both senses derives from the same need for order, it is based upon two absolutely different propensities (inner capacities and tendencies) of the human mind. One is a propensity to internalize values and beliefs, to justify power and, in general to view the world in terms of these values and beliefs; this propensity is based on a uniquely human symbolic ability to construct “models of ”45 situations, to learn these models and to be guided by them. The other is a propensity for unreflective imitation of the excited behavior of others. Which of the two charismas – the non-symbolic genuine one, or the symbolic routinized one – is the dominant factor in social integration at a given moment is determined by the previously existing social structure, particularly by the ability of the previously constructed symbolic configurations to provide a sufficient sense of order, a sufficient guidance for action. The force that provides the main basis for integration in the newly evolving society, which is the continuation of or the derivation from such previously existing social structure, determines the character of this society for a certain period of time. Certain social structures may be more congenial to one of these two integrative forces and thus create conditions for the realization of only one of the two charismatic propensities. However, there is no society in which either of these propensities is totally extinguished, and therefore, no society is forever insulated from changes in the

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14 Nationalism and the Mind direction of either kind of charisma, even if one is attenuated and appears non-existent.46 Both propensities are universal and, in most cases, the two charismas coexist. Dichotomous typologies of societies – e.g. Gemeinschaft (community) vs Gesellschaft (society) – rightly point to the existence (in theory) of two pure types of societies. The fundamental difference between these two types lies in the forces which integrate them. In the terms of this paper an ideal Gemeinschaft is integrated exclusively on the basis of genuine charisma and imitation; whereas an ideal Gesellschaft is based on routinized charisma and internalization of values and cognitions. However, the identification of these ideal constructions with actually existing societies, grounded in the inability to perceive the universal and socially independent (since rooted in the structure of the human mind) nature of the two charismas and charismatic propensities, is a serious mistake which limits the acceptability and analytical usefulness of such theoretical models. In reality there are no societies which closely correspond to such ideal constructs.47 Genuinely charismatic orders (societies integrated by genuine charisma) are necessarily transient. If not symbolized in terms of specific values, routinized and thereby transformed into an order based on “social action” (in Weber’s parlance), which is charismatic only in the second sense of proximity to ultimate values, such orders can exist only as long as the extreme excitement continues, leading through psychological processes of rapport and suggestion to the merging of individual personalities into a collective self. The existence of a collective self (as Weber pointed out on numerous occasions48) implies, among other things, the disregard and insufficient care for the biological needs of individual organisms and is incompatible with the economic activity based on such need. This incompatibility of purely charismatic orders with economic activity provides a natural time-limit for the existence of such orders. In fact, episodes of crowd behavior are the only examples of such pure, transient charismatic orders which do not reach the stage of routinization through symbolization and are not transformed into “social”orders.49 It is for this reason that genuine charisma is revolutionary. The acceptance of charismatic authority is based on the destruction or complete neglect of all previous norms and values (genuine charisma is sacrilegious in the sense that it pays no respect to transformed and routinized charisma). But genuinely charismatic authority necessarily and very soon leads to the establishment of new values or

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Reflections on Two Charismas 15 re-establishment of the earlier ones. This transition, however, is accomplished through unrestricted, normless, excited behavior which often takes on violent forms. Similarly, values, or the transformed and routinized charisma, usually cannot guide action by themselves. Mediating personal (genuinely charismatic) influence is needed for the successful internalization of symbolic constructions. There are a number of basic ways in which transformed and routinized charisma and non-symbolic genuine charisma interrelate in concrete social situations. Genuine charisma is symbolized in terms of some values, and these values, along with the constraints of the charismatic authority itself, affect the social structure that evolves after a charismatic turmoil. On the other hand, there are values which are conducive to the eruptions of charismatic behavior, in the sense that they heighten responsiveness to genuine charisma. Such values, for example, include the sanctification of particular collectivities (a nation, a religious collectivity, a class). In such cases – as opposed to societies where the “individual” represents the highest value – the way for unreflective imitative behavior under the influence of a charismatic personality is prepared by an intense feeling of belonging together, of already sharing a collective self. The de facto feeling-of-belonging characteristic of primary groups, even when unsupported by explicit sanctification of participation in collective action, facilitates the perpetuation of symbolic order by means of charismatic behavior (unreflective inspired imitation). In paradigmatic traditional societies the perpetuation of the normative order through habit and custom, when the meaning of the symbolic constructions on which the order was based has faded away with time, is also mainly based on imitation. Such societies may be easily agitated by charismatic persons.50 The more rationalized the value-system of a society – the more it is systemized, coherent and inclusive – the more immune this society is to eruptions of charismatic behavior. This implies not that there are fewer charismatic personalities or less genuine charisma in rationalized societies, but only that the sociological importance of the genuine charisma is reduced in those societies. The need for order is more fully taken care of in such societies by cognitive symbolic means; and there are fewer possibilities for charismatic authority to develop. Even in highly rationalized societies, however, there may be sectors congenial to the impact of genuine charisma. Also, the knowledge of alternative normative orders, alternative ultimate values, especially

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16 Nationalism and the Mind when seen in relativist perspective as legitimate, can weaken or destroy the guiding power of even the most thoroughly rationalized system of values and thus create the opportunity for the rise of the other integrative force – genuine charisma. An awareness of the dual nature of social integration and, specifically, of the universal propensity for non-symbolic, non-rational behavior which lies at the basis of one of the major types of authority may be helpful in understanding many apparently inexplicable social phenomena. In fact, such phenomena are amazing only if man is conceived as nothing but a thinking, symbol-producing creature, and social action – even that which does not fall into the Weberian category of “social action” – as necessarily meaningful action. The ability to create and use symbols is, after all, just one of many human abilities. Originally published in The British Journal of Sociology, XXXVI:1 (March), 1985

NOTES 1. M. Weber, Economy and Society (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), pp. 251–252, 954. 2. Especially in articles included in E. Shils, Center and Periphery: Essays in Macrosociology (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1975), “Center and Periphery,” pp. 3–17; “Charisma,” pp. 127–135; “Charisma, Order, and Status,” pp. 256–276; and “Deference,” pp. 276–304. 3. M. Weber, op. cit., see, for example, pp. 216, 218, 262, 1162. 4. Ibid., pp. 246, 252, 1120–1121, 1113. 5. Ibid., pp. 216, 246–251, 1158–1168. 6. It is treated as such by later authors (Shils, op. cit.; S. N. Eisenstadt, “Introduction,” pp. ix–lvi in Max Weber on Charisma and Institution Building (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1968)) who seem to use “charisma” in the sense of “ultimate sources of authority.” 7. M. Weber, op. cit., p. 1133, also p. 242. 8. Ibid., p. 400, for example. 9. Ibid., p. 1112. 10. Ibid., pp. 249, 458, 1143–1145. 11. Ibid., p. 1120. 12. It is the lack of “emotional preaching” which differentiates teachers of ethics and founders of schools of philosophy from charismatic prophets, not their messages, M. Weber, op. cit., p. 444. See also pp. 242, 400, 403, 535–536, 554 for examples of identification of genuine charisma with “the capacity to produce ecstatic states.”

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Reflections on Two Charismas 17 13. Ibid., pp. 242, 1112. In some cases the behavior of a “berserk”, regularly including such expressions as “manic seizures” would certainly be considered as detrimental to military discipline and treated as a mental illness. So would be the constitutional epilepsy which proved the charisma of shamans. Societies differ in their evaluation and its overt expression, and not everywhere is it likely to be effective to the degree that it was among the Nordic tribes of which Weber speaks. Weber’s discussion of the changing attitudes of religions to genuinely charismatic behavior is interesting in this context (ibid., p. 489). 14. It is not excitement about something, but excitement as such which is decisive. Humanists were “condemned to suffer progressive loss of influence,” because “they remained Erastian or irenic in temper,” and though they had a faith to share with others, they lacked excitement to attract others to their faith, M. Weber, op. cit., p. 514. 15. H. Blumer, “Collective Behavior,” in A. M. Lee, Principles of Sociology (New York: Barnes and Nobel, 1951), p. 229. 16. Genuinely charismatic propensity (to borrow a phrase from Edward Shils – E. Shils, op. cit., for example in “Charisma,” pp. 127–128) is not a propensity to perceive the world in terms of transcendental powers, but a propensity, a capacity for excitement totally independent from any perceptions, though sometimes related to them, among other things. 17. “The ideal type of meaningful action” was defined by Weber as “action where the meaning is fully conscious and explicit” (M. Weber, op. cit., p. 22). However, he never confused this ideal type with the description of actual situation. He explicitly stated that this ideal type is only a marginal case, while in the “great majority of cases actual action goes on in a state of inarticulate half-consciousness or actual unconsciousness of its subjective meaning” (ibid., p. 21). 18. “… the behavior of crowds and imitation stand on the indefinite border-line of social action. The same is true, as will often appear, of traditionalism and charisma. The reason for the indefiniteness of the line in these and most other cases lies in the fact that both the orientation to the behavior of others and the meaning which can be imputed by the actor himself, are by no means always capable of clear determination and are often altogether unconscious and seldom fully self-conscious,” M. Weber, op. cit., p. 24. In distinction to the four types of social action, genuine charisma is, therefore, non-rational in the specific sense of a practice “the result of which is not calculable” (ibid., p. 1172). 19. One of the most important of such cases is Hitler. It is true that in the long run the Nazi regime depended on the values in which Nazi leaders believed and which they successfully manipulated. However, the extent of the influence of these values, the enormous power of the Nazi leadership over the minds of the followers, was due to the personal qualities of some of the leaders, especially Hitler’s own charisma. Descriptions of the effect of Hitler’s personality and speeches in Nuremberg and in the Reichstag on the audience (see for instance W. L. Shirer, The Nightmare Years, Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1984, pp. 119; 127–131) make it clear that it was not what Hitler said, but how he said it, not the content of his speeches, but the musical qualities of his eloquence, the “orgasm of sound and fury” (ibid., p. 128) that he displayed, which made his listeners hysterically enthusiastic and which united them in fanatic devotion to “the cause.”

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18 Nationalism and the Mind 20. R. Sohm, Kirchenrecht (Leipzig: Dunker and Humblot, 1892). 21. P. Haley, “Rudolph Sohm on Charisma,” Journal of Religion, 60:2, April 1980, p. 186. 22. M. Weber, op. cit., p. 1112: “It is to R. Sohm’s credit that he worked out the sociological character of this kind of domination; however, since he developed this category with regard to one historically important case – the rise of the ecclesiastic authority of the early Christian church – his treatment was bound to be one-sided from the viewpoint of historical diversity.” 23. H. Blumer, op. cit., p. 237. 24. E. Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life (New York: The Free Press, 1965), p. 237. It is interesting to compare Durkheim’s description of collective effervescence out of which the religious idea is born (pp. 235–245), with Weber’s description of genuine charisma. 25. G. Le Bon, Psychologie des foules (Paris: F. Alcan), p. 12. 26. R. Park, The Crowd and the Public (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1973), p. 12. 27. See M. Weber, op. cit., pp. 242, 1115, 1117, 1132. The most systematic sociological effort to explain crowd – or collective – behavior was Smelser’s value-added approach (N. Smelser, Theory of Collective Behavior (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1962)). According to this approach, any case of collective behavior is a result of a specific combination of the six determinants, none of which alone can explain the occurrence of collective behavior and is not connected logically to any of the other determinants, but a combination of which has an explosive effect. Being very systematic, this attempt is not entirely successful, for, although the conditions for the cases of collective behavior are viewed in it as social and sociologically analyzable and abstractable, the explanation of any particular episode in this framework will always be historically idiosyncratic. 28. H. Blumer, op. cit. 29. A. W. Kornhauser, The Politics of Mass Society (Glencoe, Ill.: The Free Press, 1959). 30. E. Durkheim, Suicide (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1952), p. 258; R. K. Merton, Social Theory and Social Practice (Glencoe: The Free Press, 1955), p. 136; T. Parsons, The Social System (Glencoe: The Free Press, 1951), p. 39. 31. H. Blumer, op. cit., R. Park, op. cit. 32. For a survey of research in the area of cognitive dissonance see J. W. Brehm and A. R. Cohen, Explorations in Cognitive Dissonance (New York: Wiley, 1962) and L. Festinger, A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1962). 33. M. Weber, op. cit., p. 242. In this connection the discussion of religious disinclination of the modern proletariat (ibid., pp. 188–190) is also significant. According to Weber, the religious position of the modern proletariat is characterized by indifference or rejection of religion due to the fact that the sense of dependence on one’s own achievements for this stratum is supplanted by a consciousness of dependence on purely social forces, market conditions, and power relations guaranteed by law. Thus, charisma is not likely to be symbolized in religious terms in the case of the proletariat, instead it will be perceived in terms of “ideological surrogates” of religion. 34. L. Festinger, H. W. Riecken and S. Schacter, When Prophecy Fails (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1956).

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Reflections on Two Charismas 19 35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

40.

41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46.

47.

48. 49.

50.

M. Weber, op. cit., p. 1119. Ibid., p. 506. P. Haley, op. cit., pp. 192–193. M. Weber, op. cit., pp. 468–500. According to Weber (ibid., p. 1116), “the decisive difference (between charismatic and rational orders) is not in the creator of ideas or of ‘works’, or in his inner experience; rather the difference is rooted in the manner in which the ruled and led experience and internalize these ideas.” Notice the traditional Russian attitude of respect toward the insane (especially the excitable insane, such as hysterics, epileptics and others), one of the words for which is “blajeny” – “blessed.” E. Shils, “Charisma Order and Status,” in Center and Periphery, op. cit., p. 257. Ibid. This assertion is made by Edward Shils in “Center and Periphery” and in “Charisma, Order and Status,” both in Center and Periphery, op. cit., pp. 7, 261. C. Geertz, “Religion as a Cultural System,” in his The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1973), p. 93. C. Geertz, op. cit. Specifically, there is no such thing as the withdrawal of charisma from the world, which is the usual interpretation of the Weberian “Entzauberung.” Any society can, therefore, experience either positive or negative effects of genuinely charismatic behavior. These models always revolved around the existence and the difference between the two fundamental varieties of human behavior which were conceptualized in many ways, most common being “rational vs irrational” and “institutional vs collective” behavior. The relationship between the two varieties was usually perceived as mutually exclusive, which, as is claimed here, it is not. M. Weber, op. cit., pp. 244–245, 252–254, 1120. But note the importance of such behavior in enduring social structures, for example, in Nazi Germany. The ability of unreflective imitation and susceptibility to charisma is an ever present capacity of the human mind, it can be activated – and exploited – in any social structure. M. Weber, op. cit., p. 245.

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2 RUSSIAN FORMALIST SO CIOLO GY OF LITERATURE: A SO CIOLO GIST ’S PERSPECTIVE

Russian formalism has been of interest in the West for at least three decades since the publication of Victor Erlich’s authoritative study of the school in 1954.1 Almost every year significant new contributions are made to the analysis of the formalists’ scholarship; their multiplex theory, with all of its different, and at times seemingly contradictory, aspects, is elucidated, and many of these aspects are successfully incorporated in modern criticism and literary theory in the West.2 I will not dwell upon the better known “internalist” aspects of the formalists’ work, nor will I try to summarize their theory. Several leading members of the school systematically attempted to create a coherent theoretical framework for the sociology of literature.3 In this article I will look at the sociology of the Russian formalists from the point of view of a sociologist, analyze it, and suggest that the formalist sociology of literature makes a valuable contribution not only to our understanding of literature, but also to the understanding of social reality and to the discipline of sociology. This article will focus on sociologically significant writings of the formalists. These will include primarily theoretical discussions by Boris Eikhenbaum and Iurii Tynianov, as well as large-scale empirical studies by Eikhenbaum’s students, such as Mark I. Aronson, Solomon Reiser, Teodor Grits, Vladimir Trenin, Mikhail Nikitin, who were stimulated by his theory and incorporated it into their work. Other less explicitly sociological writings by these and other formalists will also be considered.4 Both the theoretical framework and empirical findings in their writings are relevant and can be usefully integrated into the contemporary

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Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature 21 sociology of creative activities, but here I will concentrate on the theoretical framework. Russian formalism is largely unknown to sociologists, even to those working in such subfields, closely related to literary studies, as sociology of knowledge or of art.5 Even if the name of the school is familiar to sociologists, its work is appreciated for aspects as alien to sociology as that suggested by the title “The Formal Approach to Language.” There are several reasons for this. Russian formalism, whose origin we may for purposes of convenience trace to 1916, originated primarily as a school of prosody. In the first years of its existence its adherents engaged in the meticulous study of formal elements of poetic language; indeed it was “the first critical movement in Russia which attacked in systematic fashion the problems of rhythm and meter, of style and composition”6 and used the methods of functional linguistics in its analysis. During this initial period the formalists opposed themselves to the Kulturgeschichtliche Schule tradition of the nineteenth century, which viewed literature and art as part of the history of ideas and social history and tried to place art in its social context and to explain its evolution by the general changes in this context. The necessity to consider the relationship between literature and society in order to understand literature and create a coherent literary theory was perceived (or at least formally stated) by the formalists only later. Most of their sociological writings appeared between 1927 and 1929, a few were written between 1924 and 1925, but none before 1924. The work of the formalists, as an independent school of thought, abruptly ended in 1930 because of the political situation; as a result their sociology developed over a period of no more than four to five years. During these years, however, they were engaged in polemics with representatives of the Marxist approach to art,7 which was frequently identified with sociology. These polemics, logically, led to the dissociation of formalism from sociology and the identification of it with an approach opposed or antithetical to sociology. As a result, sociologists rather uncritically accept the opinion that “the crucial and most valuable phase in the Formalist argument”8 is the view of art as a device and that the formalist contribution to our understanding is limited in that it “enables us to analyze the structure of plot, the various literary devices employed and the specific uses of language.”9 Formalists themselves would be very unhappy with this situation. Their attitude towards epigones who petrified the conceptions they developed in their early years (as well as towards intellectual stagnation

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22 Nationalism and the Mind and closure in general) was unequivocal.10 Equally clear was their position regarding the nature of literature and of literary studies. They repeatedly stated that literature was a social phenomenon and that the understanding of literary development was possible only in the framework of sociology. They were completely aware that what they were doing was sociology. According to them, “the science of language and literature [belongs to] the category of social, more precisely, sociological disciplines.”11 They called for “literarysociological” empirical studies12 and referred to the data they were interested in as “literary-sociological material.”13 In their polemics with Marxists, whom they called “sociologizers” (sotsiologisty instead of sotsiologi)14 they opposed to the Marxist argument not an asociological approach but the “true sociological”15 one. The only foreign work referred to in empirical studies of nineteenth-century Russian literary life (or the “art world”) that were stimulated by formalist views was a German work, Die Soziologie der literarischen Geschmacksbildung by Levin Schücking. It had been published in 1923 and was known in Russia before its 1928 translation into Russian.16 The interest of the Russian formalists in sociology is not exceptional. The problem of the relationship of art and society, the social nature of art, is a long-standing one for art historians, theoreticians, and critics. Literary scholars have been particularly attentive to the sociological dynamics of creative activity and in recent years have produced a variety of illuminating studies touching upon them.17 It has been the exception, rather than the rule, for a literary scholar to disregard this dimension. Not the fact that the formalist agenda included sociology but the nature of the formalist sociology is unique. Their position can easily fit into what may be called the Weberian sociological tradition of multidimensional analysis and has parallels in several fields of sociology, including the sociology of science and intellectuals. At the same time, it is rather different from the approach that came to dominate the professional sociology of art. Sociology of art, as a formal subdiscipline of sociology, did not exist until the late 1970s. Since then, two approaches have been predominant in this discipline, one mostly characteristic of United States, the other of British, sociologists. United States sociologists, representatives of the production-of-culture approach, occupied themselves with meticulously detailed, usually small-scaled, studies of institutional contexts of different artistic phenomena, while in Britain the discipline developed along the lines of “Marxist

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Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature 23 aesthetics.” The self-consciousness of the new discipline is based upon the shared Problemstellungen, an orientation toward the study of art as one of the realms of social production. Recently the prolegomena of both the British Marxist and United States empiricist productionof-culture approach were systematically laid down in two books that may be considered the most complete formal statements of the problematics (which are very similar in the two approaches) and basic assumptions (which are slightly different) of the sociology of art. The Marxist, or Marxism-oriented, position was stated by Janet Wolff: Art is a social product … art can adequately be understood only in a sociological perspective. [Wolff] argues against the romantic and mystical notion of art as the creation of “genius,” transcending existence, society and time, and argues that it is rather the complex construction of a number of real historical factors.18

With some differences about the ideological character of art this view was echoed in Howard Becker’s formulation of the production-ofculture position in Art Worlds. His approach, writes Becker, “seems to stand in direct contradiction to the dominant tradition in the sociology of art, which defines art as something … special, in which creativity comes to the surface and the essential character of the society expresses itself, especially in great works of genius.”19 Instead, he treated art as the work some people do and [has] been more concerned with patterns of cooperation among the people who make the works than with the works themselves or with those conventionally defined as their creators … That has inevitably meant treating art as not so very different from other kinds of work, and treating people defined as artists as not so very different from other kinds of workers … The idea of an art world forms the backbone of … analysis … [the term is used] to denote the network of people whose cooperative activity organized via their joint knowledge of conventional means of doing things, produces the kind of art works that the art world is noted for.20

Marxist sociologists would agree with every word in this quotation, they are equally convinced that networks of communication directly related to the production of art must be taken into account; these networks, however, according to their view, only mediate the primary determining influence of the macrosocioeconomic factors. Art in this framework is seen as a part of the superstructure that, however imperfectly – because of the intervening variables – reflects the basis.

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24 Nationalism and the Mind On the other hand, production-of-culture sociologists of art would certainly agree that macrosocial factors are important; however, they are interested in direct influence; art is seen as a product of microsocial processes. In both cases, though, it is the nature of art as a social activity of production, like any other, which makes art suitable for sociological analysis and understandable only in its light. The problems of the contemporary sociologists of art are very similar to those that occupied Russian philologists influenced by formalism in the 1920s when they confronted the question of the relationship between art and society. Parallels are apparent everywhere. Trying to combine formalist and Kulturgeschichte approaches, the author of Sotsiologicheskii metod v literaturovedenii, Pavel Sakulin, defined literary history as a study of “literary life,” a concept similar to Becker’s art world. In another work Sakulin wrote, A student of the history of literature has the right to use the title “literary life” [for the object of his studies], namely he has the right to claim as his own not only works of art and literary artists themselves, but the whole complex of phenomena which are inseparably linked with the fact of the existence of literature. Literature is created by a writer and is perceived afterwards by a certain environment. The process of creation and the process of perception are related. Perception is a secondary creative process. Objectively a writer exists as he is perceived by the reader. The perceiving subject can move toward criticism, or study … In this way a special atmosphere, a special life is formed around works of art and writers, a life which it is possible to call “literary life.” Its ingredients are a writer, a reader, a literary critic, a theoretician. Literary life, as a unified process worthy of becoming a subject of synthetic study, is created by their mutual creative activity. The history of literature widens to become a history of literary life.21

Equally congenial to a contemporary sociologist of art would be the following statement taken from an empirical study actually based upon formalist views: The formation of a writer starts long before his actual entry into literature and does not end with his actual death. In relation to his age a writer is a result of the interlacing of a number of complex unities. Individuality of the writer, in the final analysis, can be seen as a certain interrelation between forces that participated in the individuality’s creation: literary, literary-environmental (those pertaining to the immediate social environment of the production and consumption of literature), and social. To examine these forces, to understand them, to

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Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature 25 see how they influence literature, to know the laws and processes of the literary production and consumption in their actual embodiments, not abstracted from the pattern of wider social relations, and to study the live literary evolution in society – these are the tasks that face the contemporary science of literature and will uncover the meaning of the concept writer and of the work done by a writer.22

Yet, parallels notwithstanding, contemporary sociology of art and Russian formalism represent in fact two very different sociological approaches. Russian formalists perceived formal method23 as a specific discipline characterized, like other independent scientific disciplines, by a distinct subject matter, not by a theoretical approach or methodology. This subject matter was literature, perceived as a phenomenon possessing certain characteristics that distinguished it from other phenomena (spetsificheskii riad faktov).24 In order to explain and understand the laws of literary existence and development, an adequate description of these distinguishing characteristics was considered necessary. According to Eikhenbaum,25 this necessity was the reason for the initial concentration of the formalists upon purely formal-internal problems. In rejecting both psychological and Kulturgeschichtliche approaches, formalists rejected “the random mixing together of different sciences and different scientific problems,”26 the results of which were doomed to remain futile before the phenomenon in question was defined. The orientation toward linguistics was a result of the same attempt at a definition: in order to define literary phenomena it was necessary to compare them with different but kindred phenomena, such as language (instead of relating literature to vastly different non-linguistic social phenomena). Neither the preoccupation with internal literary problems nor the orientation toward linguistics, however, resulted from philosophical assumptions of the asocial nature of literature; both were matters of methodological expediency. This initial concentration upon the internal linguistic problems was actually responsible for the nondeterministic, complex character of the formalists’ sociology. The sociological awareness of the formalists is best expressed by Eikhenbaum in his article “Literatura i pisatel’,” where the following definition of literature appears: There is no uniform literature, stable and homogeneous, characterized by some constant chemical formula. Literary fact and literary

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26 Nationalism and the Mind epoch are complex and changeable concepts, for the relations among literary elements and their functions are changeable too. Today literature is a circle of dilettantes who gather to read their poems and then write them in the albums of “beautiful compatriots”; tomorrow it is a fat “socioliterary” journal with an editorial board and a bookkeeping office. Today it is the lofty service of the Muses, carefully kept away from the street noises; tomorrow it is a petty press, a feuilleton, an essay. There are even moments, in which instead of literature only a sign of it remains and the question “How to write?” becomes the question “How to be a writer?”27

The similarities between this definition and the definition used in the contemporary sociology of art are apparent. The difference between the two positions has to do with the conception of the nature of social phenomena. The formalist view – paradoxically, because of its emphasis on internal, formal aspects of literature – comes closer to the concept of “social institution”within the Weberian tradition, than the one on which contemporary sociology of art is based. In the framework of this tradition, at least, the formalist position is more convincing; it is more sociologically sound. In the Weberian tradition the autonomy of institutions is one of the primary characteristics of social reality and, within this tradition, a social institution is defined as a cluster of patterned behavior, an activity oriented toward a definite fundamental goal or value, the goal or value being the satisfaction of some need, or – to avoid the danger of sounding teleological – an appetite, which can also be called the “function” of the given institution. A social institution is, therefore, an activity, a process; it is changeable and forever changing. Yet, it is not interchangeable with other social phenomena and cannot be reduced to them. It is oriented toward a definite goal, value, or function (whatever term one chooses) peculiar to itself; and this goal, value, or function gives the activity its unique, distinctive quality, makes it a social institution distinguished from all the rest and establishes the borders between this activity and the outside society. The goal, value, or function of a social institution – the satisfaction of a certain appetite – may be socially constructed but is usually naturally given, or at least in part defined, by nonsocial, psychological, or biological propensities of human beings. The nature of these propensities in any given case determines the internal logic of the institution based on them. The manner in which the goal of an institution is achieved, on the other hand, is socially determined. Social

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Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature 27 determination explains the vast variations within the same social institution in different ages and societies – this variability is limited by the internal logic or laws prescribed to the activity by its fundamental goal. The internal nonsocial logic of the goal toward which the social institution is oriented, and which defines its character, is what accounts for the perception of society in terms of autonomy of institutions – a fundamental concept of Weberian sociology reflecting its multi-causal, non-deterministic character – as well as for the fascinating and frustrating complexity of social reality itself. Not every social phenomenon, not even every social system, is a social institution (neighborhoods, for example, are not, and neither is language).28 To be an institution, a social phenomenon must be an activity that possesses an internal logic; although susceptible to influences from the outside and constantly interacting with the rest of social reality, it must be in this sense autonomous.A paradigmatic and most common example of a social institution is the family, but social phenomena rather different from it, such as religion, science, and the arts, are also customarily referred to as social institutions. The definition of a social institution, and, therefore, the view of the nature of social reality that is currently most widely accepted in the sociology of art, seems to be different from the one just described. For many contemporary sociologists of art, although they may not always explicitly say so, art is reducible to other social phenomena. For Marxists it is epiphenomenal, even though the materials of language, paints and brushes, or musical instruments cannot reflect socioeconomic reality as it is but somehow refract its image. For the adherents of the production-of-culture approach, art is a constructed phenomenon in which art works are defined as the production of art worlds, while art worlds are defined as networks of people who produce works of art. Art, thus, does not have any distinctive qualities, apart from some social convention, an agreement to consider it art. These two approaches to the sociology of art are in no way unique and do not differ in any significant fashion from other attempts to construct mono-causal sociologies – of art or other aspects of society. For instance, in this particular respect, both the Marxist and the production-of-culture approaches bear close resemblance to the Marxist sociology of Bakhtin.29 For formalists, on the other hand, literature, though it is a social phenomenon, is irreducible to other social phenomena. It is a social phenomenon sui generis for the same reason for which any social institution, such as the family or science, is – its basic function. For

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28 Nationalism and the Mind example, the basic function responsible for our conception of the family as a distinct social institution, whatever the differences between families of different ages and societies, is reproduction. The specific character of science is due to its end of the methodical pursuit of truth oriented toward the control of empirical reality. In literature, according to the formalists, the function, responsible for the “literariness” (literaturnost’) of certain linguistic phenomena, for the fact that they are considered artistic, is aesthetic; it is the use of language not as a vehicle for communication primarily, but in a way that makes the verbal (including semantic) properties of the material palpable (oshchutimost’) and, therefore, makes possible the appreciation or enjoyment of these properties. From a sociological point of view, “literariness” in literature is equivalent to “familiness” – the definitive characteristic of the family. The “appetite” toward which literature is oriented is the propensity for the sensual enjoyment of linguistic form. It is indeed rather close to what some critics of formalism sarcastically styled the orientation toward “the naked hedonistic sensation.”30 Sociologically, this position is sound, and it has important parallels in other areas of sociology.31 The basic function of the social institution provides a sort of boundary condition for the possible variation of the concrete form, or mode of existence, of this institution: the family, for example, cannot exist in concentration camps. Thus, the influence of other social phenomena is channeled into directions compatible with the nature of the given institution. Because literature is a social institution, recognized Eikhenbaum, the relationships between literary phenomena and phenomena of a different nature cannot be simply causal relations but can only be the relations of correspondence, interaction, dependency, or conditionality. These relations change in conjunction with the literary fact itself, now functioning in the evolution and taking an active part in determining the literary-historical process (dependency or conditionality), now assuming a more passive character, with the genetic order remaining “extra-literary” and as such receding into the sphere of general historical-cultural factors (correspondence or interaction).32

Three concepts demand explanation here: evolution, genesis, and literary or literary-historical fact. Talking of literary evolution, formalists referred to the origination of new literary forms from earlier ones, according to internal laws of literary development, with

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Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature 29 no extraliterary factors intervening. According to the formalists, the palpability of form, without which the fulfillment of the literary function would be impossible, was subject to “automatization”: through use, forms tended to acquire a cliché-like character and to cease to be palpable. The very success of a literary device contained in itself a necessity of its abolition and substitution by another one. Tynianov depicted the stages of literary evolution in the following schematic way: (1) In relation to the automatized constructive principle an antithetical constructive principle is formed in a dialectical fashion; (2) its application is under way – the constructive principle searches for areas of easiest application; (3) it spreads to the widest possible mass of phenomena; (4) it becomes automatized and calls for antithetical principles of construction. During periods of decay of central dominant trends dialectically new constructive principles appear. Large forms in the process of automatization accentuate the significance of small forms (and vice versa).33

Inherent in the mechanism of literary evolution – a yearning for palpable form and the tendency of forms to become automatized – was the tentative direction of literary change in any given case (though not the overall direction). It was referred to by formalists as the phenomenon of the “canonization of junior genres.” At any given period a number of linguistic phenomena coexisted with the literary phenomenon and there were different degrees of literariness within literature itself, so that it was possible to speak about centers and peripheries in literature. The substitute for the automatized form would always come from peripheries of literature, or from other linguistic phenomena, not from the forms or genres nearest to the dominant form, since those would be already nearly automatized. The peripheral form closest to being directly opposite to the dominant automatized form would have the better chance to substitute for that form. The literary tradition, thus, was transmitted not from fathers to sons, as Viktor Shklovsky put it, but from uncles to nephews, and tradition itself was understood as a jumping-off place and not as a revered system of ideas carried on, developed, and incorporated into new works of art. (This situation is similar to that in science.) When a certain genre decomposes it moves from the center to the periphery, while its place in the center is taken by a new phenomenon

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30 Nationalism and the Mind that comes from the trifles of literature, from its backyards … to speak of continuity is possible only in cases of such phenomena as a school, epigones, but not in the case of phenomena of literary evolution, the principle of which is struggle and substitution.34

The phenomenon formalists were talking about is, in fact, an instance of the law of marginal utility and the tendency toward product differentiation. The utility (or pleasure) derived from an object (a form) diminishes with use, and the more successful a form is, the more frequently it is used (encountered), the more certain and widespread is the diminution of the utility that can be derived from it. It was argued that it is impossible to speak about automatization of forms as an objective process, since it can only take place in individual consciousness.35 Bakhtin, for example, in his critique of formalism, advanced the following argument: The Formalist theory suffers from a serious methodological deficiency … they [formalists] create a process that occurs within the limits of the life of an individual organism, a model for understanding a process spanning many consequent individuals [individual lives] and generations … If Pushkin is automatized for one person, while another is enthusiastic about Benediktov, there can be no connection between the automatization and the palpability of these two temporally successive subjects [forms], just as there can be no connection between one person’s upset stomach and another’s overeating.36

As in other instances of the law of marginal utility, the dynamics governing literary evolution are applicable to populations, and for the same reason. It is unlikely that there would be absolutely no agreement between individuals in the same society (if we are not talking about vastly different classes) at any given time in the questions of taste. Usually, we would expect a widely shared consensus as to which forms are enjoyable. Thus, the initial psychological state of the population – for every particular period – is given. After a period of intensive use, the marginal utility of a form will diminish for most of the population, the form will lose palpability and become automatized for significant numbers of relevant individuals. Of course, we are talking here about statistical tendencies, and there certainly are exceptions to any consensus, but it is because of statistical tendencies, numbers, that psychological forces so frequently serve as bases of important social processes.

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Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature 31 Formalists recognized that the disclosure of the immanent laws of literary evolution was insufficient for the explanation of literary changes. In 1928 Iurii Tynianov and Roman Jakobson clearly stated this recognition in their program theses: A disclosure of the immanent laws of the history of literature (language) allows us to determine the character of each specific change in literary (linguistic) systems. These laws, however, do not allow us to explain the tempo of evolution or the chosen path of evolution when several theoretically possible evolutionary paths are given because the immanent laws of literary (linguistic) evolution form an indeterminate equation. Although they admit only a limited number of possible solutions, they do not necessarily specify a unique solution. The question of a specific choice of path, or at least of the dominant, can be solved only by an analysis of the correlation between the literary phenomena and other historical phenomena. This correlation (a system of systems) has its own structural laws which must be submitted to investigation.37

This quotation presents the problem of genesis, of external creation – the dependence of literary changes upon extraliterary social factors. According to the formalist conception of literary change, the laws of literary evolution provided boundary conditions for the possibilities of genesis, that is of influence by external social factors. Since literature was a social phenomenon, however, it did not exist in a vacuum and, while it had its own function, all the materials on which it could be exercised were taken from the larger society. Both specifically literary and other social factors necessarily participated in the creation of the literary or literary-historical fact, namely in the endowment of some material or form with literariness,38 in its acquisition of the literary function. The “sign of literariness” constantly moved from one material, form, or fact to another – literary phenomena frequently becoming “marginal facts of life”39 and facts of life becoming literary facts. The attempts of the Russian formalist philologists, or those close to them, to account for literary development while taking into consideration both internal and external factors closely resemble the two solutions of the problem of the succession of scientific theories proposed in the sociology of science some thirty years later. One attempt to build a theory of literary change was that of Viktor Zhirmunskii, a supporter and a critic of the formalists, who shared many of their problems but not always their solutions. In 1928 Zhirmunskii put forward a theory

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32 Nationalism and the Mind that corresponded to Thomas Kuhn’s theory of scientific revolutions.40 According to Zhirmunskii, the internal development of literature (he accepted the ideas of automatization and literary function) created the impetus for change, and this purely internal development was responsible for the reaction against the old forms. This development could not, however, explain the nature of the new, which was determined by the total cultural atmosphere of the period, by broader philosophical and cultural currents. “Normal” literature, so to speak, is a totally internal affair, as is “normal” science, and only in times of internally necessitated “revolutions,” would it draw on other social resources. On the other hand, the position adhered to by formalists proper came rather close to a widely accepted theory in sociology of science, which for the sake of convenience may be called Mertonian. This position does not distinguish between normal and revolutionary science and holds that extra-scientific social factors can always explain changes in problematics, timing of the solution of one or another problem, and its place, but that social factors do not explain the nature of the solution itself, which is determined internally.41 This formalist position was later summarized by the Czech structuralist Jan Mukarˇovsky´ who wrote: Each change of artistic structure is induced from the outside, either directly, under the immediate impact of social change, or indirectly, under the influence of a development in one of the parallel cultural domains, such as science, economics, politics, language, etc. The way, however, in which the given external challenge is met and the form to which it gives rise depend on the factors inherent in the artistic structure.42

The similarity between the Mertonian approach to the sociology of science and the formalists’ position regarding literary development is not coincidental, for the Mertonian approach belongs to the tradition of multi-dimensional analysis in sociology. Mertonian sociologists define science as a social phenomenon sui generis, as a social institution oriented toward a psychologically determined goal – the satisfaction of a certain type of curiosity. Only specific social structures make systematic realization of this goal possible, societies can legitimate, support, or denounce this goal, but they do not create it. The similarity of this sociology of science to the formalists’ view of literature is striking. To account for the processes of constant interaction and cross-fertilization of literature and society formalists proposed to

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Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature 33 concentrate on microsociological data, social phenomena with an immediate relationship to creative writing that could be empirically established. Eikhenbaum argued against the “vulgar sociologism” of Marxist students of literature. Instead of using under a new conceptual sign the earlier observations of the specific character of literary evolution (which not only do not contradict but actually support the truly sociological point of view) our literary “sociologizers” have taken up the metaphysical quest for the primary causes of literary evolution and literary forms. Two possibilities were available, both already amply applied and proved incapable of producing a new literary-historical system: the analysis of works of art from the point of view of the writer’s class ideology (a purely psychological approach, for which art is the least appropriate, least characteristic material) and the cause and effect derivation of literary forms and styles from the general socioeconomic and agricultural-industrial forms of the epoch (for example, Lermontov’s poetry and the grain export in the 1830s) an approach that inevitably deprives literary scholarship of both its autonomy and its concreteness and less than anything else deserves the name “materialistic.”43

What could help was not such macrosocioeconomic factors, but “the conditions of the literary existence” (literaturnyi byt) – the relations between the artist and his public, the constitution of his public, the conditions of the literary market and publishing, relations between the writer and literary critics or theoreticians – in short, “forms and possibilities of literary activity as a profession,”44 which for all needs and purposes correspond to the concept of social role as used in modern sociology. It was the artist’s or the writer’s social role – as defined by his or her network of communication, its constitution, its expectations from the artist and the opportunities it provided – that determined the materials used for the fulfillment of the aesthetic function. The use made of these socially given materials, and the way by which they took palpable form, though, were determined internally. Eikhenbaum wrote, Since literature is irreducible to phenomena of different kind and cannot be simply derived from them it is unlikely that all its constituent elements can be genetically conditioned. Literary-historical fact is a complex construct, in which the main role belongs to literariness itself – an element of such specificity that its study can be productive only in immanent-evolutionary terms. Pushkin’s iambic tetrameter, for example, cannot be related (not only in causal terms

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34 Nationalism and the Mind but in terms of conditionality as well) either to the general socioeconomic conditions of the Nicholas period or even to the specific conditions of the literary existence in it; but Pushkin’s turning to periodical prose and thus the very evolution of his creative art at that moment were conditioned by the general professionalization of the literary activity in the early 1830s and the new significance of journalism as a literary fact. This connection is not, of course, a causal connection; it is the use of new literary-environmental conditions, which did not exist before: The expansion of the reading public beyond the circle of the court and the aristocracy, the appearance on the scene, along with booksellers, of a special variety of professional publisher … the transition from almanacs of a dilettantish character to periodical publications of the commercial type.45

This formalist emphasis on microsociological and internal factors did not imply that macrosocioeconomic phenomena,on the one hand,and cultural currents and world views characteristic of broad social strata, on the other hand, were totally unrelated to the literary production and did not affect it. For one thing,“forms and possibilities of literary activity as a profession change according to the social conditions of an age.”46 The formalists realized, for instance, that without deep changes in the general social structure and in the stratification system the wide reading public, which had been responsible for the professionalization of the literary activity in Russia, would not have appeared. As to the incorporation of extra-literary aspirations and world views of broader social strata into literature, formalists were perfectly aware that, before the advent of modern art, works of literary art more often than not had, and intended to have, a meaning broader than just the aesthetic and frequently served, among other things, as vehicles for communication and articulation of moral and philosophical ideas of great significance. They knew, for instance, that, composing his poems of freedom and dedicating them to his Decembrist friends, Pushkin wanted not only to enjoy the properties of language, but also to express his political and social aspirations. What made him (and Nikolai Nekrasov for that matter) a poet, and what made him identify himself as a poet and not as a publicist,a philosopher,or a political activist,was his ability and desire to expose the form, to make the properties of language palpable and to enjoy them aesthetically.As Eikhenbaum tried to show in his treatise on the young Tolstoi, as well as in his article “Literature and the Writer,” even when addressing moral issues, great writers were artists, not publicists.47

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Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature 35 Formalists warned against using literature as a reliable source of information about social reality, including the social standing and ideology of the writer himself. Frequently, they claimed, elements of this reality or ideology were used only because they suited the internal needs of literature in a given moment. Actually, according to formalists, such factors had no independent influence upon the literary creation – they were activated by the internal needs of literary evolution, while the conditions of the literary existence served as necessary conditions for such activation. The activation of the class ideology in the prose of Pushkin, for example, was explained by the internal literary struggle between small and large forms, the condition for which was the appearance of a larger reading public and other aspects of the growing professionalization of literature. The case of Tolstoi, several decades later, was similar: Professional writing declasses the writer, but makes him dependent upon the consumer, the one who orders. The mass press develops (as happened in the 1860s), feuilleton comes to the fore, lofty genres descend. In reaction to this, literature, according to the laws of its evolutionary dialectics, makes a turning movement: along with Nekrasov there exists Fet, whose “class character” is a means of the literary struggle, with the journalist, poetry; along with Saltykov or Dostoevskii – Tolstoi, of whose “class character” Fet wrote in the beginning of the 1860s: “the literature of the aristocracy itself reached in its enthusiasm opposition to authentic aristocratic interests, with which situation the fresh, undistorted instinct of Lev Tolstoi was so indignant.” For the history of literature the concept of “class” is important neither in itself, as in economic sciences, nor for the ascertaining of the writer’s “ideology,” which frequently lacks any literary significance; it is important in its literary and literary-environmental function and, therefore, only when “class character” is summoned to serve this function. For the Russian poetry of the eighteenth century, thoroughly official “class character” of the writer is not characteristic, as on the other hand it is not characteristic and is a matter of indifference for the Russian literature of the end of the nineteenth century, which developed within the framework of the “intelligentsia.” As social needs do not always coincide with literary needs, so the class struggle does not always coincide with the literary struggle and literary groupings.48

While in most cases the elements of literary works are best explained as literary devices introduced as a means to the fulfillment of the

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36 Nationalism and the Mind aesthetic function, some impressive passages in great works of literature were clearly written with some other, usually moral, function in mind, because literature is written by men who are never identical with any of their numerous social roles. In “The Legend of the Great Inquisitor” Dostoyevsky could for a moment act primarily not as an imaginative writer but as a moral philosopher; to be a writer does not mean to stop being everything else. Similar examples exist in other realms as well: the long-lasting disturbing impression left by the last pages of Max Weber’s The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism is not at all the result of the scientific content of these pages but rather of their moral significance and aesthetic characteristics. Formalists apparently would explain the relative importance of such non-literary elements in literatures of different periods by the “social function of literary phenomena” in them.49 This function can be interpreted as a role of literature as a social institution in the wider society and as beliefs about the functions of literature held by different groups of writers within any literary world. Both could be related to the structure of the conditions of literary existence or literary environment. It seems, though, that, at least for the explanation of the function of literature for a society at large, a consideration of the broader social structure would be necessary. The function of literature in a society must not be confused with the fundamental function or goal of literature as a social institution. The goal of literature as a social institution explains the existence and the general character of this specific social phenomenon in any society. The function of literature in a society explains what is done with it, the way it is used in a particular society. The social functions of literature – its uses – are numerous and they differ greatly among themselves. Science also has many social functions, but the social functions of literature, unlike those of science, may influence the very content of literary art. It is the nature of the social function of literature in a society that determines the degree to which literature in the given society may be influenced by external social forces. Clearly, for example, when literature can legitimately exist in a society (in other words, when it is allowed to exist) for its own sake, as pure art, it will be more immune and less susceptible to external influences than when it is demanded to exist for the sake of another social system and is considered to be a means for the achievement of religious, moral, ideological, political, or other goals.50 The importance of the “social function of literary phenomena

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Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature 37 in different periods” for the understanding of the nature of literature in these periods was postulated by formalists in 1928. Already in 1930 they could not continue their scholarly pursuits in the directions they wanted. Fortunately, they raised the question; an answer to it will have to be found by others. Whether the Russian formalists read Weber is not known. Their view of social reality, however, was certainly Weberian. They saw social reality as composed of autonomous, though interdependent, social institutions, each influenced by, and influencing, other parts of society, yet each possessing its own internal logic. Therefore they could not be satisfied with monocausal, deterministic, and reductionist explanations of any sort; they strived to develop a complex, multifaceted approach that would acknowledge the complexity of social life and of the specific social phenomenon in which they were particularly interested, literature. Their attitude to science was also Weberian. Their object was the attainment of value-free truth, understanding of the phenomenon they were interested in, not the critical judgment of it. They were constantly aware of the influence of the changing social situation on the questions they asked about literary phenomena. The period in which they wrote was very likely to lead to frequent changes in perspective. Contemporary developments in literature: symbolism, acmeism, and particularly the futurists’ insistence on the “word as such”attracted attention to the internal properties of language. The work of such important earlier philologists as Aleksandr Potebnia and Aleksandr Veselovskii also pushed in this direction. These developments made clear that it was impossible to achieve a satisfactory understanding of literary phenomena with the methods and assumptions of either Kulturgeschichte or Marxist aesthetics. On the other hand, the revolution brought dramatic changes in the conditions of the literary existence and in the position of the writer in society, and the visible influence of these changes upon the nature of the literary production itself showed that such satisfactory understanding was equally impossible without the consideration of the social factors in literature. Though the problematics that arose from this complex situation were similar to those characteristic of the sociology of art in recent years, the theoretical framework that resulted from the attempts to deal with the problems came close to the conceptual model of a much better developed area in sociology – the sociology of science.

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38 Nationalism and the Mind Because of this similarity, this theoretical framework in fact constitutes a significant contribution not only to the understanding of literature, but also to the understanding of the nature of social reality and is of great importance to the sociology of knowledge and of culture in general. Findings and conclusions reached in the sociology of science rendered obsolete the classical hypothesis of the sociology of knowledge, according to which culture reflected (or signified, provided a symbolic vehicle for) society or, in other words, was in one way or another epiphenomenal. Social factors external to science cannot systematically influence the contents of science, which are governed by internal dynamics.51 It could be claimed, however, that science – because of its unique relationship with natural reality – is a peculiar social phenomenon and that what is true in science is not applicable to other spheres of culture. The Russian formalist sociology of literature suggests that there is much in common between science and other cultural activities and that the source of their autonomy lies not outside but within the fundamental orientations or goals of these activities. At the same time, the stress of Russian formalism on the specificity and social uniqueness of literature enables one to account for very different relationships that exist between society and specific spheres of cultural activity and the different types and degrees of influence that these specific spheres can absorb. It forces one to realize that types of social influence that are possible in literature may be impossible in science and vice versa. In this way Russian formalist sociology asserts the complexity of social reality, its irreducibility to any one set of immutable laws. It remains true to Eikhenbaum’s early attitude: “Enough of monism! We are pluralists. Life is diverse and cannot be reduced to a single principle.”52 The sociological sensitivity of the Russian philologists in the 1920s and their clear understanding that they were actually engaged in sociology are remarkable, and the inclusion of their efforts into sociology, which is certainly deserved, may be helpful for those who share their interests now, more than fifty years later. Originally published in Slavic Review, 46:1 (Spring 1987)

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Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature 39 NOTES 1. 2.

3.

4.

5.

Victor Erlich, Russian Formalism: History-Doctrine, 2nd rev. ed. (The Hague: Mouton, 1965). For elucidation of the Russian formalist theory see in particular: Stephen Bann and John E. Bowlt, eds., Russian Formalism (Edinburgh: Scottish Academic Press, 1973); Tony Bennett, Formalism and Marxism (London: Methuen, 1979); Erlich, Russian Formalism; Robert L. Jackson and Stephen Rudy, eds., Russian Formalism: A Retrospective Glance; A Festschrift in Honor of Victor Erlich (New Haven, Conn.: Yale Center for International and Area Studies, 1985); Frederick Jameson, The Prison-House of Language: A Critical Account of Structuralism and Russian Formalism (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1972); Peter Steiner, Russian Formalism: A Metapoetics (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1984); René Wellek and Austin Warren, Theory of Literature (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1949). Regarding incorporation of the Russian formalist legacy into the criticism and literary theory in the West, see, for example, Ewa M. Thompson, Russian Formalism and Anglo-American New Criticism: A Comparative Study (The Hague: Mouton, 1971); Wellek and Warren, Theory of Literature. The sociology of literature has not escaped the attention of Slavicists and other students of Russian formalism. See, for example, William Mills Todd, III, “Literature as an Institution: Fragments of a Formalist Theory,” in Jackson and Rudy, eds., Russian Formalism, pp. 15–26. See also Gary S. Morson, “Return to Genesis; Russian Formalist Theories of Creativity,” in ibid., pp. 173–194. Among earlier sources see Erlich, Russian Formalism, and Peter Brang, “Sociological Methods in Twentieth-Century Russian Literary Criticism,” in Joseph P. Strelka, ed., Literary Criticism and Sociology. Yearbook of Comparative Criticism (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1973). Primarily, three of Eikhenbaum’s works will be discussed: “Literaturnyi byt,” originally published in 1927; “Literatura i pisatel’,” 1927; and “Literaturnaia domashnost’,” also 1927; all three of these are collected in Moi vremennik (Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo pisatelei, 1929), pp. 50–58, 59–81, and 82–86. Two works of Tynianov will be discussed: “Literaturnyi fakt,” published in 1924, and “Literaturnaia evoliutsiia,” published in 1927; these appear in Arkhaisty i novatory (Leningrad, 1929; reprint, Munich: Fink, 1967). Aronson and Reiser published Literaturnye kruzhki i salony (Leningrad: Priboi, 1929) and Grits, Trenin, and Nikitin published Literatura i kommertsiia (Moscow: Federatsiia, 1929) under the influence of Eikhenbaum. All the quotations in this article are given in my translations, although some of the articles have been previously published in English. Both Tynianov articles and Eikhenbaum’s “Literaturnyi byt” have appeared in Ladislaw Matejka and Krystyna Pomorska, eds., Readings in Russian Poetics: Formalist and Structuralist Views (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1971). The Eikhenbaum article is titled “Literary Environment” in this collection. Terms, such as sociologist, sociology of art, are used in this paper to refer to professional sociology only, namely to sociology as practiced by sociologists. No discussion of sociological aspects of the work of other scholars who are not primarily sociologists is attempted, and what is said about sociologists implies nothing in this regard.

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40 Nationalism and the Mind 6. Erlich, Russian Formalism, p. 20. 7. Lev Trotskii, Literatura i revoliutsiia (Moscow; Krasnaia nov’, 1923); reprinted as Literature and Revolution, in a translation by Rose Stransky (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1971). P. N. Medvedev [Mikhail Bakhtin], Formal’nyi metod v literaturovedenii (Leningrad: Priboi, 1928); published in English as P. N. Medvedev and M. M. Bakhtin, The Formal Method in Literary Scholarship, trans. Albert J. Wehrle (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978). 8. Erlich, Russian Formalism, p. 176. 9. Janet Wolff, The Social Production of Art (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1981), p. 66. Wolff is a sociologist. This opinion is, however, widely shared by the students of literary theory as well. See, for instance, Ann Jefferson’s “Russian Formalism,” in Ann Jefferson and David Robey, eds., Modern Literary Theory: A Comparative Introduction (Totowa, N.J.: Barnes and Noble Books, 1982), pp. 16–37: “Formalist theory rigorously and systematically excludes the nonliterary, so that where the Anglo-American tradition devotes much of its effort to exploring the different relations between life and art, the Russian Formalists see the two as mutual opposites” (p. 18). 10. See, for example, Eikhenbaum, Moi vremennik, p. 50, and the discussion in Steiner, Russian Formalism, pp. 259–270. 11. See the editorial introduction by Iurii Tynianov and Roman Jakobson to “Problemy izucheniia literatury i iazyka,” Novyi lef 12 (1928): 36. 12. Eikhenbaum, Moi vremennik, p. 53. 13. Aronson and Reiser, Literaturnye kruzhki i salony, p. 17. 14. Eikhenbaum, Moi vremennik, p. 54. 15. Ibid. 16. Schücking, Die Soziologie der literarischen Geschmacksbildung (Munich: Rosl, 1923), was translated by Viktor Zhirmunskii, a philologist who was close to the formalists and shared their interests. In the Russian translation it is included in the bibliography of Grits, Trenin, and Nikitin, Literatura i kommertsiia. There is a reference to the German text in P. N. Sakulin, Nauka o literature: Sinteticheskoe postroenie istorii literatury (Moscow: Mir, 1925), p. 98. 17. See in particular William Mills Todd, “A Russian Ideology,” Stanford Literature Review 1, 1984, pp. 85–118; Richard Ohmann, English in America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1976). 18. Wolff, Social Production of Art, p. 1. 19. Howard S. Becker, Art Worlds (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982), p. xi. 20. Ibid., pp. ix–x. 21. Sakulin, Nauka o literature, p. 24. Sotsiologicheskii metod was also published by Mir in 1925. 22. Aronson and Reiser, Literaturnye kruzhki I salony, p. 17. 23. It is worth noting that the name formalism was apparently bestowed upon the school by outsiders, not by its members; see Eikhenbaum, “Teoriia formal’nogo metoda,” Literatura (Leningrad: Priboi, 1927), and Erlich, Russian Formalism, p. 188. 24. Eikhenbaum, Literatura, p. 117. 25. Ibid., pp. 117–120. 26. Ibid., pp. 120–121.

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Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature 41 27. Eikhenbaum, Moi vremennik, p. 59. 28. Language is sometimes referred to as “a social institution” (for an example, see Steiner, Russian Formalism, p. 57). This usage is a misapplication of the sociological term. Language, while it is a system, and while this system is clearly social, is not an organized activity oriented toward a definite goal. 29. Bakhtin’s criticism of formalism starts with the assertion that literature is an ideological formation like any other: “Literature, like any other ideology, is social from the beginning to the end”; “The specificity of a phenomenon … is entirely determined by its interaction, the interaction of the phenomenon as a whole and the interaction of all its parts, with all the other phenomena in the unity of the social life.” (Bakhtin, Formal’nyi metod, pp. 43, 44.) For more recent examples of similar approaches in literary theory see Terry Eagleton, Criticism and Ideology: A Study in Literary Theory (London: New Left Books, 1976). 30. Bakhtin, Formal’nyi metod, p. 40. 31. For example, see Weber’s discussion of the need of intellectuals for cognitive organization of the world and the role of this inner propensity in the formation of world religions in Economy and Society (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), pp. 500–517. Edward Shils, “Knowledge and Sociology of Knowledge,” Knowledge: Creation, Diffusion, Utilization 4, September 1982, pp. 7–32, emphasizes the role of curiosity in science. His “Center and Periphery,” Center and Periphery: Essays in Macrosociology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1975), pp. 3–16, stresses the crucial importance of human capacity for conviviality and political need or propensity in society. 32. Eikhenbaum, Moi vremennik, p. 55. 33. Iurii Tynianov, “Literaturnyi fakt,” in Arkhaisty i novatory (Leningrad: Priboi, 1929). This work was published in Germany in 1967 by Wilhelm Fink Verlag of Munich. 34. Ibid., pp. 9–11. 35. Bakhtin, Formal’nyi metod; Michael Holquist (“Bakhtin and the Formalists: History as Dialogue” in Jackson and Rudy, Russian Formalism, pp. 82–96) seems to agree with Bakhtin on this point. 36. Bakhtin, Formal’nyi metod, pp. 202–203. 37. Tynianov and Jakobson, Problemy izucheniia, p. 37. 38. Eikhenbaum, Moi vremennik, p. 61. 39. Erlich, Russian Formalism, p. 256. 40. Thomas Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962). 41. See Bernard Barber, Science and the Social Order (Glencoe, Ill.: Free Press, 1952); Joseph Ben-David, The Scientist’s Role in Society (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1971); Robert K. Merton, The Sociology of Science: Theoretical and Empirical Investigations (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973). Normal science is Kuhn’s phrase for the scientific work within a paradigmatic framework. 42. Quoted in Erlich, Russian Formalism, p. 256. 43. Eikhenbaum, Moi vremennik, p. 54. 44. Ibid., p. 57. 45. Ibid., p. 56. 46. Ibid., p. 57. 47. Ibid., pp. 59–81.

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42 Nationalism and the Mind 48. Ibid., p. 58. 49. Tynianov and Jakobson, Problemy izucheniia, p. 35. 50. Tynianov, Arkhaisty i novatory, p. 24; see also the discussion in Jameson, The Prison-House of Language, pp. 93–94. 51. Ben-David, The Scientist’s Role; Merton, The Sociology of Science; Shils, “Knowledge and Sociology of Knowledge.” 52. Eikhenbaum, “5 = 100,” Knizhnyi ugo1 8 (1922): 40.

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3 SCIENCE AND NATIONAL GREATNESS IN SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY ENGLAND

In 1938, Professor Robert Merton published a monograph which has since become acknowledged as a classic in the sociological study of the preconditions of the growth of scientific knowledge.1 In it he asserted that one of the motives for the increase in the volume and intensity of scientific activity in seventeenth-century England was the belief that knowledge gained through scientific research enabled its possessor to discern God’s intentions and plan in the order of nature. Scientific knowledge would attest to God’s glory no less effectively than the study of the Bible. Professor Merton was well aware that the great men of the Protestant Reformation did not look favourably on science; he thought, however, that the acceptance of the obligation to understand the divine intention and plan through meticulous study of the Bible was extended to the study of the fundamental pattern of the order of the universe by no less meticulous observation of God’s creation in natural objects. Professor Merton concluded that this Puritan attitude toward scientific research “altered social orientations”2 and elevated science “to the front rank of social values.”3 The theory, therefore, was the explanation of the shifts in objects of attention and in the values attributed to these objects. These shifts raised the prestige of science in seventeenth-century England and guaranteed the sustained development we have witnessed since then. Professor Merton’s view requires qualification and supplementation. The affinity between Protestantism and science certainly existed and the number of Puritan scientists, though the data are inconclusive, is understandably very high. The concluding passage of

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44 Nationalism and the Mind Professor Merton’s monograph says, however: “On the basis of the foregoing study, it may not be too much to conclude that the cultural soil of seventeenth-century England was peculiarly fertile for the growth and spread of science.”4 The “cultural soil” included more than Puritanism and more even than the Christian religion of which it was only one current.

THE EMERGENCE OF NATIONAL CONSCIOUSNESS: THE ASPIRATION TO CENTRALITY

The emergence of nationality – the increased prominence of national collective consciousness – seems also to have been a factor among the motives for the increased appreciation of science at that time. In the seventeenth century the sense of English nationality was a novel phenomenon. This novelty, more than anything else, distinguished the England of this age from other contemporary and past societies.5 The earliest period in which it is possible to discern a collective consciousness which may be called “national” is the fourteenth century. Pollard called this period the “first epoch of English nationalism”and regarded it as a “prelude to the later glories of Tudor and Elizabethan England.”6 Nevertheless, the greatest poet of the period, Chaucer, was “remarkable for being one of the few masters in the very first rank of our literature whose work seems almost devoid of any definite patriotic impulse.”7 By the sixteenth century, this kind of indifference to patriotism was very rare. The historian of Henry VIII, Polydore Virgil, aroused a storm of indignation for not being in agreement with ancient English legends. Things which were thought to be distinctively English became objects of attention and admiration, and were used to sustain a new feeling of pride in English nationality. Scholars like Camden, Holinshed, Norden and Caius studied English antiquities and the Society of Antiquaries was formed. The Chaucerian revival was intended to stress the Englishness of Chaucer; William Thynne collected, edited, and republished Chaucer’s manuscripts. Harrison’s Description of England and Sir Thomas Smith’s Commonwealth of England for the first time focused on indigenous customs and were received with enthusiasm. Camden’s Britannia, written after the example of Blondus’ Italia Illustrata, was published in 1586 and went through numerous editions in both Latin and English.

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Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England 45 England was incessantly compared to other countries, those of classical antiquity as well as contemporary Italy, France and Spain, the dominant countries of Europe. Cultural dignity was desired as much as military and political eminence. Sensitive to their inferiority, the English were eager to prove that “England, far from being a ‘barbarous nation’, was also a mother of letters.”8 They strove to equal the achievements of those continental countries they considered central. Gabriel Harvey, a classical scholar, pointed to their achievements in literature and in 1592 urged English poets to write an English national epic – which would excel Homer – to commemorate the victory over Spain. Richard Carew, translator of Tasso’s Godfrey of Bulloigne, wrote in his Epistle Concerning the Excellencies of the English Tongue that the English language was greater than any other, having borrowed the best from all of them. John Coke in the Debate between the Heralds of England and France sought to prove English intellectual superiority over the French going back to the days of Roman dominion. Harrison claimed that the English clergy were considered the most educated. John Bale, Francis Mere, Thomas Nash enthusiastically praised English poets and scholars, many of whom were, in fact, of no great talent. The glory which did not yet fully exist today was believed to be certain to exist tomorrow; everything was interpreted as containing a promise of future greatness. The English language would play a great role in the culture of the world. This was the belief of Samuel Daniel – it was shared by many – who wrote in his Musophilus: And who, in time, knows wither we may vent The treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores This gaine of our best glory shall be sent T’inrich vnknown Nationes with our stores? What worlds in th’yet vnformed Occident May come refined with th’accents that are ours? 9

And Gervase Markham, referring to English military and naval strength, proclaimed: Never shall Greece nor Rome nor Heathen State With shining honour Albion’s shine depress.10

Patriotism was elevated into the highest virtue; the best one could do in life was serve one’s country. “No man is born only for himself,” said Richard Crompton, “but for his country also.”11 Starkey in his

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46 Nationalism and the Mind Dialogue12 demanded that Cardinal Pole devote his life to the Commonwealth, while Gascoigne13 addressed the same demand to the lords, knights, and squires of England. Those who for whatever reason aroused particular dissatisfaction were accused of a lack of patriotism.14 Sir Thomas Elyot justified his classical scholarship on the grounds that the study of antiquity was beneficial to England. Ascham – unlike Chaucer and Lydgate who apologized for writing in the vulgar tongue – prided himself on “writing in the Englyshe tongue … for Englyshmen,”15 while Ralph Robinson’s translation of Utopia was conceived by him as a fulfillment of his duty to God and his country. From very early on, the expressions of English patriotism, which in the sixteenth century centered mostly around the figure of a monarch, also had a tendency to praise the nation as such. There were few as outspoken as the Bishop of Winchester John Poynet (1516–56) who wrote: “Men ought to have more respect to their country than to their prince, to the commonwealth than to any one person. For the country and the commonwealth is a degree above the king.” “Kings and princes,” he added, “be they never so great are but members, and commonwealths may stand well enough and flourish albeit there be no kings.”16 The idea of national loyalty and of the nation itself had a firmer basis than it seemed to have had on the Continent. In England the nation was becoming the focus of loyalty. The partial decline in the significance attributed to descent and the rise of new wealthy families reduced to some extent the separateness of the various strata of English society, and furthered the incorporation of the middle classes, the commoners, into the body politic. The participation in political activity of sectors of the population which had hitherto been voiceless was aided by two additional factors: the spread of education and the invention of the printing press. A reading public emerged, desirous of more information about natural history and the present state of the country than had been available before.An incipient public opinion appeared; it forced Henry VIII to defend his private life before the citizens at Bridewell and prompted Cranmer, cognizant of the importance of public support, to collect and cite the opinions of continental scholars on the matter of royal divorce. This was a new political force which no one dared to disregard. The printing and dissemination of the English versions of the Augsburg Confessions and Melanchton’s Apology – the first actions of Thomas Cromwell in connection with the break from Rome, and early

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Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England 47 introduction of censorship of drama (to prevent playwrights from exercising their art on matters of state or religion) provide some evidence of the importance of public opinion, and interest in the affairs of state, growing concomitantly with the reading public. By the end of the century, the dignity of the people of England was increasingly acknowledged. Sir Thomas Smith wrote in De Republica Anglorum: The most high and absolute power of the Realm of England consists in the Parliament … The Parliament abrogates old laws, makes new, … changes rights, and possessions of private men, … establishes forms of religion, … gives forms of succession to the crown … For every Englishman is intended to be there present, either in person or by procuration or attorneys of what prominence, state, dignity, or quality soever he be, from the prince to the lowest person in England.17

The extension of the politically interested stratum may be interpreted as the elevation of the commoners to the position of an elite, or as the approximation of the periphery to the center. The change was a change in the form of English society, and it was accompanied by a change of name. The name of “the English nation” was more and more frequently substituted for other words, such as “realm,” “country,”“commonwealth.” THE USES OF RELIGION IN THE FORMATION OF NATIONAL LOYALTY

Though Henry’s break with Rome seemed to be of a fortuitous, accidental character, it was of a great importance for future developments, because it opened the doors to Protestantism and Puritanism which, linked with the nation, reinforced popular and nationalist tendencies. Protestantism accomplished this in a twofold fashion: by further spreading education among the masses, and thus further reducing the separateness of the various strata and contributing to the formation of a sense of membership in society as a whole. The Reformation, moreover, made it possible to view the emergence of the English nation as wrought by God. In his popular Euphues and his England, John Lyly wrote: “The lyuing God is onely the English God,”18 which implied that God had nationality. This opinion, which became rather common, was

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48 Nationalism and the Mind forcefully expressed by John Aylmer, soon to be Bishop of London, who in 1559 declared: “God is English,” and called his countrymen: to thank God seven times a day that they were born Englishmen and not Italians, Frenchmen, or Germans. For England was the land of plenty, abounding in beef and mutton, butter, cheese, and eggs, beer and ale, besides wool, lead, cloth, tin, and leather, and God and his angels fought on her side against her foreign foes. “For you fight not only in the quarrel of your country, but also and chieflye in defense of hys true religion, and of his deare sonne Christe”. England says to her children: “God hath brought forthe in me, the greatest and excellentest treasure that he hath, for your comfort and al the worlds. He would that out of my wombe should come the servant of his your brother John Wycleffe, who begate Husse, who begate Luther, who begat truth. What greater honour could you or I have, than that it pleased Christ as it were in a second birth to be borne again of me among you?” And a gloss in the margin reiterates: “Christes second birth in England”.19

At this period the existence of an entity such as a nation was not selfevident. It was problematic and needed justification. English religious history provided an excellent means for this. The English were viewed as a chosen people, England’s prosperity was attributed to God’s favour; divine intervention, for example, was thought to be the cause of the victory over the Armada, while the troubles befalling the country, paradoxically, were interpreted as signs of divine trust. For the English also borrowed from the Old Testament the ideas of the covenant;20 they were chosen by God to bring the power of the Antichrist to an end. Significant episodes of English religious history were interpreted in religious light as England’s leadership in the Reformation, while this leadership served as proof of England’s difference from the rest of the Christian world. God’s favour was guaranteed to this entity, the English nation, if it fulfilled its mission to the world. The mission was to be carried out by living up to the standards of the true Christianity, but this allowed many interpretations and was commonly interpreted as the establishment of a society based on individual liberty. That religious history was put to this new use was best exemplified by the fate of The Book of Martyrs, or Actes and Monuments of Matters most Special and Memorable, Happening in the Church, with an Universal History of the Same by John Foxe. Foxe elaborated the idea of England’s covenant with God, bringing numerous examples of English martyrs to support the claim of his country’s leadership in the

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Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England 49 Reformation and its distinctive place in the history of Christendom. The advancement of England on its road to national unity and well-being was interpreted as an act of Providence and the sign of the victory of the true religion. English nationality was seen as the will of God, and the cause of the nation was one with the Protestant cause. The Book of Martyrs went through six editions during Foxe’s lifetime and was reprinted four times after his death. The extraordinary importance of his message was demonstrated above all by the fact that in 1571 it was ordered by convocation that a copy of it be set up with the Bible in cathedral churches, and that every archbishop, bishop, archdeacon, dean, and resident canon should keep a copy in hall or dining room for the use of servants and visitors.21

THE GRADUAL SUPPLANTING OF THE RELIGION IDIOM: THE SECULAR DEFINITION OF ENGLISH NATIONAL CHARACTER

By the end of the Civil War, the nation was established as the primary object of loyalty; it ceased to be problematic.22 As a self-evident fact, it no longer needed religious or other legitimation. Milton, a leader of “the new religion of patriotism,”23 is one example of the weakening of religion as a source of legitimation in the seventeenth century. Early in his career, in his tract Of Reformation in England, he presented the already familiar conception, very much in the spirit of Foxe, of England’s destiny revealed through her leadership in the Reformation, at the head of which she was placed, through divine intervention, as a chosen people. Later he continued to demand further and further social reforms, such as the reform of marriage (Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce) and unlicensed printing (Areopagitica) on the grounds that these reforms were integral to the English religious and historic destiny, but most of all to its national character. In his History of Britain he attacked the Church as such, carrying to its logical conclusion the Protestant doctrine of the priesthood of all believers, and demanding full equality for this nation “so pliant and so prone to seek after knowledge.”24 His pronouncements, full of religious fervour and still employing the authority of religious texts, became devoid of any religious content: “The great and almost only commandment of the Gospel is, to command nothing against the good of man and much more no civil command against the civil

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50 Nationalism and the Mind good … the general end of every ordinance, of every severest, divinest, even of Sabbath, is the good of man, yea, his temporal good not excluded.”25 Now England’s peculiarity was, for him, reflected in his country’s being “the mansion-house of liberty,”“a soil most genial to the growth of liberty.” Instead of leading other nations in religious reform, England now led them on the way to civil liberty. In that, wrote Milton, “we have the honour to precede other Nations who are now laboring to be our followers.”26 Liberty became a characteristically English trait. The casting away of the religious idiom did not change, but only laid bare the values which Milton and others in this period tried to establish in English society. The insistence on liberty was a corollary of the new recognition of the fundamental equality of men in the possession of the faculty of reason, which made all of them worthy of respect. Men were still believed to have reason because they were created in the image of God; the requirements of their equality and liberty, therefore, derived from the act of creation. But it was the pride in man’s reason and not reverence for its source which inspired men like Milton after the Civil War; the right of the individual conscience, freedom, the autonomy of a rational being were advocated for their own sake, as supreme values. These values were primary in the definition of English nationhood. The dissident character of Protestantism and Puritanism and the congruence of their theology with these values rendered them a convenient means for the justification of the very existence of the English nation. Its existence was convincingly proved by the unique function England performed in history. Religion thus provided the necessary legitimation for the new focus of loyalty on nationality during the period of its formation. When nationality became established as the fundamental public value,religion declined in prominence. The properties of English nationality were asserted to be the independence of thought comprising a critical mind, an ability to arrive at decisions on the basis of the individual’s own – preferably first-hand – knowledge and logical deliberations, a love of practical knowledge, a desire to be appealed to in a rational, not emotional or authoritative manner, a dispassionate nature, and a distaste for enthusiasm. While the belief in individual reason made self-assertiveness vis-à-vis authority possible, skepticism, with its emphasis on the futility of speculation, made sensual, empirical knowledge the basis for the assertion of reason. From these diverse elements sprang a unique position, philosophically impure, but thoroughly systematic in its

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Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England 51 support of the liberty of individual conscience. Its rationalism implied the right of free thought; its skepticism rendered dogmatic assertions ridiculous and demanded tolerance of others’ opinions; its empiricism undermined the notion of intellectual aristocracy, making everyone in possession of the normal human senses equally capable of acquiring the true knowledge on which the progress of humanity was thought to be dependent.27

SCIENCE IN THE SERVICE OF THE NATION

Science – scientific knowledge and investigation – was the epitome of this rationalist, skeptical, empirical view of life. Scientific achievements reflected these fundamental virtues of the English nation. Science was respected for and legitimated by the testimony it bore to England’s singular qualities. Since Bacon, science had been considered the sign of the superiority of the moderns over the ancients, to whom, allegedly, it had been unknown.28 Since Bacon, too, it was viewed as a sign of a nation’s greatness, the foundation and the guarantee of its strength and virtue.29 In the battle between the ancients and the moderns, the English identified themselves with the moderns. The ancients were foreigners with no connection whatsoever with England, but linked to Italy, France and Spain. These three continental countries were the chief competitors of England in cultural achievement. National pride impelled the search for fields in which England could claim equality with and even superiority to its competitors. However, in classical learning, England could never outdo France and Italy. There were five or six erudite persons in London at the beginning of the sixteenth century, according to Erasmus, and one “slender”library, according to Leland.30 To accept the primacy of the ancients would mean to compete in a field in which England was inferior. Reluctant to admit this, proponents of the national greatness espoused a primitive cultural relativism, arguing that what suited one period and society did not necessarily have to suit another. This freed them from competing for intellectual excellence on the arena chosen by “ruinous Athens or decayed Rome.”31 To espouse the side of the moderns in these circumstances rescued England’s national dignity. Literary superiority was regarded as less important because it was considered less consistent with the English national character. Science was a modern kind of

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52 Nationalism and the Mind activity and it was one in which England could compete quite effectively. By the end of the century it was a field which demonstrated the superiority of the English. Science was constantly invoked to demonstrate that the English nation, despite its less advantageous relation with classical antiquity, had qualities and achievements of its own which made it at least the equal of the ancients. Scientific achievements were repeatedly put forward as the most glorious expression of English nationality. Wilkins called Bacon “our English Aristotle,”32 Dr. William Gilbert, the author of De Magnete, was “our countryman (admired by all foreigners).”33 Pursuit of science was a matter of national prestige, and England in this respect fared much better than did other nations. Gilbert himself made this clear as early as 1600. In the first chapter of De Magnete, dealing with the history of his subject, he wrote: There are other learned men who on long sea voyages have observed the differences of magnetic variation … all Englishmen … Many others I pass by purpose: Frenchmen, Germans and Spaniards of recent time who in their writings, mostly composed in their vernacular languages, either misuse the teachings of others, and like furbishers send forth ancient things dressed with new names and tricked in an apparel of new words as in prostitutes’ finery; or who publish things not even worthy of record …34

National prestige was the main issue in the controversies about priority in scientific discoveries. Wallis, one of the most prominent mathematicians of the age and the author of a treatise on the greatness of English mathematics, frequently brought this issue up in his correspondence. He wished “that those of our own Nation; were a little more forward than I find them generally to bee (especially the most considerable) in timely publishing their own Discoveries, and not let strangers reape ye glory of what those amongst us are ye authors.”35 Considerations of national prestige impelled scientists to publish their discoveries promptly and to urge their compatriots to do the same. This was, indeed, the subject of the first official letter from the Royal Society to Newton. In it, Oldenburg, the secretary, informed Newton about the examination of his invention of contracting telescopes by “ye most eminent in Opticall Science and practise”and their opinion that it was “necessary to use some means to secure this invention from ye Usurpation of forreiners.”36 In a letter written later the same year regarding Newton’s discourse on light and colours,

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Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England 53 Oldenburg again urged: “this discourse should without delay be printed there being cause to apprehend that the ingenious and surprising notion therein contained … may easily be snatched from you, and the Honor of it be assumed by forainers, some of them, as I formerly told you being apt enough to make shew of and to vend, what is not of the growth of their Country.”37 The glory of the nation was also an important reason – in fact, the only one that competed with the personal inclination of a scientist – to proceed with the scientific endeavor at all. In one of the later letters from Oldenburg, Newton is informed of the acclaim his studies enjoy abroad, which, Oldenburg thinks, should increase Newton’s “vigour to prosecute and advance them to the utmost, as well for your owne as the Nations honor.”38 Halley, himself an eminent scientist and Astronomer Royal, used the same argument on the publication of Principia, to make sure that Newton would proceed with his studies: “I hope you will not repent you of the pains you have taken in so laudable a Piece, so much to your own and the Nations credit, but rather … that you will resume those contemplations …”39 These contemplations, Halley goes on, should be pursued because they will be of “prodigious use in Navigation.”This is only one of the numerous instances of promotion of inventions and scientific discourse because they were thought to be materially “advantageous to England.” These can be interpreted as expressions of the utilitarian attitude to science, considered to be characteristic of the seventeenth century, but in fact, it is very difficult to distinguish here between a purely utilitarian attitude and the desire for national eminence, for which utility is defined as service to the nation. Practising scientists,undoubtedly,fully shared the opinion of scientific propagandists that a major source of the legitimation of science was its contribution to the greatness of the nation. Even Newton, in a rare letter not exclusively devoted to the technicalities of his scientific propositions,40 expressed this opinion. He wrote a letter of recommendation for another scientist, a geographer John Adams, to his cousin Sir John Newton: “… for carrying on this work [a geographical survey of England], he begs the favor of the gentry, and the designe being for the credit of the Nation, he has hitherto met with good encouragement.”41 Boyle, too, was obviously concerned about English superiority in science. He had Oldenburg translate into Latin all his works written in English immediately upon completion, to protect them from appearing in unauthorized translations in other European languages

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54 Nationalism and the Mind and being claimed by foreigners. Oldenburg rarely failed to communicate to Boyle what he had learned from the foreign correspondents of the Royal Society about the reactions to English science abroad. Sometimes his letters were almost entirely devoted to this subject. Such letters would usually start: “Sir, I could not forbeare by this occasion to give you notice of some particulars … wherein yrselfe and ye other English Virtuosi are concerned.My correspondent in his last from Paris saith with a good deal of frankness …” This was followed by passages like: “It must be confessed that the English carry all before them, and have an advantage over all other peoples in Europe, considering the number of strange and detailed things which they have given to the public, besides large works. On the other hand the books now printed in Paris – or at least most of them – don’t deserve to be read, as they are only rehashes of bare assertion; they contain no details to please the mind,”42 or:“It must be said that England has a large number of learned and inquisitive men, a larger number than is to be found in all of Europe; and what they produce is solid and detailed – the world has, for too long, been sufficiently entertained with general theories.”43 Foreigners, indeed, were quick to pay attention to the superiority of English science and to connect it with the greatness of the nation. A German correspondent of the Royal Society, J. D. Major, wrote in 1664: “It seems to be a characteristic of the remarkable English people to accomplish great things through their penetrating and truly unusual ability, and so in this way by their definitive writings to adorn the ever more flourishing state of medicine with an adamantine diadem …”44 Another German correspondent, Sachs, compared English greatness in science to the glory of England’s navigation: “As in the past maritime exploration has day by day added new islands to the British realm, … so their love of inquiry after truth has led the illustrious Bacon and Digby, with the ingenuous Harvey, Boyle, Charleton, Highmore, Glisson and Wallis to throw much new light upon medicine. What may not rightly be expected from the concourse of so many men of such caliber, and from companions in letters headed straight for truth’s Gate!” He also compared the situation in England in this regard to that in Germany, unequivocally acknowledging the superiority of the former: Even Germany felt a few years ago the same incentive towards founding a certain College, under the name of the Academy of the Investigations of Nature. But … our college … is of less strength than the Illustrious Society with its permanent seat in London. Surely your Illustrious College will excel the rest … For buttressed by Royal

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Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England 55 Authority and selected from such very able men (in whom England abounds) and doubtless cherished by Royal grants, it will be quite furnished with everything necessary for performing experiments and all the funds that are required … We Germans know only narrower limits, magnates with slenderer purses, and a shortage of grand patrons … if a flood of learning and experimental truth can be brought through epistolary channels from your British ocean to fertilize our more sterile Germany … If Germany can contribute nothing else of note to your British ocean, we offer unfailing memory of benefits received; and such as they are our writings when they appear in time to come shall testify to the English springs from which we drank our fill.45

Flattering as this view of English science from abroad was, the foreign correspondents were mistaken as to the financial support the Royal Society received from the government. But the pride Englishmen took in the scientific endeavors of their compatriots, the incomparably higher prestige of science in England, the value assigned to it by society and the widespread social support of it made such exaggerations understandable. Fontenelle’s “Eulogium to Newton” is an example of how strikingly different England’s appreciation of science seemed at the time to be in contrast with the situation in other countries. Fontenelle left no doubt that scientific greatness meant national greatness, and he also emphasized the exceptionally high esteem enjoyed by science in England. On the attitude of the English toward their scientists, Fontenelle says the following: It was Sir Isaac Newton’s peculiar happiness to enjoy the reward of his merit in his life-time, quite contrary to Des Cartes, who did not receive any honours ’till after his death. The English do not respect great Genius’s the less for being born amongst them; and so far are they from endeavoring to depreciate them by malicious criticism, so far from approving the envy which attacks them, that they all conspire to raise them; and that great degree of Liberty which occasions their differences in the most important points, does not hinder them from uniting in this. They are all very sensible how much the glory of the Understanding should be valued in a State, and whoever can procure it to their country becomes extremely dear to them. All the learned Men of the Nation, which produces so many, placed Sir Isaac at their head by a kind of unanimous applause, they acknowledged him for their Chief and their Master: not so much as one opposer durst appear, nay they would not even admitted of a moderate admirer. His Philosophy hath been adopted throughout England, it

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56 Nationalism and the Mind prevails in the Royal Society and in all the excellent performances which have come from thence … Tacitus who has reproached the Romans with their extreme indifference for the great men of their Nation, would certainly have given the English the quite contrary Character … [Newton] was known in the court of the late King. The Princess of Wales, who is now Queen of Great Britain … often declared publickly that she thought it an happiness to live in his time and to be acquainted with him. In how many other Ages, in how many other Nations might he have been placed without meeting such another princess! … After having been so serviceable to all the learned part of Europe in speculative Sciences, he devoted himself entirely to the service of his country in affairs that were more visibly and directly advantageous to it … [Regarding Newton’s funeral] We must look back to the Ancient Greeks if we would find out examples of so extraordinary a veneration for learning … Both his Country and Family were as remarkable in expressing their grateful respect towards him; as if by voluntary choice he had made them his.46

The spokesmen of the Royal Society constantly reminded the public that science made England great. A letter by Oldenburg to Lord Williamson was a typical expression of this attitude. Thanking Williamson for his aid in sending scientific papers to an interested person abroad, a certain M. Slusius, Oldenburg wrote: [Slusius] is one of our best Correspondents in Mathematical and other ingenious matters, and who also hath exprest a great esteem of his Majesties Institution of the Royal Society, in ye doing of wch he concurs wth ye most Eminent men in most parts of ye World. Wch, as it adds not a little to ye renown of England, now admired abroad above other nations for advancing Experimental Knowledge as well as Academical Learning, so I hope it will at length induce at home all yt know what value to put upon virtu and knowledge to continue to ye support and encouragement of so excellent a Foundation …47

A poem, probably by William W. Glanvill, “In Praise of that Choice Company of Witts and Philosophers who meet on Wednesdays weekly at Gresham Colledg” phrased it thus: If to be rich and to be learn’d Be every nation’s cheifest glory How much are English men concern’d, Gresham, to celebrate thy story Who built th’Exchange t’enrich the Citty And a College founded for the witty.

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Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England 57 Our Merchants on th’Exchange doe plot T’ increase the Kingdom’s wealth by trade. Att Gresham Colledge a learned Knott Unparallel’d designes have laid To make themselves a Corporation And knowe all things by Demonstration … The noble learned Corporation Not for itself it thus combyn’d But for the publique good o th’Nation …48

PROPAGANDISTS OF SCIENCE

The writings of propagandists of science deserve special attention in this context. Scientists were drawn to science out of a driving desire to understand the world around them; they were usually too preoccupied with science itself to make propaganda for it. The propagandists, on the other hand, who rarely were practicing scientists themselves, went to great pains to praise science and to commend it to the approbation of English society. Among these, Thomas Sprat was perhaps the most influential and important. The History of the Royal Society was indeed “the climax of propaganda for the new science,” “the most elaborate and comprehensive defense of the Society and the experimental philosophy” in the seventeenth century, and “the most significant document in all propagandist literature on behalf of the new science.” In addition, it “constituted an official statement of the matter.”49 The work was commissioned by the Royal Society, approved by many of its prominent members and passed by them when completed. The sentiment to which Sprat appealed almost exclusively was national pride. In the History he mentioned two reasons for writing it – “The Greatness of the Design itself ” and “the Zeal which I have for the Honour of our Nation.”50 Referring to the History in Observations on Mons. De Sorbiere’s Voyage into England, he wrote that he was trying “to represent its [Royal Society] Design to be Advantageous to the Glory of England”;51 although he was later Bishop of Rochester, he did not mention religion. Sprat was acutely aware of the English inferiority in “matters of elegance” which included art and literature, though he usually did not admit this as a fact, but only as an expression of foreign

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58 Nationalism and the Mind arrogance. In Observations, a profoundly nationalist document, he wrote: The French and Italians … generally agree, that there is scarce any Thing of late written that is worth looking upon, but in their own languages. The Italians did at first endeavour to have it thought that all Matters of Elegance had never yet pas’d over the Alps: But being overwhelmed by Number, they were content to admit the French and Spaniards into some share of their Honour. But they all three still maintain the united opinion, that all Wit is to be sought for nowhere but amongst themselves: It is their Established Rule, that Good Sense has always kept near the Warm Sun, and scarce ever dared to come further than the Forty-ninth Degree Northward. This, Sir, is a pretty imagination of theirs, to think they have confin’d all art to a geographical circle; and to fancy that it is there so charmed as not to be able to go out of the Bounds which they have set it.52

He tried to defend the honor of English letters, but clearly this, for him, was not a strong position: … in the first Restoration of Learning the English began to write well as soon as any, the Italians only excepted; and … if we may guess by what we see of the Italians at this Day, the English have continued to write well longer than they … We have at the Present as many Masters of true and real Wit as ever Greece produced in one Age, whose names, though I conceal, yet Posterity shall declare.53

It is science that England proudly opposed to those who denied her national eminence: “the Arts that are now prevail amongst us are not only all the useful Sciences of Antiquity, but most especially all the late Discoveries of this Age in the Real Knowledge of Mankind and Nature, For the Improvement of this Kind of Light the English Disposition is of all the others the fittest.”54 Sprat called science “the True Arts of Life,” in comparison with which the humanistic learning and literature in which the continental rivals of England claimed to excel were but mere trifles. The History of the Royal Society is permeated with the sense of confidence in England’s future glory and affluence. For science was ingrained in the English national character, and its advancement in a double way guaranteed the advancement of the nation. Sprat wrote in History: If there can be a true character given of the Universal Temper of any Nation under Heaven; then certainly this must be ascribed to our Countrymen: that they have commonly an unaffected sincerity; that

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Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England 59 they love to deliver their minds with a sound simplicity; … These Qualities are so conspicuous, and proper to our Soil; that we often hear them objected to us, by some of our neighbour Satyrists … But these are only the reproaches of partiality, or ignorance: for they ought rather be commended for an honourable integrity, for a neglect of circumstances, and flourishes; for regarding things of greater moment, more than less; for a scorn to deceive as well as to be deceived; which are all the best indowments, that can enter into a Philosophical Mind. So that even the position of our climate, the air, the influence of the heavens, the composition of the English blood; seem to joyn with the labours of the Royal Society to render our country, a Land of Experimental Knowledge.55

“The Genius of the Nation itself irresistibly conspires”with the inclination toward scientific discovery.56 The success of the Royal Society was guaranteed, because it embodied “the present prevailing Genius of the English Nation,”57 and, he asked, if the Church of England opposed scientific investigation, “how could it be fit for the present Genius of this nation?”58 Science not only expressed the English “temper”; it could actually reform minds, contribute to greater rationality, and thereby unite the nation. Joseph Glanvill in Plus Ultra said: “[science] will in its progress dispose mens Spirits to more calmness and modesty, charity and prudence in the Differences of Religion and even silence Disputes there. For the free sensible knowledge tends to the altering the Crasis of mens minds and so cures the Desease at the root; and true Philosophy is a Specifick against Disputes and Divisions.”59 England by its greatness in science can heal the wounds inflicted by religious intolerance and acerbity: A mischief by which the greatness of the English is suppressed, is a want of union of Interests, and Affection … heightened by our Civil differences, and Religious distructions. For the sweetning of such dissentions, it is not best at first to meet and converse about affairs of state, or spiritual controversies. For these did first occasion our animosities and the more they are rubbed, the rawer they will prove. But the most effectual remedy to be us’d is first to assemble about some calm, and indifferent things, especially Experiments. In them there can be no cause of mutual exasperations: In them they may agree or dissent without faction, or fierceness: and so from induring each others company, they may rise to a bearing of each others opinions; from thence to an exchange of good Offices; from thence to real Friendship; – Till at last by such a gentle, and easy Method, our

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60 Nationalism and the Mind several Interests and Sects may come to suffer one another, with the same peaceableness as men of different Trades live one by another in the same Street.60

SCIENCE AS A SOURCE OF LEGITIMATION

Science was approved by the most powerful sentiments of the age and was believed to be most valuable in the service of the nation. Deriving its value from its great importance to the national cause, science acquired the power to confer legitimacy: even religion now was legitimated by its congeniality with science.61 Sprat, enumerating the advantages which made England the happiest society in human history, mentioned religion as one of them, in the last place, after military and political strength and after science:“To all this … may be added the Profession of such a Religion, and the Discipline of such a Church, which an impartial Philosopher would chuse, which … has given evident Sign … how nearly its Interest is united with the Prosperity of our Country.”62 Perfect harmony was perceived to exist between “impartial Philosophy” (science) and national interest, and religion here was vindicated by these twin values. Science stood guard over the national interest, and when a danger was perceived that religion would damage it and be disruptive of national unity, it was vigorously attacked by scientists, among others. Sprat’s History as well as Glanvill’s Plus Ultra, Dryden’s Annus Mirabilis and other writings, besides being justifications for the scientific spirit, constituted a part of the counterattack against the religious enthusiasm of the Mirabilis Annus of 1666.63 To religious enthusiasm, which was perceived as an important cause of national disasters, science was opposed as a cure: This wild amusing of mens minds, with Prodigies, and conceits and Providences, has been one of the most memorable causes of those spiritual disasters, of which our Country has long bin the Theater, … And … especially the last year, this gloomy, and ill-boding humour has prevailed. So that it is now the fittest season for Experiments to arise, to teach us a Wisdome, which springs from the depths of Knowledge, to shake off the shadows, and to scatter the mists, which fill the minds of men with a vain consternation.64

Together with the values of freedom and equality, science was appreciated as distinctive of England, as the foundation of its preeminence

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Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England 61 in the world. Instead of needing justification from other more fundamental values, science became a source and standard of legitimacy. It was this close association with the growing sense of nationality, and with the desire for national pride, that caused many Englishmen who knew very little of the substance of scientific knowledge to stand in reverence before the great figures of English science. The consequence was a state of public opinion favourable to the cultivation of science and encouraging to those who would think of devoting their lives and their intellectual powers to it. Originally published in Minerva, XXV:1–2 Spring-Summer 1987 NOTES 1. Robert K. Merton, Science, Technology, and Society in 17th Century England (New Jersey: Humanities Press, 1970), first published in Osiris, IV, Pt. 2 (1938). 2. Ibid., p. 94. 3. Ibid., p. 87. 4. Ibid., p. 238. 5. See Guido Zernatto, “Nation: the History of a Word,” Review of Politics, VI, July 1944, pp. 351–366. 6. Albert F. Pollard, Factors in Modern History (New York: A. A. Knopf), pp. 22–23. 7. Esme Wingfield-Stratford, The History of English Patriotism (London: John Lane, 1913), I, p. 78. 8. Lewis Einstein, Tudor Ideals (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1921), p. 304. 9. Samuel Daniel, Musophilus: containing a general defense of all learning, ed. R. Himelick (Lafayette, Ind.: Purdue University Press, 1965), p. 86. 10. Gervase Markham, “The Most Honourable Tragedy of Sir Richard Grenville” (1595), in E. Arber, ed., The Last Fight of the REVENGE at Sea (London: Constable, 1895), p. 63. 11. Richard Crompton, The Mansion of Magnanimity (London: 1599), Ch. 4. 12. Thomas Starkey, A Dialogue between Cardinal Pole and Thomas Lupset (1548), ed. K. M. Burton (London: Chatto and Windus, 1948), p. 22. 13. George Gascoigne, The Steel Glas (1576) (New York: AMS Press, 1966), p. 61. 14. Thomas Lever, Sermons (New York: AMS Press, 1966), p. 135. 15. Roger Ascham, “Toxophilus” (1545), in W. A. Wright, ed., English Works of Roger Ascham (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1904), pp. xiii–xiv. 16. John Poynet, A Shorte Treatise of politike pouuer, and of the true Obedience which subjects owe to kynges and other ciuile Gouernours, with an Exhortation to all true natural Englishe men (1556), reprinted in W. S. Hudson, John Poynet: Advocate of Limited Monarchy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1942), p. 61 of the original text. 17. Thomas Smith, De Republica Anglorum (London, 1635), pp. 48–49. 18. R. W. Bond, ed., The Complete Works of John Lyly (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1902), II, p. 210.

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62 Nationalism and the Mind 19. From An Harborowe for Faithful and Trewe Subjects quoted by W. Haller, in “John Foxe and the Puritan Revolution,” in Richard Foster Jones, ed., The Seventeenth Century (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 1952), p. 209. 20. Hans Kohn, “The Genesis and Character of English Nationalism,” Journal of the History of Ideas, I, January 1940, p. 82. 21. W. Haller, “John Foxe and the Puritan Revolution,” op. cit., p. 211. 22. H. Kohn, “The Genesis and Character of English Nationalism,” op. cit., p. 91; John M. Gaus, Great Britain: A Study in Civic Loyalty (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1929), p. 18. 23. Hilaire Belloc, Milton (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1935), p. 22. 24. W. Haller, “John Foxe and the Puritan Revolution,” op. cit., p. 223. 25. J. Milton, Prose Works (London: Bell, 1884–89), Vol. III, p. 353. 26. M. W. Wallace, ed., Milton’s Prose (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1925), p. 312; J. Milton, Prose Works, op. cit., pp. 376, 356. 27. Richard F. Jones, Ancients and Moderns: A Study of the Rise of the Scientific Movement in England (New York: Dover, 1982), p. 42. 28. Francis Bacon, Novum Organum (1620), in The Works of Francis Bacon, XIV (London: William Pickering, 1831). 29. Francis Bacon, The New Atlantis, in ibid., II, 1825. 30. L. Einstein, Tudor Ideals, op. cit., p. 318. 31. E. J. L. Scott, ed., Letter-book of Gabriel Harvey (1573–80) (London: Camden Society, 1884), p. 66. 32. Jones, Ancients and Moderns, op. cit., p. 79. 33. Ibid., on “The Gilbert Tradition,” pp. 62–87. 34. William Gilbert, De Magnete, trans. P. Fleury Mottelay (New York: Dover, 1958). 35. A. Rupert Hall and Marie Boas Hall, eds., The Correspondence of Henry Oldenburg, Vols I–IX (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1966–73), Vol. III, Letter 623 (21 March 1666–67), p. 373. 36. Correspondence of Isaac Newton, ed. H. W. Turnbull, for the Royal Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1955–77), I, Letter 29 (2 January, 1671–72), p. 73. 37. Ibid., Letter 41 (2 August, 1671–72), pp. 107–108. 38. Ibid., Letter 95 (24 September, 1672), pp. 242–243. 39. Ibid., Letter 309 (5 July, 1687), pp. 481–482. 40. Letters of the most prominent scientists of this age, Boyle and Newton, are almost exclusively dedicated to purely scientific matters. There is little else in them – virtually no discussion of the religious, political, or personal significance of science. 41. Correspondence of Isaac Newton, op. cit., II, Letter 248 (January 1680–81), p. 335. 42. The Correspondence of Henry Oldenburg, op. cit., II, Letter 276 (10 June, 1663), p. 65. 43. Ibid., Letter 401 (21 August, 1665), p. 486. 44. Ibid., Letter 361 (13 December, 1664), p. 337. 45. Ibid., Letter 364 (12 January, 1664–65), p. 345. 46. [Bernard le Bovier de] Fontenelle, The Eulogium of Sir Isaac Newton (London: J. Tonson, 1728), pp. 23–29. This is the original English translation of the French text. 47. The Correspondence of Henry Oldenburg, op. cit., X, Letter 2,312 (2 September, 1673), pp. 175–176.

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Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England 63 48. Quoted in Dorothy Stimson, Scientists and Amateurs: A History of the Royal Society (New York: Henry Schuman, 1948), pp. 57–63. 49. Jones, Ancients and Moderns, op. cit., pp. 221–222. 50. Thomas Sprat, History of the Royal Society (London, 1667), p. 2. 51. Thomas Sprat, Observations on Mons. de Sorbiere’s Voyage into England (London, 1709, first published 1665), p. 102. 52. Ibid., p. 171. 53. Ibid., p. 172. 54. Ibid., p. 178. 55. Sprat, History of the Royal Society, op. cit., p. 114. 56. Ibid., p. 150. 57. Ibid., p. 78. 58. Ibid., pp. 371–372. 59. Joseph Glanvill, Plus Ultra; or the Progress and Advancement of Knowledge Since the Days of Aristotle (London, 1668), p. 149. 60. Sprat, History of the Royal Society, op. cit., pp. 426–427. 61. See Richard S. Westfall, Science and Religion in 17th Century England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1958). 62. Sprat, Observations, op. cit., p. 179. 63. Jackson I. Cope and H. W. Jones, “Introduction” to Thomas Sprat, History of the Royal Society (St. Louis: Washington University Studies, 1958), p. xiv. 64. Sprat, History of the Royal Society, op. cit., pp. 362–363.

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4 NATIONALISM AND MODERNITY

Sociology is a modern discipline. It was called into being by the emergence of a new type of social reality, heralded by the French Revolution and accompanied (some would say produced) by the Industrial one,1 which both prompted and made possible the reexamination of society as such.The new society replaced the traditional social order in Europe, the ancient regime, and, the opposition between ancients and moderns being a long tradition,2 was called “modern.” The nature of modern society and the conditions of transition to modernity (of modernization) have been at the center of concerns that preoccupied sociology since its earliest days.3 It was on this, after all, although perhaps differently phrased, that the great proto-sociologists, Tocqueville and Marx, as well as the founding fathers of the discipline, Durkheim and Weber, focused. This venerable tradition has been continued on this continent in the form of modernization theory and later, somewhat euphemistically, theory of development. Tradition weighs heavily on the study of modern society. Our views of it are still to a large extent defined by the ideas of our (disciplinary) fathers. It is rarely recognized that the perspective reflected in these ideas was necessarily limited, that, for the lack of empirical evidence (the newness of modernity and the lack of experience with it) they had to be highly speculative. The only thing that was known to the first theorists of modernity was the nature of the social order it came to replace. Its own nature was still unclear, and many of its assumed features were hypostatized by opposition to the fading features of the old order. As the memories of the old order dimmed, the image of

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Nationalism and Modernity 65 modern society arrived at by way of such hypostatization became the basis for imagining the old order. And as a result, the basis for our understanding of modernity have been the dichotomies such as Feudalism/Capitalism,4 Gemeinschaft/Gesellschaft,5 and Organic versus Mechanical solidarity,6 both sides of which are only tenuously related to the social systems they are supposed to mirror. Each of the classical dichotomies is organized around what it proposed as the constitutive element of modernity, whether industrialization driven by capitalism, organic solidarity, or rational will. In each case, this constitutive element is closely related to (if it does not represent) the mechanism of transition from traditional to modern society, or of the process of modernization. It should be noted that the Marxist account of the mechanism is much more satisfactory than those proposed by either Durkheim or Toennies, and this could be the reason, quite apart from its ideological appeal, for the dominance of historical materialism among theories of modernity. The modernization theory of the 1950s and 1960s, composed as it was predominantly of structuralist-functionalist as well as Marxist and neo-Marxist approaches (which, it should be kept in mind, are also structuralist and functionalist), was at its basis a variety of historical materialism. In the framework of the modernization theory, as in the framework of classical Marxism, history was viewed as a linear progression through definite stages, culminating in a particular, known stage (modernity), in which all societies would at some point converge. The mechanism behind this progression, in modernization theory as in Marxism, was assumed to be economic: industrialization driven by capitalist (or commercial) interests was the fundamental factor in the process, and it was this factor that for one reason or another (here Marxists and structuralist-functionalists differed) called into being other features, or “structures,” of modernity.7 Again, although Marxists and structuralist-functionalists might disagree in their evaluation of these other features, their lists of them were very similar.8 These features were political and cultural and minimally included the modern bureaucratic state and secular culture, specifically the spread of literacy and modern science. Also noted was the change in the nature of social stratification expressed in the dramatically increased rate of social mobility in modern societies; it too was interpreted as a result (a response to the needs) of industrialization. Finally, both Marxists and structural-functionalists expected modern societies to become ideologically homogeneous. The nature of this

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66 Nationalism and the Mind convergence was, obviously, different: while Marxists, depending on the specific denomination, expected the victory of communism or socialism, structuralist-functionalists were certain that industrialization implied liberal democracy. Speculation was the way of social philosophy. In sociology speculation is supposed to be checked by examination against evidence, only corroboration by the latter being a sufficient ground for retaining one or another idea. In practice it does not always work this way, and the chances that it would decrease as the scope of the theory increases. The staying power of a theory often depends more on its ability to adapt to different political agenda, than on the degree of its consistency with empirical data. In this respect theories of modernity of the historical materialist derivation, on the whole, proved very adaptable. Such political adaptability, on the one hand, may be attributed to their general vagueness, and on the other, to the fact that they either incorporated or could be easily interpreted as social critique. Still, it was not only the changing standards of political correctness which caused the abandonment of the modernization theory in the mid-1960s and its replacement with “development” studies, but the abundance of evidence that contradicted its fundamental premises. The anomalies which were the undoing of the modernization theory were several. Successful industrialization proved able to coexist with a remarkable variety of social, political, and cultural arrangements. Some countries failed to industrialize. And there were no signs of ideological convergence. As time went by and increasing numbers of societies (or, rather, numbers of societies which increasingly came into focus) stubbornly refused to comply with the requirements of the theory, it lost respectability. However, only some of its notions were abandoned, most have been perpetuated within neo-Marxist and development theories, as well as carried on within much of the research in historical macrosociology. Today, it appears, it is no longer theoretically comme il faut to expect ideological convergence of the developing societies (the recent transformations in Eastern Europe changed the climate of opinion in this regard but temporarily). However, industrialization is still considered the constitutive element, the Unterbau of modern society, and the mechanism behind the transition to modernity. The inability of the economic factors to determine the supposedly superstructural (social, political, and cultural) elements of society did not result in a serious questioning of its fundamental nature, but, paradoxically, elevated its

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Nationalism and Modernity 67 conceptual status. Often industrialization appeared to be not only the most important, but the only quality modern societies shared. In many texts, industrialization was effectively (though more often than not implicitly) equated with modernization and development. Modern societies were defined as industrial societies, and since their other characteristics by definition belonged to the superstructure, they were fundamentally similar (as the theory of modernization predicted), even if they were different. The failure of certain societies to industrialize (and thus to become modern) was not necessarily interpreted as a sign of multilinear historical development. The world-system theory attributed it to the successful industrialization and modernization of other societies; in this framework, the industrialization of the West – driven by capitalism – implied European expansion which resulted in the creation of a modern social system on the global scale, in which some societies were hegemonic and others dependent, the dependent societies being used to satisfy the industrial, capitalist needs of the hegemonic ones.9 Although not all of the theories of modern society after the demise of the modernization theory have been as explicit in their adherence to its central theses, implicitly most have accepted them. The assumption of the primacy of the economic factors in the process of modernization is shared, sometimes it seems almost unconsciously, even by authors who identify with the Weberian tradition, and explicitly deny adherence to the principles of historical materialism.10 Weber, characteristically, while he discussed many aspects of modernization, did not have a “theory” of modern society, but it is not too difficult to guess upon what a Weberian theory of modernity would be based. At its core would lie the exploration of orientations which transformed the nature of social action. It clearly would not be a variant of historical materialism, because “merely economic” phenomena, in Weber’s thought, did not amount to “social” phenomena which were, rather, constituted by meanings actors imputed to their behavior, and because methodological individualism precluded reification of composite entities and therefore thinking in terms of systemic needs. It would not distinguish between “real” and “ideal” factors, or between “bases” and “superstructures.” It would define modern society as an historical individual, located in time and space, and contingent on possibly unique historical circumstances, rather than predetermined. It would be multidimensional and assume multidirectional causality. Its description of modern society (its ideal type) would be based on the

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68 Nationalism and the Mind empirical comparison of the features of societies commonly seen as modern and those commonly seen as traditional. Its explanation of its emergence would be based on empirical historical research. The purpose of this paper is to contribute toward the construction of such a theory of modernity. Its thesis, which defies the dominant sociological tradition, is that nationalism, not industrialization, lies at the basis of modern society and represents its constitutive element. After decades of relative neglect, nationalism has once again become a focus of sociological theorizing.11 It has been widely recognized that it is not a relic of the past, bound to disappear with the advancement of the modern order, as Marx has prophesied in the “Communist Manifesto,” and today it is usually included among the elements of modernity. The nature of this recent theorizing, however, is not new. Essentially, as in earlier sociological attempts to conceptualize nationalism within the framework of the modernization paradigm,12 nationalism is viewed as a cultural and psychological function of the process of modernization, a superstructural product of its basic “objective” structures.13 The emergence of nationalism is seen as tightly connected to the modern phenomenon of state-formation, and as related to the trend of the secularization of culture. But almost invariably the factor truly responsible for its rise (as well as for the development of the state, and secularization) is believed to be economic: in the final analysis (to use an appropriate turn of speech), nationalism is explained as a functional prerequisite or product of industrialization and capitalism.14 And yet, historically, nationalism (the emergence of national identities and ideologies of nationalism) preceded industrialization and institutionalization of capitalism, as well as the development of the state and secularization of culture. Thus, unless we resort to teleological reasoning, nationalism cannot be considered the effect of these later developments. It is far more plausible to suppose that it was one of their causes. I shall return to the empirical links between nationalism and other components of modernity later. The sociological considerations behind the present thesis are the following. It assumes that a transformation in the conception of social order is necessary for the development of new forms of economic and political organization. For example, both capitalism and modern science could only emerge (as social institutions) in a society conceived as fundamentally egalitarian, and therefore one in which transition

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Nationalism and Modernity 69 from one stratum or sector to another (social mobility) would be not only possible, but legitimate. (It is true that both capitalism and industrialization require a flexible stratification system, but they cannot call such a system into being in some mysterious way, as is assumed by many theories that view industrialization as the basic element of modernity; a flexible system of stratification emerges independently from industrialization and capitalism and makes the development of the latter possible.) A society conceived in the form of a hierarchical structure composed of hermetically closed compartments – as was the society of orders – could import capitalism and science, but would not be able to produce them in the first place. Similarly, the state, which is distinguished from other, non-modern forms of political authority by its impersonal character would not be possible unless sovereignty was separated from the person (and/or lineage) of the sovereign (or prince) and became an attribute of the community.

NATIONALISM: THE DEFINITION 15

Both of these conditions, the egalitarian conception of the social order and – related to it – collectivization of authority, were accomplished by nationalism. Nationalism was a response of individuals affected by dysfunctions of the society of orders – the traditional structure modern society replaced – to the sense of disorder they created. Many other responses were possible; the choice of nationalism was not inevitable, but contingent. Neither, certainly not in the form it took or the pace it proceeded, was the dissolution of the old society. Instead, it was to a large extent due to the nationalist response to its dysfunction. Once chosen, nationalism accelerated the process of change, limited the possibilities of future development, and became a major factor in it. It thus both reflected and realized the grand transformation from the old order to modernity. Elsewhere16 I have defined “nationalism” in its general, neutral sense, as an umbrella term which subsumes related phenomena of national identity (or nationality) and consciousness, and collectivities based on them – nations. Most specifically, it refers to the set of ideas and sentiments which form the conceptual framework of national identity. National identity is one among many possible, and often coexisting and overlapping identities – such as religious, estate,

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70 Nationalism and the Mind occupational, tribal, linguistic, territorial, class, gender, and more. In the modern world, national identity represents what may be called the “fundamental identity,” the one that is believed to define the very essence of the individual, which the other identities may modify but slightly, and to which they are consequently considered secondary. Modern societies are “nations” by definition. Those that do not view themselves as nations are believed to be not (yet) modern. But all contemporary “nations” are derived from entities which previously possessed quite different identities. The specificity of nationalism derives from the fact that in its framework the source of identity, whether individual or collective, is located within a “people” which is seen as the bearer of sovereignty, the central object of loyalty, and the basis of collective solidarity. The “people” is a mass of population whose boundaries and nature are defined in various ways, but which is usually perceived as larger than any concrete community and always as fundamentally homogeneous (as essentially a community of equals) and only superficially divided by the lines of status, class, locality, or (in rare cases) even ethnicity. Thus the specificity of nationalism is conceptual. Its foundation – and the only factor without which it cannot develop – is the presence of this particular concept of the “people” and the idea of the “nation” in which it is implied. At the time when the word “nation” acquired its modern meaning and became the synonym of the “people,” it meant “an elite,” and specifically referred to an elite of representatives of cultural and political authority.17 It was in this meaning that it was applied, in the early sixteenth century, to the people of England. The equation of the two concepts – “people” and “nation” – signified a conceptual revolution, for, while the general referent of the word “people” prior to its “nationalization” was the population of a region, specifically it applied to the lower classes and was most frequently used in the sense of “rabble” or “plebs.” The redefinition of the “people” as a “nation” symbolically elevated the populace to the dignity of an elite. Every member of the “people” so interpreted partakes in its superior, elite quality, and it is in consequence, that a stratified national population is perceived as essentially homogeneous and the people as sovereign. This principle lies at the basis of all nationalisms and justifies viewing them as expressions of the same general phenomenon, even though apart from it they share little. Modern society is a society based on this principle of nationality. It is this principle that made possible, and in

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Nationalism and Modernity 71 some instances caused, the development of major economic and political “structures of modernity.”

NATIONALISM: THE PROCESS OF DEVELOPMENT

The concept of the “nation” as “an elite” was a result of a long series of transformations which combined structural and semantic elements. At each stage in this process, the concept evolved out of usage within a particular set of structural constraints. The dominant meaning of the word at any given time was applied within new circumstances to a certain aspect of which it corresponded. However, other aspects of these circumstances, which did not originally correspond to this dominant meaning, became associated with the word, creating a duality of meaning. The initially dominant meaning was gradually eclipsed, a new one emerged as dominant, and, while the word was retained, one concept gave way to another. The process of semantic transformation was constantly redirected by structural constraints which formed new concepts.At the same time, the structural constraints were conceptualized, interpreted, or defined, in terms of the inherited concepts, which oriented social action. As the concepts evolved, the definition of the situation changed, changing orientations too. The concept “nation” meaning “an elite” emerged in the setting of the medieval church councils, the parties of which, called “nations,” represented political and cultural authority – increasingly interpreted as sovereignty – of various ecclesiastical and secular principalities. Such a concept could only be applied to the people of England, if it corresponded to some aspect of this people. This means that the people of England had to act as an elite in some way prior to the application of the concept “nation,” and could no longer be just “plebs,” which presupposed a profound change in the structural conditions of the English society. Specifically, this change expressed itself in the number of individuals who rose from the “people” and could be defined as of it, finding themselves in positions of greatest authority. The Wars of the Roses decimated the traditional, feudal aristocracy and created a vacuum on the top of the social hierarchy. The emergence of the new aristocracy – the official elite of the Tudors – in the 1530s coincided with the elimination of the clergy from key positions in the administration, which made the Crown dependent on the services of the university-trained

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72 Nationalism and the Mind laymen. The members of the new aristocracy, people of exceptional abilities and education, were recruited from minor gentry and even lower strata: elite status, at least temporarily, became dependent on merit, rather than birth. Ultimately, nationalism can be traced back to the state of anomie, in which this fundamental transformation resulted. The traditional image of society, which allowed no place for upward mobility, no longer corresponded to reality. Members of the new English elite, commoners by birth, found it uncongenial and substituted for it the idea of a homogeneously noble people – the nation. Had they responded more conventionally – for instance, by forging genealogies – we would live today in a very different world. The idea of the nation took root. It elevated every member of the community which it made sovereign; therefore, it appealed to broad social strata and was applicable to many societies. The ascendancy of England ensured the salience of the novel view of social reality beyond its shores. It was imported to other countries when structural contradictions, for independent reasons, appeared there, and then became the force that transformed the old order. In the old order (the feudal society or “the society of orders”), pride and self-respect, as well as the claim to status or the respect of others were privileges of the small elite placed high above the rest. The lot of the rest was “humility and abnegation,” which they tried to rationalize and make tolerable in one way or another and sometimes even managed to enjoy, but could never escape. Even the elite was not safe from degradation. Its status depended on the preservation of rigid distinctions between orders and the strict observance of the rules of precedence. Any breach of these rules threatened it, for status is entirely a matter of social convention and easily deconstructs if the convention is broken. The adoption of national identity in every major European case – France, Russia, Germany – was indeed predicated upon a condition of status-inconsistency among the relevant elite group (or groups), which resulted from the obfuscation, for one reason or another, of status distinctions, and was accompanied by a profound sense of insecurity and anxiety. The group was either threatened in its social superiority, or frustrated in its (socially encouraged) attempts to achieve it. Nationalism diminished the significance of invidious distinctions and, at the same time, ensured everyone a modicum of dignity.18 Structurally, the situation was similar to the one faced by

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Nationalism and Modernity 73 the new English aristocracy. It was anomic: the relevant group was dissatisfied with its traditional identity as a result of a profound inconsistency between the definition of social order expressed in it and the experience of the involved actors. In France, the architects of the national identity came from the ranks of the traditional aristocracy, as it became increasingly discontented with its position and the manner in which its place in society was defined, and, in the process of redefinition, admitted into its ranks the most prominent of the non-noble intellectuals.19 French nationalism developed in the eighteenth century,20 the grounds for it prepared by more than a century of perpetual status-inconsistency – and anomie – among the nobility. In distinction to England, the old nobility of France, however warlike, was not destroyed by wars. But the descendants of the feudal lords in the seventeenth and eighteenth century led an unhappy life, marred constantly by a most “cruel anguish of mind,” to use the phrase of the informative Duke de Saint-Simon.21 Beginning with the efforts of François I and Henri II in the sixteenth century, the nobles were consistently deprived of a role in the government, at the same time as greater numbers of them were spending their time and money at the royal court, rather than on their estates. This depleted the wealth of the aristocracy, and as a result the noble status was separated both from wealth and from power. The aristocracy was becoming increasingly dependent on the power, and whims, of the king. This dependence was the essence of absolutism, which the nobility, especially its highest echelons, staunchly opposed. Nationalism was one of the forms the noble opposition to absolutism took. The French Revolution which destroyed the nobility was among its consequences, and yet, it was, in fact, a product of a feudal reaction.22 The idea of the “nation” was imported from England. Not the least among the qualities that recommended it was the fact that the nation, rather than the king, was considered the supreme object of loyalty and the bearer of sovereignty. In England, the authority of the Crown was strictly limited by Parliament, and the aristocracy seemed to have retained its ancient political powers. Originally, the French “nation” was synonymous with the nobility. But even as the notion expanded, the aristocracy, which it was destined to undo, remained among its chief adherents. Nationalism postulated an object of supreme loyalty, which could replace the king. Service to the nation made privileges of the elite legitimate. And status was tied to the position of France vis-à-vis other nations.

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74 Nationalism and the Mind The story of the birth of Russian nationalism is very similar. The first Russian nationalists came from the service nobility in the capitals – the noble elite. The turn to national identity was precipitated by a protracted situation of status-inconsistency and insecurity among the aristocracy,the increasing psychological untenability and disintegration of its identity as an estate. In distinction to nobilities in other countries, the Russian nobility did not descend from the feudal elite, but was a service estate.23 In fact, Russia scarcely experienced feudalism at all; among the European societies,it was the site of a remarkably precocious absolutism. Both the status and material well-being of a nobleman (especially one nearer the Court) depended entirely on the extent to which the sovereign was satisfied with his service. Such dependence made the position of a nobleman highly unpredictable and resulted in the permanent sense of insecurity and anxiety among the nobility. The status of the nobility was precarious even before the accession of Peter the Great, the tsar that decided to “modernize” Russia and turn it into a Western society. But his reforms aggravated its situation. Under Peter, on the one hand, personal status was tied to rank achieved in service, even noblemen of most exalted birth having to begin at the bottom of service hierarchy, and, on the other, ennoblement became automatic. Nobility as such became a liability rather than an advantage: while noble birth necessarily bred high expectations and set young aristocrats apart from the rest, it was powerless to fulfill these expectations. Unhappy with their traditional identity, the Russian nobility was ready to adopt a new one that would be commensurate with their sense of dignity. The framework for such an identity was provided by Peter himself, in the Western concepts – of “nation,” “state,” and “general good” – that he imported. In his edicts he reinterpreted his own authority as the authority of the Russian state, insisted that service was due not to himself personally, but to the fatherland, presented Russia as a proud nation, rather than his patrimony, and talked of the interests of the Russian people. It took several generations for these concepts (which required the creation of an entirely new vocabulary) to enter the general educated (and thus aristocratic) discourse. But during the reign of Catherine the Great (1762–96), the nobility completed the transition it had begun under Peter and exchanged its estate identity for nationality. German nationalism, unlike English, French, and Russian ones, owed its creation to middle-class intellectuals, rather than the

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Nationalism and Modernity 75 aristocracy. The aristocracy, for reasons which are discussed elsewhere,24 was generally satisfied with its situation in the many German states, and only the middle-class intellectuals experienced anomie that led them to clamor for a redefinition of their social situation and a new identity.25 The middle-class intellectuals, Bildungsbürger, were a creation of German universities. Many of them were recruited from lower classes, but, as a whole, the group was supposed to enjoy a status higher than that of the (uneducated) bourgeoisie. Education was a legitimate avenue of social advancement in a static society which generally did not recognize social mobility. This rendered Bildungsbürger marginal: they did not belong to any of the accepted social categories. The situation worsened in the late eighteenth century. Enlightenment, which was the dominant philosophy in many prominent German states (most notably Prussia), placed intellect at the top of the value hierarchy, boosted the self-esteem of the intellectuals, and encouraged their social aspirations. This led to the overproduction of intellectuals and the consequent decline of job opportunities for them.26 Caught in the state of trained unemployability and faced by the undiminished contempt of the upper classes, often very poor and always unhappy, intellectuals sought refuge in their imagination. For a long time, their fantasies had little to do with nationalism. In fact,cosmopolitanism ruled the day.Though it would have been in their interest to redefine the German states (or any one of them) as a nation – for this would make them equal to the most exalted aristocracy and secure the dignity they were denied in the society of orders – Bildungsbürger did not demand such a redefinition. This would be futile: nationalism was utterly out of tune with the mood of the ruling elite and such influential groups as the nobility and the bureaucracies, and so intellectuals, too, were not nationalist. It was the French invasion and, specifically, the defeat of Prussia that changed their attitude.27 The French invasion offered intellectuals an extraordinary opportunity to identify with the ruling elite (and thus at least symbolically to elevate their status), at the same time as it made the elite sympathetic to such efforts of fraternization. It was the ruling elite that the French attacked. Bildungsbürger presented the cause of the ruling elite as the “German”cause, and virtually overnight turned into German nationalists. The rulers, especially in Prussia, welcomed the efforts of native intellectuals, whom they previously did not deign to notice, and used nationalism as a tool to ward off the French

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76 Nationalism and the Mind menace. In a remarkably short time German society was redefined as a nation, becoming the object of political loyalty. As a result, the character of social solidarity was transformed. Obviously, as the idea of the “nation” was transferred from one society to another, the nature of nationalism changed. Contrary to widely held opinion, nationalism is not a uniform phenomenon. The original meaning of the “nation” – the definition of the people as sovereign and fundamentally homogeneous – was retained in every nationalism. Everywhere nationalism contributed toward the destruction of the society of orders. At the same time, the imported idea was everywhere modified in accordance with the local circumstances and reinterpreted in terms of indigenous traditions where they existed. The new society which emerged on the ruins of the old one, therefore, was everywhere different from others. Of course, the initial conditions – the specific forms of the society of orders differed too, yet, the differences between types of modern societies appear to be greater than those between principalities which constituted Western Christendom. The fundamental unit in the society of orders was the order, not the individual. Orders were units of unequal worth. They differed as species of life may differ. The higher orders showed as little consideration for the lower, as we do for chickens whom we eat. This was entirely logical. The lower classes existed to support the upper. Their own existence had no intrinsic value. Modern societies did away with such profound distinctions of value within their populations. An order is no longer the fundamental unit of mankind. It was replaced, however, by two entities rather than one: the individual and the nation. Society of orders everywhere was collectivistic (and for this reason authoritarian); the individual is a creation of modernity. Originally, a nation was a society of individuals, and that is why nationalism signified the advent of an entirely new form of social existence. In some modern societies, however, the innovation was never accepted. In them the nation was defined in unitary terms, with the result that the individual was repossessed by the collectivity, and the collectivity reinstated as the higher, the only significant being. However different societies of orders may have been, they all belonged to the same type of society. But there are two types of modern societies: different nationalisms engender different modernities. The distinction between them is fundamental, it is at least as important as the distinction

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Nationalism and Modernity 77 between the society of orders and modern society based on the principle of nationality. The initial definition of the nation in every particular case (whether it is defined in individualistic or in unitary terms) depends on the nature of the groups actively involved in the articulation of the new ideology, and the situations they face. The individualistic type of nationalism is likely to develop if during its formative period nationalism appeals to and serves the interests of wide sectors of the population (such as English squires and newly literate urban masses; American colonists; French bourgeoisie) and new, open, upwardly mobile influential groups. (Examples in this case are the sixteenth-century English aristocracy and squirearchy. German Bildungsbürgertum as a group was new, fairly open, and upwardly mobile, but before the intellectuals were incorporated into the traditional elite, they had no influence.) The collectivistic type is to be expected if originally the social basis of nationalism is limited and it is adopted by and serves the interests of a narrow traditional elite intent on preserving its status (such as the French or the Russian nobility) or a new group trying to attain status within the traditional social framework (German Bildungsbürgertum), which then transmits it to the masses by indoctrination. A significant change in the situation of the relevant participants may result in the change of the definition (the American South provides a striking example of this). But such changes are extremely rare.

NATIONALISM AND THE STATE

Different types of nationalism translate into different cultural and institutional patterns and correspond to different types of political structure and social organization. But there is one political institution, directly related to the principle of popular sovereignty, which all nations share. National government, the nature of which varies with the character of specific nationalisms, necessarily takes the form of the state. The state, it should be recognized, is a form, or type, of government, and it is this which makes possible its definition regardless of “the particular content of social action”28 with which it is associated in any particular case. In modern society, the state is ubiquitous and, for this reason, often identified with government or political community as such.29 We tend to project our experiences onto the past and see all

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78 Nationalism and the Mind governments and political communities as states, in the same way as we tend to ascribe to the people of the past national identities. Social reality is hardly conceivable for us without states and nations. Even Weber, who recognized the recency of the concept of “state,” and therefore defined it in accordance with the characteristics of modern governments, as a legal-rational institution, often used the term in reference to premodern structures of authority. But institutions for which we lack concepts do not exist, for the simple reason that conceptualization is the first necessary step in institutionalization. Weber’s usage of the term contradicts his sophisticated discussion of the “rational institution of the state,” which he defines as “an abstract bearer of sovereign prerogatives and the creator of legal norms.” The specificity of this institution, he insists, lies in that it does not possess the “personalistic character” traditional ethics attributed to power relations in the economic and political spheres, in that it was separated “from all personal authority of individuals.”30 Given this definition, a “patrimonial state,” for instance, is obviously a contradiction in terms, which one should attribute to a concession to the conventional language. The abstract, impersonal character is indeed what distinguishes the modern form of government – the state – from the various premodern forms. This impersonality is a quality of the ideal type; in reality it is a variable. In some cases (for example, those of Hitler, Stalin), the state is personalized in a certain individual statesman, but, conceptually, it remains primary even then, and in principle, it is only represented by individuals. “These conceptual distinctions [between the state and the personal authority of individuals],” Weber justly argues, “are necessarily remote from the nature of pre-bureaucratic, especially from patrimonial and feudal, structures of authority.”31 In the society of orders sovereignty was concentrated in particular individuals and lineages. Princes ruled as representatives of religious, and, in later periods, divine, authority and as owners of property. A polity (seigneurie) could be defined as the territory belonging to a prince (une terre seigneuriale) and his authority which animated it.32 Most territories were obviously populated, and the population was treated as a part of the princely patrimony (the estate of the prince). This was consistent with the premises of the society of orders, which subdivided humanity into separate species. The blood of some was blue, the blood of others – red; the blood of the French kings was believed to be translucent, and their authority was directly related to

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Nationalism and Modernity 79 that.33 The French royal lineage, indeed, constituted a special order – “état du roi”; it was this from which the French concept of “state” derived. “Orders” were also termed “estates” in other languages; “estate” was the early form of “state” in English and German as well as in French. The modern state – an abstract bearer of sovereignty and the creator of legal norms – emerged after and because of the development of the idea of the “nation” which redefined populations as uniform and diffused sovereignty within them. In England, the modern idea of the “state” (and therefore, the state itself ) appeared earlier than in other countries.“State” was one of a series of new concepts, which reflected the evolution of the national consciousness and also included “country,” “commonwealth,” “empire,” and “nation.”34 From early on in the sixteenth century, these four words became synonyms, acquiring the sense which, with slight alterations, they retained later, but which differed from their separate meanings before. They came to mean “the sovereign people of England.” The meaning of the word “people” was, of course, changed accordingly. The evidence of such changes in vocabulary can be found in the literature of the period, dictionaries, and parliamentary documents. It is abundant already in the 1530s and 1540s. The concept of “state,” however, develops later. In all the early dictionaries, for example,35 it has none of the political connotations with which it has been associated in the modern period and means either “status” (“the condition or state of one’s life or other thing,”),36 or “estate,”that is, property. The term does change its meaning toward the end of the century, when it becomes another near synonym for “nation,” but it does not have the same evocative power and is not employed with the same frequency as the other new concepts. The term “state” enters the Parliamentary discourse during the Elizabethan period. In most cases it is still but a form of “estate.” The 1559 Act of Supremacy, for example, speaks of “restoring to the Crown the ancient Jurisdiction over the State Ecclesiastical and Spiritual.” In the 1571 Treasons Act, the phrase “comfort of the whole state and subjects of the realm” appears, while in the 1585 Act for the Surety of the Queen’s Person, the same cliché has the word “estate”: “the good felicity and comfort of the whole estate of this realm.” In the Lay Subsidy Act of 1601, however, the meaning of the term is different. It occurs here in a preamble: “… we your majesty’s humble, faithful, and loving subjects … assembled … to consult … and provide for all such means as are or may be necessary to preserve both you and

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80 Nationalism and the Mind us from those apparent dangers wherein this State may fall …”37 Here the term is used to make a stand and is intentionally substituted for “kingdom” or “realm” which represent the polity as the personal property of the monarch. “State” here is a synonym of the “commonwealth,” it denotes a depersonalized polity in which her “majesty’s humble, faithful, and loving subjects” have as much share as she and therefore the same right of political decision. The Act, in general, was a reflection of Parliament’s growing power and selfconfidence; the use of the term “State” in its context was to show that Englishmen realized what their rights were and were going to stand by them. During the reign of King James, Parliament was asserting its right to an equal share in the government of the country with remarkable constancy and this assertion expressed itself in its insistence on the representative character of its position, and in the changed perception of the referent of its service. Even the king’s speeches in Parliament reflected these changes. In the 1621 Letter to the House of Commons, where James expressed his discontent with the House, he wrote, certainly believing that ruling England was the exclusive prerogative of kings: “none therein [House of Commons] shall presume henceforth to meddle with anything concerning our government or deep matters of the State.”38 In using this new and depersonalized concept of the polity James could not have wanted to emphasize that this was indeed a shared enterprise in which many parties had stakes, but the view that a country was simply the Crown’s property was already inconceivable. The documents of the Interregnum period in a way sealed the transformation of the past century and a half. The important Act Establishing the Commonwealth declared that “the people of England, and of all dominions and territories thereunto belonging, are and shall be, and are hereby constituted, made, established, and confirmed, to be a Commonwealth and Free State, and shall from henceforth be governed as a Commonwealth and Free State by the supreme authority of this nation, the representatives of the people in Parliament.”39 While “commonwealth” here subtly changed its meaning and denoted “a republican government,” it – and the “state” – were still equated with “the people of England.” A people was certainly not a form of government, and the terms could be equated only because they all implied a new form of polity – the nation.

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Nationalism and Modernity 81 The emergence of the “state” thus was a reflection of the growing nationalism. In its original modern meaning in English, the word was a synonym of the “nation,” of the “people as an elite,” of the “sovereign people.” To be governed as a state meant to be selfgoverned, or, as an approximation to this condition, to be governed by representatives of people’s sovereignty. A state form of government, by definition, was impersonal, based on popular mandate, rather than on the authority of individuals. Concepts of “state” in other countries developed differently and for this reason are not necessarily equivalent to the English concept of “state,” although, since in all cases they acquired their significance only in the framework of nationalism, they are invariably defined as an impersonal political organization based on popular mandate. In France, for example, the word “état” originally acquired its political meaning from association with the person of the king. It referred to the king’s personal authority, and as such was conceptually inseparable from his person. According to the doctrine of the Divine Right of Kings, within the framework of which this original political concept of the “state” developed, the king was sovereign in the strict sense of the word: his authority knew no bounds within his realm, besides God and the fundamental law, which in practice meant no bounds at all. It was the source of all law and had its own reasons, or needs, conceptualized in the seventeenth century as “reasons of state.”40 It was also obviously unitary and indivisible – an expression of one will. The loyalty to the king implied acceptance of his authority, or loyalty to his state. Cardinal Richelieu, the minister of Louis XIII and the chief architect of royal absolutism in France, who wished to increase the loyalty to the king, cultivated loyalty to the state. His efforts led to the articulation of the concept of “state,” and its abstraction from the person of the king and reification.41 As a result, paradoxically, the “state” emerged as an alternative object of loyalty. The meaning of the concept was further modified due to another development. The powers delegated to and exercised by the king’s officials during Richelieu’s ministry grew very extensive.42 Richelieu insisted that the officials represented the king’s authority, the “state,” and was staunchly supported in this by the king himself. Among other things, the term now referred to the government bureaucracy. This “state” was impersonal, yet, it retained all the characteristics of the personal royal authority: it was unified, possessed of a single will, and had the power to make and unmake laws. When the French elite

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82 Nationalism and the Mind converted to nationalism in the eighteenth century, the loyalty to the impersonal bureaucracy as the embodiment of the authority of the nation was perpetuated, as a result of which central government in France was able to retain many of the features and keep many of the powers it had during the ancient regime. The Russian term for “state” – gosudarstvo – is etymologically unrelated to the Latin “status” (the origin of the English and French “state,” among others, but which, as I mentioned earlier, semantically has nothing in common with the modern concept). Rather, it is the gerund from the noun “lord” – gosudar’. This “lording” was originally entirely personal and, as we know, in a large measure remained such until our day. The new concept of government in this case was a result of conscious imitation, and the transformation in its nature, in distinction to England and to a lesser but significant extent to France, was mainly symbolic. The concept of “state” in its modern spelling and meaning was introduced by Peter the Great, the country’s great modernizer and, one may say, first nationalist. Peter was and wanted to be an autocrat, and he cultivated in his subjects loyalty to a larger, impersonal entity beyond himself to secure commitment to his own ends. The manner in which the concept of the “state” developed and the way it was defined as a result of this development affected the nature of the state – that is governmental institutions – in every specific case. But whatever etymological and semantic resources it utilized, the inspiration for it, in the final analysis, came from nationalism, which is incommensurable with a personal government. The nationality principle, and the idea of a sovereign people, necessitates the concept of “state.” For this reason all governments of nations, or, in other words, all modern governments, share the presuppositions of impersonality and representative character of the rulers’ authority, even though they differ widely in the implementation of these presuppositions.

NATIONALISM AND SCIENCE

In distinction to the relationship between nationalism and the state, the one between nationalism and science is usually seen as only indirect.43 They are related, it is believed, via the more general process of secularization of culture. On the one hand, secularization requires nationalism as a substitute for religion;44 on the other, it makes science possible.

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Nationalism and Modernity 83 Such indirect relationship between nationalism and science could not exist for the simple reason that secularization was neither a condition nor a cause for either science or nationalism. Both, in fact, emerged during the period of great religious fervor the source of which was the Protestant Reformation. Nevertheless, science and nationalism are related, and they are related directly, nationalism being one of the central factors, perhaps the most important one, in the institutionalization of science.45 Not coincidentally science was first institutionalized in England. It performed an important function for English national identity and for this reason was given a place of honor in it. As a national value it was assured the massive social support it needed to become an established and self-sustaining activity. The reasons for the association between science and English nationalism were the following. The idea of the “nation” in England reflected the value of the faculty of reason, the possession of which made men fundamentally equal and entitled each and every one to liberty. This value was at the source of the core properties of English nationality – a critical mind, a preference for empirical knowledge,a distrust of dogmatism and enthusiasm.Science epitomized these qualities,and Englishmen of the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries stressed the affinity between it and the genius of the English nation.46 Since Bacon, science had been considered the sign of the superiority of the moderns over the ancients and a reflection of a nation’s greatness.47 In the battle between the ancients and the moderns, the English identified themselves with the moderns,48 because they could not compete with the chief cultural rivals of England – France and Italy – in classical learning, while in science, a yet undeveloped arena, they could do so quite effectively. As early as 1600, scientific achievements were put forward as the most glorious expressions of English nationality.49 Science was constantly evoked to demonstrate English cultural superiority.50 For the English, pursuit of science was a matter of national prestige. Later in the seventeenth century, at least in part because of the increasingly clear ascendancy of England, it was recognized as such by others as well. Foreigners were quick to pay attention to the superiority of English science and to connect it to the greatness of the nation. The spokesmen of the Royal Society in England constantly reminded the public of the contribution science made to England’s prestige and used this to secure continuous support for scientific activity and its central organization.

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84 Nationalism and the Mind Through its association with the national sentiment, science itself dramatically rose in prestige, attracting ambitious and able men who in different circumstances would spend their energies elsewhere. This state of social approbation was the essential condition for its institutionalization. Because it was associated with English nationalism, the very foundation of modern society and since the eighteenth century the focus of the new nations’ imitation and resentment, science also became an object of powerful emotions in other countries. It was endowed with almost magical, creative as well as destructive powers and accepted as one of the central elements of modernity across the world. It is important to recognize that this happened long before science could in any measure justify such views. The ideologies of scientism and anti-scientism, which attribute to science the ability to mould our lives, predate this ability by many decades, and may be among the factors that caused its development. Certain nationalisms, constructed on the basis of the transvaluation of the values of original, English, nationalism, are inherently anti-scientistic: concepts of national character in them are as closely associated with anti-scientism, as English nationality is with science. Anti-scientism, for example, lies at the core of Romanticism which has informed such nationalisms as German (at least until 1945) and Russian. Nations with profoundly antiscientistic ideologies, however, were often able to develop very successful scientific institutions and achieve great prominence in the practice of science. Initial institutionalization of science requires a very specific social context, favorable to the scientific ethos. But institutionalized science is a relatively self-contained activity, existing within a larger society as if in an enclosed capsule. A society can import scientific practice without at the same time importing values which made its development possible in the first place. The attitude to science in societies uncongenial to its values is always ambivalent and scientific communities are never immune from attack.51 The attacks on science, as a rule, coincide with crises of national identity and are a means of its reaffirmation. They may be widely separated in time and during the periods between them science, appreciated for the material benefits it carries in its train and as a basis for national prestige, enjoys both the relative freedom and the support necessary for its existence.

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Nationalism and Modernity 85 NATIONALISM AND CAPITALISM

Economic activity is similar to science in the degree of its independence from the wider social context. Similar economic systems exist in widely differing political and cultural environments. Like science, they may need certain social conditions to emerge, but then acquire their own momentum and develop successfully in other circumstances. Marx to the contrary, there is no one-to-one correspondence between systems of production and ownership, and systems of social and political relations. Still, nationalism, while it did not determine the nature of the modern economic system, has undoubtedly contributed to the development of its chief component: industrialization. Its influence was indirect. In England, the birthplace of industrialization as well as nationalism, nationalism changed the criteria of human dignity and thus combined with Protestantism52 in making economic activity respectable. It became attractive to able individuals who would otherwise use their abilities elsewhere. Economic exploits were also interpreted as service to the nation. The growth of the English economy in the century and a half preceding the onset of the industrial revolution would be impossible without the respect enjoyed by the merchant classes, which, with a few exceptions such as Holland, was unknown at the time to merchants anywhere else. In England as elsewhere, nationalism redefined social stratification and justified occupational mobility, which was another indispensable condition for rapid economic growth. Through its encouragement of science it was also partly responsible for adding to the process its essential technological dimension. The impact of nationalism in the economic sphere is felt most where economic issues are interwoven with political and ideological ones. Attitudes to capitalism, for example, are directly related to the development of nationalism. Today “capitalism” is a loose term referring to a politico-economic system which allows certain (never absolute) freedom to the play of the market forces in the economy. It coexists with the most disparate social systems, but is nevertheless believed to be inherently associated with liberal democracy. It is this alleged association that lies at the root of the economic ideological politics characteristic of this century, which expressed itself in the struggle against “capitalism” around the globe, and always implied rejection of the Western liberal democratic societies.

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86 Nationalism and the Mind The myth of capitalism as a moral force, which found its most influential expression in the writings of Karl Marx, was the invention of the French aristocratic and intellectual elite during the formative period of the French national identity. Its source was the aristocratic contempt for the men of money fanned into a rage by the onslaught of commoners who bought their way into nobility, diluting its ranks and undermining its status. In the aristocratic circles of preRevolutionary France, gens de finance were pariahs, seen as the incarnation of everything that was evil and impure. Money became the focus of the irritation of the nobility, the symbol of the ignoble. It was on money, paradoxically, that the rich elite concentrated its wounded pride and vented its fears and frustrations. The aristocratic contempt for vulgar riches capitalized on the longstanding hostility toward tax-collectors among the people, which elite intellectuals articulated and fueled. In popular literature, financiers were called “blood-suckers fattening themselves off the substance of the people,” and represented as ruthless, unscrupulous, greedy and, above all, plebeian, characters. By the time of the Revolution, taxfarmers were commonly known as “these public blood-suckers” and considered enemies of the people, from whom they were “stealing.”53 By the end of the eighteenth century, such revolting characters were called “capitalists.” It is possible that the term “capitalist” originated in the Netherlands.54 It was first used in French around 1770, in a neutral sense of a person with a capital to invest,55 but entered the discourse somewhat later, through the work of Louis-Sebastien Mercier. In his Tableau de Paris, the term appeared several times and acquired a highly charged, derogatory meaning. In 1804, a dictionary, L’Improvisateur français, credited Mercier with inventing the word and relied on his text for a definition. “Capitaliste,” it stated, is a “word known only in Paris, and it describes a monster of wealth who has none but monetary affections.”56 Most vehement detractors of capitalism came from among the intellectuals, both those who became members of the aristocracy and those who felt entitled to be considered its members. Rousseau wrote in the Social Contract: “The word finance is a slavish word … I hold enforced labor to be less opposed to liberty.”57 In the Government of Poland he explicitly identified money with social degeneracy and implored: “Poles, do this for me: let the others have all the money in the world … Systems of finance produce venal hearts.”58 (It would appear that – for a while, at least – they took his advice.)

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Nationalism and Modernity 87 Money and money-making, the preoccupations of the traditionally despised in France bourgeoisie, were defined as un-French. This became particularly clear when the complex of traits denoted by the word “capitalist” was identified with England. Resentment, or to be precise, ressentiment59 against England characterized the final phase in the formation of French nationalism. This psychological condition accompanied the development of nationalism in many cases. Every country importing the foreign idea of the nation necessarily focused on the source of importation and reacted to it. The model was by definition superior to the imitator in the latter’s own perception. The reaction assumed the form of ressentiment, if the contact itself served to emphasize the latter’s inferiority. Ressentiment inspired a transvaluation of the imported values, which in most cases resulted in the selection out of the indigenous tradition and deliberate cultivation of elements hostile to them. French nationalism was the first one in the formation of which ressentiment played an important (though not definitive) role; it was, in effect, the first anti-Western nationalism. In the course of the eighteenth century, England had replaced France as the greatest power in Europe. In an effort to assuage the sense of inferiority this development aroused in the already nationalist French elite, its representatives tried to explain England’s success away,as one not worth having, and represent England as an anti-model for France. In a wave of Anglophobia that swept educated France in the last third of the eighteenth century,60 England was defined as an impostor, as a society which only posed to be a free nation, but which bartered its freedom away for economic power. It was dominated by commercial interests, greed was the consuming emotion of its people: “moved by the desire to augment their riches and extend their empire [the English consulted] nothing but their avarice.”61 France, in contrast, desired liberty and glory, rather than riches. The aristocratic contempt for nouveaux riches fused with resentment toward England, and the latter was rejected as a capitalist nation. As often happens in the process of identity formation, in England the derogatory characterization “capitalist” was eventually appropriated and reinterpreted as a positive identification. Its mythical capitalism, which in the eyes of the French set it apart from the rest of humanity, became for Englishmen a matter of pride. (In terms of their economic practices, it should be noted, the difference between the two nations at that and other times was mainly quantitative.) Capitalism and anti-capitalism, like scientism and anti-scientism, thus became

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88 Nationalism and the Mind national characteristics. The emotions this pair (even more than the other one) arouses have to do more with the symbolic, than the economic, significance of the terms. Professed devotion to “capitalism” does not necessarily eliminate the possibility of the imposition of restraints on the forces of the market, and anti-capitalist attitudes more often affect the representation rather than the nature of business activity and thus may very well coexist with most successful “capitalist” economies. The character of every modern society is defined to a very significant extent by the specific character of its nationalism. At the same time, the very fact of adopting national identity and defining the polity as a nation determines certain fundamental qualities and thereby ensures profound similarity between societies thus defined: nationalism makes a society modern. To claim that one nation – say, an economically successful, liberal democratic one – is more modern than another (economically unsuccessful and a dictatorship) is as little justified as to insist that a university professor, for instance, is more human than an illiterate farmer or a newborn infant. Modernity – like humanity – is a qualitative, not a quantitative concept; it denotes a species of social being, heterogeneous as most species are, and radically different from others. Since sociology is a modern discipline, our vision of social reality as such is shaped by our modern experience and we are impaired in our ability to appreciate the uniqueness of modernity. To understand it, however, we must put it in comparative perspective. And if this is not possible within the confines of our profession, we may need to step outside it. Originally published in Social Research, 63:1 (Spring 1996)

NOTES 1. Peter L. Berger, Brigitte Berger, and Hansfried Kellner, The Homeless Mind (New York: Random House, 1973), Robert A. Nisbet, The Sociological Tradition (New York: Basic Books, 1966). 2. C. E. Black, The Dynamics of Modernization A Study in Comparative History (New York: Harper & Row, 1966). 3. S. N. Eisenstadt, “Macro-Societal Analysis – Background, Development and Indications,” in Macro-Sociological Theory: Perspectives on Sociological Theory, Volume 1, ed. S. N. Eisenstadt and H. J. Helle (London: Sage, 1985), pp. 7–24.

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Nationalism and Modernity 89 4. Karl Marx, “Communist Manifesto” (1848) 1972, pp. 331–362; (1859) “Preface to A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy,” in The Marx-Engels Reader, ed. Robert C. Tucker (New York: W. W. Norton), pp. 3–6; ibid. (1863) Das Capital. 5. Ferdinand Toennies (1887), Community and Society, trans. Charles Loomis (New York: Harper & Row, 1963). 6. Emile Durkheim (1893), The Division of Labor in Society, trans. George Simpson (Glencoe, Ill: Free Press, 1964). 7. Eisentstadt, Macro-Sociological Theory, op. cit. 8. Alex Inkeles, Exploring Individual Modernity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983). 9. Immanuel Wallerstein, The Modern World System (New York: Academic Press, 1974). 10. Reinhard Bendix, Kings or People: Power and the Mandate to Rule (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978). 11. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso Editions 1983, second edition 1991); Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford: Basil Blackwell 1983); Michael Hechter, Internal Colonialism: The Celtic Fringe in British National Development, 1536–1966 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975); Eric Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990); Tom Nairn, The Break-up of Britain: Crisis and Neo-Nationalism (London: New Left Books, 1977); Anthony D. Smith, The Ethnic Origins of Nations (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1986), and Nations and Nationalisms in the Global Era (1995); Edward A. Tiryakian and Ronald Rogwoski, New Nationalisms of the Developed West (Boston: Allen and Unwin, 1985). 12. Karl Deutsch, Nationalism and Social Communication: an Inquiry into the Foundations of Nationality (New York: Wiley, 1953). 13. There are exceptions to this view, however. E. A. Tiryakian sees nationalism as an essential element of modernity which “may be taken as much as an active as well as a reactive element that is at the core of succeeding phases of modernization” (E. A. Tiryakian, “Nationalism and Modernity,” in Edward A. Tiryakian and Ronald Rogwoski, New Nationalisms of the Developed West, op. cit., p. 59. 14. See the summary of the argument in Liah Greenfeld, “The Emergence of Nationalism in England and France,” Research in Political Sociology, 5, pp. 333–370 (1991). 15. The ideas below were originally formulated in Liah Greenfeld, Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992) (specifically, in the “Introduction” and the “Afterword”), which should be consulted for the theoretical framework and empirical basis of the following argument, as well as for the detailed analyses of the specific cases used as examples. I have also discussed these cases and certain, relevant in the present context, aspects of the phenomenon of nationalism in “The Formation of the Russian National Identity: The Role of Status Insecurity and Ressentiment,” Comparative Studies in Society and History, 32:3 July 1990, pp. 549–591; “Transcending the Nation’s Worth,” Daedalus, 122:3, Summer 1993, pp. 47–62; and the already cited “The Emergence of Nationalism in England and France.” 16. Greenfeld, Nationalism, op. cit.

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90 Nationalism and the Mind 17. Guido Zernatto, “Nation: The History of a Word,” Review of Politics 6, 1944, pp. 351–366. Only select sources are cited in this paper. For a complete list of sources in regard to the cases discussed see Greenfeld, Nationalism, op. cit. 18. In this regard see Peter Berger’s sensitive discussion of honor vs dignity in The Homeless Mind. 19. Guy Chaussinand-Nogaret, The French Nobility in the Eighteenth Century: From Feudalism to Enlightenment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Franklin L. Ford, Robe and Sword: The Regrouping of the French Aristocracy after Louis XIV (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1953); Maurice Reinhard, “Elite et noblesse dans la seconde moitie du XVIII siecle,” Revue d’Histoire moderne et contemporaine, 3, (1956). 20. Alphonse Aulard, Le Patriotisme Française de la Renaissance à la Revolution (Paris: Etienne Chiron, 1921); Beatrice Hyslop, French Nationalism in 1779 According to the General Cahiers (New York: Columbia University Press, 1934); Hans Kohn, Prelude to Nation-States: French and German Experience, 1979–1815 (Princeton, NJ: Van Nostrand, 1967); Robert R. Palmer, “The National Idea in France Before the Revolution,” Journal of the History of Ideas, 1, 1940, pp. 95–111. 21. Saint-Simon, Memoirs, trans. B. St. John (Akron, Ohio: St. Dunstan Society, 1901), V.2. 22. For a similar recent view of the French Revolution see Simon Schama, Citizens: A Chronicle of the French Revolution (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1989). 23. M. Beloff (1953), “Russia,” in The European Nobility in the Eighteenth Century, ed. A. Goodwin (London: A. & C. Black, 1953), pp. 172–181; J. Blum (1977), “Russia,” in European Nobility in the 19th Century, ed. D. Spring (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977), pp. 68–97; Brenda Meehan-Waters, Autocracy and Aristocracy: The Russian Service Elite of 1730 (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1982). 24. A. Goodwin, “Prussia,” in The European Nobility in the Eighteenth Century, ed. A. Goodwin (London: A. & C. Black, 1953), pp. 88–93. 25. W. H. Bruford, Germany in the Eighteenth Century: The Social Background of the Literary Revival (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1935). 26. Henri Brunschwig, Enlightenment and Romanticism in Eighteenth-Century Prussia (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1974). 27. G. P. Gooch, Germany and the French Revolution (New York: Russell and Russell, 1966). 28. Max Weber, “Political Communities,” in Economy and Society, eds., Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), p. 901. 29. Perry Anderson, Lineages of the Absolutist State (London: Verso, 1974); Bendix, op. cit.; Peter Evans, et al., Bringing the State Back In (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Gellner, op. cit.; Michael Mann, States, War and Capitalism (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1988); Charles Tilly, Coercion, Capital, and European States (Cambridge, MA: Basil Blackwell, 1990). 30. Weber, op. cit. “Religious Groups (The Sociology of Religion),” p. 600; “Bureaucracy,” p. 998. 31. Weber, op. cit. p. 998. 32. Loyseau, Traite des Seigneuries (Paris, 1608). 33. Collette Beaune, Naissance de la Nation France (Paris: Gallimard, 1985).

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Nationalism and Modernity 91 34. Geoffrey R. Elton, England Under the Tudors (London: Methuen, 1955); Perez Zagorin, The Court and the Country: The Beginning of the English Revolution (New York: Antheneum, 1971). 35. Thomas Cooper (1565), Thesaurus Linguae Romanae & Britannicae (Menston, England: The Scholar Press, facsimile reprint, 1969); Thomas Elyot (1538), Latin-English Dictionary (reprinted Menston, England: The Scholar Press, 1970); John Ryder (1589), Bibliotheca Scholastica. 36. Cooper, op. cit. 37. Statutes of the Realm, printed by Command of His Majesty King George III in pursuance of an address of the House of Commons of Great Britain, London, 1810–1821 (reprinted 1963, Dawsons, London). Vol. IV, 1 Eliz., cap I, p. 350; 13 Eliz., cap I, p. 526; 27 Eliz., cap I, p. 704; 43 Eliz., cap. XVIII, p. 991. 38. J. Rushworth (1659), Historical Collections (London: T. Newcomb for G. Thomason), Vol. I, p. 660. 39. S. R. Gardiner, The Constitutional Documents of the Puritan Revolution, 1625–1660. 3rd ed. (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1906). 40. William F. Church (1941), Constitutional Thought in 16th Century France: A Study in the Evolution of Ideas (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1941); Church, W. F. Richelieu and Reason of State (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1972); John Neville Figgis (1896), The Divine Right of Kings (New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1965). 41. Church, op. cit., 1972. 42. Orest A. Ranum, Richelieu and the Councillors of Louis XIII (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963). 43. A minority of students of modernization, notably C. E. Black, The Dynamics of Modernization: A Study in Comparative History (New York: Harper and Row, 1966), consider the “scientific revolution,” or the revolution in knowledge, as the foundation of modernity. 44. Benedict Anderson, op. cit. 45. A detailed treatment of this argument is contained in Greenfeld (1987), “Science and National Greatness in Seventeenth-Century England,” Minerva, XXV, 1–2, pp. 107–122, where I attempted to supplement the famous Merton thesis (1938, “Science, Technology and Society in 17th Century England,” New Jersey: Humanities Press, 1970) which emphasized the role of Protestantism in the rise of science. 46. The most articulate expression of this attitude is Thomas Sprat, History of the Royal Society (London, 1667). 47. Francis Bacon (1620), “Novum Organum,” in The Works of Francis Bacon, XIV (London: William Pickering, 1831). 48. Richard F. Jones, Ancients and Moderns: A Study of the Rise of the Scientific Movement in England (New York: Dover, 1982). 49. William Gilbert (1600), De Magnete, trans. P. Fleury Mottelay (New York: Dover, 1958). 50. A. Rupert Hall and Marie Boas Hall, eds., The Correspondence of Henry Oldenburg, Vols. I–IX (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press 1966–1973); H. W. Turnbull ed., Correspondence of Isaac Newton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1955–77). 51. Paul Forman, “Weimar Culture, Causality and Quantum Theory, 1918–1927,” Historical Studies in Physical Sciences, 3, pp. 1–116 (1971); David Joravsky, Soviet

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52.

53. 54.

55.

56. 57. 58. 59.

60.

61.

Marxism and Natural Science 1917–1932 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1961); Robert K. Merton, “Science and the Social Order,” in his The Sociology of Science: Theoretical and Empirical Investigations (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973), pp. 254–266. Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans. Talcott Parsons (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1958). Weber’s thesis has been widely debated, and it appears probable that nationalism played a greater role in the institutionalization of capitalism than did Protestantism, that it was nationalism indeed that played the role which Weber attributed to Protestantism. Some ideas regarding the connection between nationalism and economics are articulated in Liah Greenfeld, “The Worth of Nations: Some Economic Implications of Nationalism,” Critical Review, Fall 1995, pp. 555–584. Simon Schama, Citizens: A Chronicle of the French Revolution (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1989). According to Marjolein C. ’t Hart (The Making of a Bourgeois State: War, Politics and Finance during the Dutch Revolt, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1993, pp. 122–123), in Dutch, “capitalist” at first denoted a taxpayer category: “those owning more than 2,000 guilders were called ‘capitalists’ (from 1621), and those owning 1,000 to 2,000 guilders were the so-called ‘half-capitalists’ (from 1625) … The word ‘capitalist,’ here used in its earliest meaning, clearly designated someone owning property.” Guillaume Thomas François Raynal, l’abbé, Histoire Philosophique et Politique des Établissements et du Commerce des Européens dans les deux Indes, v.6 (La Haye, 1776, written in 1770), p. 80. L’Improvisateur français, par S … de l’Oise (Paris: chez Goujon fils, an xii (1804)), Vol. III–IV, pp. 45–46. Jean Jacques Rousseau, “Social Contract,” in The Social Contract and Discourses, trans. G. D. H. Cole (London: Everyman’s Library, 1952). Rousseau, Government of Poland, trans. W. Kendall (Indianapolis and New York: The Bobbs-Merrill Co., 1972). Friedrich Nietzsche (1887), “Genealogy of Morals,” in The Philosophy of Nietzsche (New York: The Modern Library, 1927), pp. 617–809; Max Scheler (1912), Ressentiment (Glencoe, Il: The Free Press, 1961); and, in relation to nationalism, Greenfeld, 1992, op. cit. Frances Acomb, Anglophobia in France, 1763–1789: An Essay on the History of Constitutionalism and Nationalism (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1950); Schama, op. cit. Mably (1794–95), “De l’étude de l’Histoire” in Collection complète des oeuvres de l’Abbé de Mably, v. XII (Paris: Desbrière, L’an III de la République (1794–95)).

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5 THE MODERN RELIGION?

ABSTRACT Nationalism is an essentially secular form of consciousness, one that, indeed, sacralizes the secular. This renders the temptation to treat it as a religion problematic. The framework of individual and collective identities in modern societies, nationalism both obscures the importance of transcendental concerns that lie at the core of great religions and undermines their authority. Though instrumental in the development of nationalism, religion now exists on its sufferance and serves mainly as a tool for the promotion of nationalist ends, not vice versa.

To say that nationalism is the modern religion has become a cliché.1 The intention behind the image is, no doubt, a better understanding of nationalism, but it may be as much a source of a further confusion as of enlightenment in regard to this phenomenon, which is baffling enough as it is. Even a vague understanding of religion as “the bond that binds the soul of man to God”2 should preclude the use of the concept as a description of nationalism.And any heuristic value of analogies between nationalism and religion depends on the formulation of a precise definition of religion, which those most attracted to analogical reasoning are, as a rule, least qualified to attempt. When we liken nationalism to a religion, more often than not we specifically wish to point out some important similarities between it and Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, all of which presuppose a belief in a creative intelligence – and source of meaning – behind the universe. Nationalism, emphatically, lacks this transcendental orientation, however. It is focused on this world, perceiving it as

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94 Nationalism and the Mind autonomous and ultimately meaningful in its own right. In this sense, it is essentially secular and is more usefully conceptualized as a species of political ideology (with “political” understood to encompass the multiple and heterogeneous facets of human association). It is also misleading to use the metaphor of nationalism as a religion. Neither religion, nor nationalism, is uniform. Rather, nationalism should be compared to a type of religion, such as monotheism, representing as it does a set of fundamental principles that can be realized in a variety of dissimilar and often incompatible doctrinal systems. Within monotheism one finds particular religions as different as Christianity and Islam; similarly, one finds within nationalism different specific nationalisms, such as the American variety, which is individualistic and civic, and the Russian variant, which is collectivistic and ethnic.

THE HUMAN CONDITION, RELIGION, AND SOCIETY

At the same time, nationalism shares with transcendental religions certain central qualities that make it their functional equivalent. Both essentially secular nationalism and the transcendental religions are ways to interpret – that is, invest with meaning – otherwise meaningless reality, providing prisms through which it is to be perceived and seen as ordered. Both nationalism and religion are order-creating cultural systems. Though the images of social order they imply are different and are created in different ways, they belong to the same general category of sociological phenomena.3 Like great religions before it, nationalism today forms the framework of the type of identity characteristic of the age; indeed, it has replaced religion as the basis of individual and collective identity in the modern world. No human group of any duration and no human being, unless severely disabled or as yet undeveloped mentally (as in early infancy), exists without an identity; having an identity appears to be a psychological imperative and thus a sociological constant. But if the development of some identity is inevitable, the emergence and ascendancy of a particular kind of identity – for example, of a national versus a religious identity – is always, at root, a matter of historical contingency. There is nothing in human nature, and therefore in society in general, which makes any specific identity necessary.

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The Modern Religion? 95 An identity defines a person’s – and a group’s – position in the social world; it carries the set of expectations that its bearer, whether an individual or a collectivity, can legitimately have, orienting the actions of the bearer by defining what can be legitimately expected of the latter. The least specialized type of identity, the one believed to define the bearer’s very essence, shapes behavior in a wide variety of social contexts and reflects, by containing in microcosm, the image of social order or the social consciousness 4 of the given society. In the modern world, national identity, much more than any other, has been such a generalized identity. Its framework, nationalism, thus has been also the framework of the modern social consciousness. It was religion, by contrast, that formed the framework of social consciousness in the premodern world; nationalism has replaced religion as the main cultural mechanism of social integration. But though on this (sociologically crucial) level religion and nationalism are functionally equivalent, they differ in virtually all other important respects and inattention to these differences obscures the nature of nationalism. For example, since the transcendental religions to which nationalism is sometimes compared held out the promise of eternal life, it is maintained that nationalism, for all its this-worldly orientation, must proffer similar guarantees; otherwise, why would people die for their nations? This common belief (explicitly formulated in the scholarly literature by Benedict Anderson5) is based on a peculiarly modern assumption, with the help of which today’s social scientists – every bit the children of their secular, national age – try to make sense of the religious civilization of the past, which is fundamentally alien to them. This is the assumption that religion, at its root, is an attempt to cope with death: “The great merit of traditional world-views,” Anderson writes, “has been their concern with man-in-the-cosmos, man as species being, and the contingency of life. The extraordinary survival over thousands of years of Buddhism, Christianity or Islam in dozens of different social formations attests to their imaginative response to the overwhelming burden of human suffering – disease, mutilation, grief, age, and death … At the same time, in different ways, religious thought also responds to obscure intimations of immortality, generally by transforming fatality into continuity.”6 In other words, religion promises endless existence and helps men to adjust to the inescapable discomforts of physical decomposition. Apart from the brief shining moments of composition, physical decomposition is indeed the way of our bodily life. But reducing

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96 Nationalism and the Mind human suffering to our bodily experiences is naive. Most of the experiences that drive people to distraction – making them curse the day they were born and wish they were dead, or turning them into suicides, murderers, or revolutionaries – has to do with people’s relations with others. The nature of most suffering is social, not physical; it is caused by rejection, humiliation, betrayal, shame, and social disorientation – that is the proverbial anomie – not by aging or mortality. If people’s actions are any indication of their obsessions, they are, on the whole, far more preoccupied with injustice than with death. It is the ability of religions (and nationalisms) to justify otherwise distressing social arrangements, to create a sense of a just social order, and to make social suffering sufferable,7 that explains their endurance over time. The promise of immortality in great transcendental religions is an implication of their very transcendentalism: the world they envision is larger than this world, and their view of life, by definition, transcends the boundaries of physical existence. Explaining this promise as an answer to a universal need is, therefore, superfluous. For all we know, this promise, at least in Christianity, might well make believers dread death more rather than less, for beyond it rage the fires of hell. Eternal damnation, for which most of us would feel more eligible than for its alternative, is surely at least as grim a prospect as natural annihilation, and the more squeamish may well find the latter preferable and count it a blessing. The particular anguish of early Protestants may be beyond the powers of the modern mind to imagine; still, the idea of predestination makes one shudder. It could be in part because religion of this sort made the thought of death absolutely unbearable that Protestant societies were the first to dim their religious enthusiasms and opt for visions of reality limited to the confines of this world, which presupposed the finitude of life.8 Nationalism’s secular focus, which makes it unlike religion, paradoxically explains why the effects it produces on human psyche and behavior are often so similar. The perception of the mundane as meaningful in its own right implies its sacralization. With nationalism, the heavens, so to speak, descend to earth; this world, the world of empirical reality and social relations, becomes the sphere of the sacred. Unlike the need for immortality, the need for meaning is universal; proximity to the perceived sources of ultimate meaning takes our breath away. Nationalism provides countless opportunities for such perception in the routines of quotidian activity, business,

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The Modern Religion? 97 parenting, and neighborly association, which to the religious mentality are the very strongholds of the profane. It was this uniquely modern sacralization of the secular through the experience of national identity that moved Durkheim to declare that God is society9 and that Shils referred to when he spoke of the penetration of the center into the periphery.10 The perception of this world as ultimately meaningful – its investment with the creative powers and authority that the great religions were willing to recognize only in the mysterious beyond – makes our everyday existence, contrary to the Romantic deprecation of modernity as soulless and materialistic, far more intensely spiritual than that of any of the prenational social formations. Within the framework of nationalism, society is saturated with spirituality; it is no longer dead matter, a physical addendum to the soul or a temporary shell for it, subject to rot and decomposition; it is the soul itself. If religion were identical with spirituality, then nationalism would truly be the modern religion and more of a religion, at that, than any we have known before. It is no coincidence that the age of nationalism is also the age of science. The nationalist enchantment of the world is reflected in the apotheosis of the means of knowing the world. Science is expected to penetrate the world’s mysteries, harness its powers, and uncover its meaning. It is forced to take the place of theology. But society is God (pace Durkheim) only if we make it so; the meaning of the world is not simply there to be uncovered.

NATIONALISM, CHURCH, AND STATE

The investment of the political sphere, specifically, with the significance of the sacred creates the characteristic modern problem that, in the Christian context – the original context of nationalism – was conceptualized as the relationship between Church and State. This relationship is problematic because it is conceived of – from the time it was conceived of at all – as a conflict between two autonomous realms of the sacred that are irreconcilable in principle. The Church–State problem reflects the temporary coexistence of the two incommensurable images of order, each claiming absolute truth – a product of the birth of nationalism. The conflict has been resolved, partly, through agreements of mutual non-interference and the confinement of

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98 Nationalism and the Mind religion and nationalism to separate spheres, but more generally through the eventually indisputable ascendancy of the secular domain. Both this “solution” and the problem itself are inconceivable in any prenational society. Even civilizations that resemble modern nations in some important respects – such as ancient Israel on the one hand and, on the other, classical antiquity with its veneration of the polis and profound sense of civic duty, from which we learned the meaning of patriotism11 – could not imagine the political as independent from, much less superior to religion. The political realm was a part of a larger world and derived its meaning from a wider context. The world in which the ancient Israelites, Greeks, and Romans lived embodied a higher reality that transcended it. It was ruled by agents of a different order, and though, in the latter cases, gods dwelt in the polis – the only place where mortal men could be in their proximity and thus lead a meaningful existence – the sacred did not emanate from the mundane.12 Classical antiquity, the cradle of our political philosophy, lacked the concept of the “state”; it had no use for it. Neither did medieval Christianity. The Kingdom of the Lord was not of this world, and this made kingdoms of this world (even as they grew increasingly assertive vis-à-vis the authority of the popes, and resentful of the privileged position the papacy arrogated to itself in the cosmic order) pale in comparison with the shining transcendental ideal to the realization of which they each at various times claimed to be called and especially dedicated. The “ruling bodies” had their place in the providential scheme, for they were “from God” (Romans 13:1–4). But the spirit that animated them was the spirit of transcendental faith; their legitimacy was derived from unearthly sources; and the Christian communities for whose “own good,”in Paul’s words, they were established were churches in the sense that they were constituted by that special bond that bound the soul of each of its members to their Savior. In cases where a polity (rather than a family, an estate, a locality) developed a clear sense of identity, as happened in France – the most striking example of such development – this identity reflected consciousness of its distinct religious profession, to which all the other unique characteristics that the polity in question might have (peculiarities of language, climate, or social structure) were, without doubt, considered secondary. Religious identity was paramount in the Middle Ages, defining each believer’s place in a transcendental order vastly superior – in its expanse as well as significance – to the

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The Modern Religion? 99 vale of tears where one was tested, the sad little antechamber to the real and eternal life. For this reason, unless set off from the rest of respublica Christiana by the virtues of their religious vocation, the territorial units of that great body failed to develop a sufficient sense of separate political identity. Their denizens were, above all else, Christians, and their consciousness of community with other Christians transcended such differences of language and feudal loyalty as might split Christendom and pit one part of it against the rest. (The martyrdom of Sir Thomas More furnishes an eloquent, and very late, example of this profoundly religious consciousness.) Feudal, dynastic conflicts were settled like family disputes, the violence used in their settlement throwing little doubt on the bond that united the opponents. Only when cast in religious terms, and therefore experienced as religious wars, did conflicts lead to the perception of the opponents as eternal enemies and thus become, in effect, irreconcilable. Such was the Hundred Years’ War, which pitted against each other the two branches of one particularly powerful feudal family, the French branch perceiving their English cousins as the agents of the Antichrist and themselves as the representatives of God.13 The problem of Church and State did not exist in the Middle Ages because the State did not exist. The temporal powers of these earlier times were not states in the modern understanding of the word. The concept of the “state” in this sense, the concept which lies at the foundation of the reality of the modern state, developed late, following the emergence of national consciousness which called it forth by implying the existence of the independent secular political sphere. The subsequent rise of the State vis-à-vis the Church, which found early expression in the novel interpretation of the concept of “empire” and its application, in particular, to France and England, reflected the increasing preeminence of this sphere. Somewhat later, already in the dramatically altered conditions of post-Reformation Europe, this preeminence of the secular was recognized in the well-known formulation of the Peace of Westphalia.

THE DEMOTION OF RELIGION

The damage to the unity of the Western Church caused by the Reformation was irreparable, and the forced toleration of contradictory notions about the matter of supreme importance inevitably

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100 Nationalism and the Mind diminished religion. Thus secularization must be traced back to that last heroic burst of religious energy in the history of Christianity. At the same time, this momentous trend, which was to reduce the central issue of man’s eternal salvation to the relatively inconsequential and marginal sphere of lifestyle, did not result solely or even chiefly from inner religious developments and schisms. Its independent sources were the same ones that nourished nascent nationalism, and nationalism itself eventually emerged as the most important factor in its growth. The functional equivalence of nationalism and religion has led many observers to infer that nationalism was called into being by the prior disappearance of the religious spirit. Secularization, it is claimed, left certain essential human needs unfulfilled and made nationalism – the substitute religion – necessary.14 (The assumption of the death-defying capacities and preoccupations of nationalism is but an elaboration of this common theme.) Such inference, however, is erroneous. The fact that nationalism replaced religion as the ordercreating system, substituting the social and political relations between men for the bond between man and God as that which gives meaning to life, implies nothing at all about the historical connection between them and lends no justification to the kind of sociological teleology that is the essence of such reasoning. The varied and complex history of the relationship between nationalism and religion cannot be narrowed to a linear sequence. Though a product of independent developments, nationalism emerged in a world seething with religious enthusiasms. The coincidence of its birth in England, where it first appeared, with the separation of the English Church from Rome assured the new arrival support from English Protestantism, which not only protected nationalism from suspicion when its own authority was yet uncertain, but also reinforced some of its more radical claims.15 The twin core principles of nationalism were (and remain) popular sovereignty and the fundamental equality of those defined as members of the nation. The definition of England as an empire, which rendered the separation from Rome legitimate and all attempts at interference on the latter’s part insufferable, carved out a sphere of operation for the principle of popular sovereignty and perforce strengthened it. Meanwhile, the Protestant maxim of the priesthood of all believers, which under the circumstances had special significance, confirmed and entrenched the principle of equality. This

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The Modern Religion? 101 maxim implied, among other things, a closer attention to God’s Word; believers were encouraged to familiarize themselves with it and the Bible was, indeed, very widely read. The text of the Old Testament, in particular, appeared to offer an ideal of an elect nation for neophyte nationalists to model themselves on, and so fostered national sentiment as much as godliness.16 The translators of the English Bible read this nationalist message in the sacred script very clearly and had no qualms about clarifying it for the benefit of their readers when the Author’s phrasing seemed obscure. The brief and intense Marian interlude, offensive to religious and national sensibilities alike, forged an even closer alliance between religion and nationalism, bringing about a virtual identification of the Protestant and national causes. Indeed, in England’s definition as a “Protestant nation,” the noun and the adjective, for a while, were assigned equal weight.Whoever belonged to the Church, said Hooker, belonged to the Commonwealth.17 The nation was a sovereign earthly community, itself the source of law and meaning, and yet it was divinely ordained and fulfilled a providential purpose. This symbiosis was short-lived in England and only rarely observed elsewhere. The secularization of the English society was advanced and explicit by the time of the Restoration: the sacred was firmly installed in this world and, only years after the so-called Puritan Rebellion,the transcendental ardor which burned in the hearts of its combatants appeared both incomprehensible and deplorable. Puritan preaching came to be accused of lulling men’s minds with otherworldly imagery. Thomas Sprat, a divine of modern persuasion in more than one sense of the word, proposed the language of mathematics as a substitute.18 “Impartial philosophers” at the Royal Society, animated by the new and vigorous secular spirit, dedicated themselves to the study of the empirical reality, for the greatness of England at least as much as the glory of God; religion, formerly the standard of judgment, was praised or censured in accordance with the degree to which it agreed with the genius of the nation and its interest.19 Yet, though no longer a governing passion, religion in the English society was kept on decent terms and treated with respect. It was displaced and relegated to its cloistered, private existence quietly, without undue show of emotion. The relationship between nationalism and religion in France was far more turbulent. This corresponded to the fiery Latin temperament, but had to do chiefly neither with it nor the fact that the religion in question was Catholicism, but, as in

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102 Nationalism and the Mind England, with the nature of the French nationalism and the circumstances of its birth. French national identity was third in the line of fully developed French identities, the first two of which were in one way or another inspired by religion. The earliest of these two existed between the twelfth and the first half of the sixteenth centuries and was, as already mentioned, essentially religious.“France”was perceived as a distinctly Christian, Catholic community, that is, as a Church, whose uniqueness lay in the purity and intensity of its faith.20 While medieval kingship everywhere had an implication of divine appointment, in the case of the French kings this idea carried particular weight and was conceived of in terms of an immediate connection, a direct link between the Lord of Creation and the French royal family. The Vicars of Christ in Rome early on recognized the French kings as the eldest sons of the (Western) Church and acquiesced to their claim to the title of très chrétien. Since the French king enjoyed particular favor with the King above, and since through the blood of the royal lineage this favor was communicated to all that was subject to his authority, French Catholicism soon acquired qualities other than its exceptional purity to distinguish it from the Catholicism of the rest, and became unique in more than its degree. The cult of Christ was joined to the cult of the French royalty, la religion royale, and the union of the two was most poignantly symbolized in the royal lily which was also the emblem of the Mother of God.21 Purity of faith, however, remained for some time the most heralded characteristic of the French creed and the one on which the French sense of uniqueness most depended. Consequently, heresy was an object of particular abhorrence and the visible inroads it made in France in the sixteenth century were bound to provoke a crisis of identity. The disorientation produced in men’s minds by the undeniable presence of what had been thought impossible was aggravated by the fact that the legitimate heir to the French throne, the very link between France and the heavens and the only vessel in which God would appear in those parts, was himself a heretic and the leader of heretics. Whatever the outcome of the religious wars that ensued, being French could no longer have the same meaning. An essential part of French identity had to be given up: it had to be redefined either at the expense of attenuating (i.e. denying the intensity and accepting the impurity of) its Catholicism or at the expense of its devotion to the royal cult – precisely the features that made France a Church in its own right.

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The Modern Religion? 103 In a country devastated by forty years of internecine strife the desire for order here and now prevailed over considerations of a transcendental nature that could have no such immediate effect. Nominally as Catholic as ever, France inconspicuously but drastically modified its religion. The community was still that of believers, constituted as a Church, by the bond between each of them and their God, but this God was now the king. The principle of the Divine Right theory which formed the conceptual foundation of French royal absolutism was Tout Roy de la terre est Dieu.22 The authority of the king was sanctioned directly by an impersonal, abstract transcendental force, of which he was the earthly incarnation. Thus the deification of the king preserved the transcendental nature of the French identity and faith. But it also represented a tremendous step in the direction of its secularization. One foot of the sacred, at least, was now firmly planted on earth. It was left to nationalism to accomplish its transplantation by transferring the rest. The contribution of French religious identities to the formation of French national identity was limited. Their influence may be discerned in the character of the French concept of the “state.” This concept evolved out of the idea of royal authority, perceived, especially under the premises of Divine Right theory, as ultimately sacred, incontestable, indivisible, and the source of all law. This authority was believed to be constitutive of the polity; it was the spirit that animated the territory and the community which were subject to it. The concept of the “state,” which from a certain point on applied to the spirit and the body alike and eventually became a preferred term for the polity, retained in this new employment the features of its former usage. Later, when it became the synonym of the “nation,” it communicated to the latter its abstract and authoritarian quality.23 As a result – though, by and large, the growth of French nationalism was stimulated by factors unrelated to religion – the new secular identity inherited the absolutism of its religious predecessors. It also – necessarily – inherited their ardent character. And being both ardent and absolutist, the “jealous”24 French nation would not suffer a rival authority within what it defined as its own domain. The separation of Church and State in France was, from the first, a euphemism. In the United States,“the wall of separation” prevented the various churches from interfering in the secular government, but in turn protected them from interference within wide areas of private life, including education, allowing them considerable scope of activity. In France, by

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104 Nationalism and the Mind contrast, separation in effect meant dispossession of the Church of all influence and expurgation of its very spirit from the social body. La religion civile (the concept in which the idea of nationalism as a religion probably has its origin) had as little tolerance for heresy as the Catholicism of medieval France, which prided itself on its purity. And while the claims of the (all-encompassing) secular and transcendental images of reality are mutually exclusive and by definition cannot be fully and consciously adhered to at the same time, in France, this contradiction was made explicit, ruling out not only true reconciliation, which is nowhere possible, but even pragmatic compromise and the pretense of civility, practiced elsewhere with some success. But nations are composite entities in which perfect spiritual accord is unattainable, even when they are defined, as in France, in unitary terms. In the course of French national history, elements of the previous identities of France were now and again reasserted, making religion repeatedly a presence in national life. This sketchy presentation of a very complex issue may be sufficient as a demonstration of the variability of the relationship between nationalism and religion. The nature of the particular religion in question shaped this relationship only to the extent that it influenced the nature of the emerging nationalism and in the measure allowed by the circumstances of this emergence. In the German case, unlike in England, nationalism was born three full centuries after the Reformation, which made the role of the latter as a stimulant and catalyst of this development negligible; but an indigenous adaptation of Protestant principles, Pietism, was responsible for the conceptual and emotional framework of German national consciousness. In both Poland and Ireland, in distinction to France, Catholicism formed the central element of the national – secular – identity. An examination of Orthodox Christianity, of varieties of Islam, of Judaism, of other great religious traditions in their interaction with nationalism might reveal additional patterns. But whatever the original character of a nationalism and the religion which it replaced, this replacement, the ascendancy of the one and the unseating of the other, was always the outcome. Even where religion was a crucial factor in the development of nationalism and a source of its initial legitimacy (which insofar as nationalism in general is concerned was precisely the case), even where it played midwife at the birth of nationalism and protected it in its infancy, religion was reduced to the role of a handmaiden, an occasionally used tool, and came to exist on nationalism’s sufferance.

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The Modern Religion? 105 “RELIGIOUS” NATIONALISM

The phenomenon of religious nationalism, so salient today and, on the face of it, paradoxical, can be understood only in light of this transformation in the relative positions of nationalism and religion. Religious nationalisms do not constitute a separate type of nationalism, which can be distinguished from other types by the ways of thinking and behavioral propensities they inspire; little can be achieved by classifying nationalism in any particular case in this way. What needs to be kept in mind is that the nature of a nationalism is never determined by the religious context in which it may grow, and though often affected by this context to an extent, it is ultimately defined by the constraints of the immediate situations faced by the social groups actively involved in the formation of the national consciousness. These constraints are emphatically secular, they are generated not by the exigencies of salvation and the responsibility before his Creator that each man must meet alone, but by the tensions in men’s social relations, which agitate peculiarly social passions and anxieties – status-anxiety, the concern for dignity, recognition, and one’s place among others – all that, in short, which religion dismisses as vanity. Responses produced by these constraints may in turn produce three types of nationalism. These types are distinguished along two dimensions, in accordance with the manner in which they define the nation and the criteria of membership in it that they favor. There are two fundamental possibilities for the definition of the nation: it can be defined either as a composite entity, a collectivity formed by the association of individuals; or in unitary terms, as a collective individual.25 The choice between these possibilities is of the utmost consequence for the social, political, and even economic character of the nation, for the two create the conditions for and directly encourage the formation of very different cultural patterns and institutions. The definition of the nation as a composite entity, as was the case with the original nationalism, in England and those other societies that adopted the English model, assumes the moral and political primacy of the human individual, who is seen not simply as a physical unit of society, but as its constitutive element, in the sense that all the qualities of the latter have their source in the nature of the former. The nation – which, in the framework of nationalism in general, is seen as a sovereign (fully independent and self-governing) community of

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106 Nationalism and the Mind fundamentally equal members – in the framework of this composite definition, derives its freedom from the essential liberty of the individuals who compose it; while its dignity, and the dignity of national identity reflects the natural dignity of each human being. Such dignity and liberty (which are, of course, inherently linked) make the members of the nation equal, and this equality is realized in the social and political arrangements that set individualistic nations apart from others. The principles at the foundation of individualistic nationalisms are none other than the principles of liberal democracy, which individualistic national consciousness fosters and sustains. The definition of the nation in unitary terms, by contrast, promotes collectivist forms of social and political organization, which, whether named “communism,” “socialism”of one kind or another,or “socialist” and/or “popular democracy,” share in common a predilection for authoritarian politics and, as a result, pronounced inequality in social life, at least in the relationship between the rulers and the ruled. This authoritarianism is a logical implication of perceiving the community as an individual in its own right – and one morally superior to human individuals – with a will, interests, and purpose of its own, which have priority over and are independent of human wishes and aspirations. These are not directly known to the members of the community and have to be deciphered and interpreted for their benefit by a specially qualified elite. This all-important service gives new meaning to the concept of representation: the elite, in such cases, represents the nation to the people, rather than representing the people. This service also establishes those who provide it in a position of vast superiority to the rest. The equality of membership that is implied in nationalism is contradicted by this superiority and is, therefore, reinterpreted and limited, becoming in the political sphere a matter of make-believe. The other implication of nationalism, popular sovereignty, is also reinterpreted, becoming the attribute of the nation as separate from the people who compose it, and, as such, lying not in political arrangements that ensure individual liberties, but in collective freedom from foreign domination. Finally, the dignity of the nation, and of national identity, is, in the framework of collectivistic nationalisms, no longer a reflection of the dignity of individuals, but is instead inherent in the nation as such and only communicated to individuals by virtue of their membership in the nation. The criteria of membership in a nation may be either civic or ethnic. In the former case, nationality is equated with citizenship and

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The Modern Religion? 107 is seen as an essentially political and even legal category, implying a commitment to certain rights and duties; a commitment that is, in principle, embraced voluntarily. Being, at least theoretically, a matter of choice, it can be acquired and lost. Though it is presumed that every person at any point in time has a nationality, and that their choice is limited to selecting among various national identities, it is conceivable, in the framework of civic nationalism, that one could be without a nationality altogether. When nationality is defined in ethnic terms, by contrast, it is no longer a matter of choice, but is instead an ineluctable, biological, necessity. One cannot be without a nationality, as one cannot be without a heart or a liver, and indeed it is somewhere around the heart and the liver that one has to look for the source of national identity, for nationality is believed to be an inherent, genetic characteristic. It runs in families, it is transmitted by blood. One is born into a particular nationality and can never lose or change one’s identity; at best (or at worst) it can be concealed. One’s nationality determines one’s interests and sentiments and is expected to project itself naturally in one’s sense of attachment and commitment to the nation. Conduct that fails to answer such expectations is perceived as unnatural and perverse, and provokes reactions of extreme revulsion and condemnation. The two dimensions result in three types of nationalism,because the composite definition of the nation, with its emphasis on the logical and moral supremacy of the individual, implies a civic concept of nationality; consequently, individualistic nationalism is necessarily civic. The definition of the nation in unitary terms, however, is commensurate with both civic and ethnic criteria of membership, allowing for the existence of civic and ethnic varieties of collectivistic nationalism. Whether the criteria adopted are civic or ethnic depends on the nature of the characteristics believed to constitute the nation’s uniqueness or individuality. When these characteristics are cultural or political, which is likely to reflect a sense of cultural or political confidence and even superiority, as in France, nationality is defined in civic terms; ethnic nationalism, by contrast, is usually rooted in a deep sense of inferiority, which induces the belief that the nation’s uniqueness is to be sought in its essence, rather than its achievement, and leads nationalists to emphasize inner qualities that are in little danger of scrutiny by outsiders. The components of individualistic and civic nationalism, on the one hand, and of the collectivistic and ethnic nationalism, on the

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108 Nationalism and the Mind other, reinforce each other, and bolster the liberal tendencies of the former and the authoritarian proclivities of the latter. But the combination of a collectivistic definition of the nation with civic criteria of nationality unites these contradictory propensities and creates an ambivalent and inherently problematic type. The individualistic perception of the group as essentially composite and shaped by its members has as its corollaries a pluralistic notion of the national community and an emphasis on constitutional provisions and institutions that ensure this pluralism. Upon such provisions and institutions – which make each of these pluralities one – individualistic nations pride themselves the most. It is what they believe to be most distinctive about themselves. To these safeguards of their individualism all other characteristics that members of the nation may share, such as language, territory, physical type, history, or religion (if indeed they do share these characteristics), are secondary, and are unlikely to be perceived as foundations of national identity and consciousness. The very individualism of individualistic nationalisms precludes their perception in terms of group attributes, such as religion; and so, unless it is used in very special circumstances and is very heavily qualified (as in the case of fledgling sixteenthcentury English nationalism), the term “religious nationalism” is, in their case, meaningless. It is not surprising, therefore, that most nationalisms that with any justification may be called “religious” belong to the collectivistic type. On the face of it, the perception of religion as the central characteristic of a nation and as the basis of its uniqueness presupposes civic criteria of national membership. Religious traditions that admit of conversion and attach great significance to apostasy make community membership a matter of individual choice and responsibility. One can gain admittance to a religiously based nationality and forfeit it on the force of one’s religious affiliation; the expectations of a religious nationalism in this respect are not substantially different from the expectations of any civic nationalism – membership ultimately being, in every nationalism of this type, a function of conviction. The foundation of an essentially secular identity on a transcendental allegiance, however, contributes an additional strain to the inherently problematic experience of collectivistic and civic nationalisms. The recurrent debates over the question Mi hu ihudi? (Who is to be considered a Jew?) that has vexed many an Israeli patriot and

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The Modern Religion? 109 plagued the relations between various sectors of Israeli society since the founding of the state exemplify the tensions generated by this inconsistency.26 This secular state has repeatedly demonstrated its inability to cope with the apostasy of its citizens, whether through a conversion to another faith or declared atheism, despite the extension of citizenship rights to Gentile descendants of Jews of whom no such misdemeanor is reported (no questions being asked on the subject). This inability, along with the violent reaction to civil disobedience on the part of religious groups, testifies to the conflicted character of an identity that tries to combine, and requires loyalty to, two mutually exclusive sets of ideals. Still, the seriousness of this attempt (doomed to fail as it is), the sincerity of the religious commitment on the part of the secular body politic, ensures the civic nature of the national identity and keeps the nation, in principle, open. Most nationalisms that we may readily call “religious” today imply no such religious seriousness. The committed adherents of such nationalisms habitually show most unabashed disregard for the commandments of the faith that professedly constitutes their identity, blithely contradicting its principles and consistently disobeying its law. They do not necessarily do so on purpose or in full consciousness of the religious significance of their acts, because they may not be fully conscious of the substance of their religion, and though observant of its rituals, they cannot be properly considered believers. Where they still exist at all, their religious beliefs are probably vague, religion being no longer the expression of the revealed truth and inner personal conviction, but an outward sign and symbol of their collective distinctness. In “religious” nationalisms, religion is likely to be the most important distinction, sometimes the only one, differentiating a self-conscious group from others in its vicinity; this is the case, for example, with Serbian Orthodoxy and Croatian Catholicism. What is of greater moment is that, when valued chiefly for this external – and mundane – function, religion becomes an ethnic characteristic, an ascriptive, unalterable attribute of a collectivity, and, as such, a reflection of necessity, rather than personal responsibility and choice; that is to say, in the final analysis, a reflection of race. Seeing religion in this light (which could hardly be more foreign to the spirit of religion), as a quality which is transmitted by blood, religious nationalisms are naturally suspicious of converts and are likely to meet with hostility even the most fervent and sincere desire to embrace the principles of their professed religions on the part of those not affiliated with them by right of national

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110 Nationalism and the Mind definition. They see conversion as a cunning attempt to insinuate oneself into the nationality, to “pass” as a member of the nation, thereby concealing one’s true nature. Hence, they jealously protect the national community from such infiltration by aliens. The desire to convert, when religion is seen as an ethnic attribute, may indeed be inspired to a great extent by the expectation that a change (or, as the case may be, acquisition) of a religious affiliation would afford one an otherwise blocked entry into the secular political community. It is this expectation which, undoubtedly, explains the conversion of large numbers of Russian Jews (most of them atheists of long standing, previously devoid of any religious feeling) to Russian Orthodox Christianity, which has re-emerged as one of the central features of Russianness in the wake of the recent political transformations and the re-evaluation of the character of the Russian national identity as a result of the (temporary) abandonment of communism and dissolution of the empire. The fallacy of this expectation was attested, among other things, by the vilification and violent death of one of the most eminent contemporary theologians and leaders of the Russian Orthodox Church – Father Alexander Men’, who, for the majority of his worldly minded coreligionists, supremely confident in their election, could never be but a converted, and therefore deceitful, Jew. The definition of religion as a racial characteristic may allow an imposition of a religious nationality from the outside in disregard of the group’s racial identity, as is the case with the so-called Bosnian Muslims. This unfortunate community, whose self-consciousness is, without question, a product of its recent victimization, is defined, on the initiative of its persecutors, in terms of the religious affiliation of its members’ ancestors, because in every other respect, including the general religious indifferentism of the current membership, it is indistinguishable from its hostile neighbors. This indifferentism, however, is of no more consequence than the fact that all the populations concerned come from the same South Slav racial stock, because, as a matter of race (of which, under the circumstances, it is perceived as a paramount expression) religion is transmitted by blood, and presumably carried in one’s organism, not unlike a virus, whether one is aware of it or not. Whether the nascent Bosnian nationalism that, given the disintegration of the common South Slav identity, could have been expected to develop, would, left to itself, have become religious, and, if so, whether it would have become civic or ethnic,

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The Modern Religion? 111 is anybody’s guess: the potential for the development of a civic nationalism clearly existed and so did the possibility of a nationalism in which religion would play at most a marginal role.27 It was not left to itself, however, and today it seems far more likely that this nationalism will belong to the ethnic variety. However Bosnians might have defined themselves, they were defined by others as first and foremost Muslims; consciousness of their religious origins was forced upon them with appalling brutality, and they have been held individually responsible – and made to pay – for the alleged offenses of their communal faith. Denied all other identities, it is only natural that they would embrace the one that was imposed on them and regard as an inherent predilection and an expression of race the forgotten religion which was made the foundation of their destiny. One cannot think without consternation about the irreligious Western world’s lack of foresight with which this murderous ethnogenesis began. This intellectual complacency paved the road to genocide, but, if this were possible, the complicity of enlightened humanity is rendered more grievous by its unwitting – in fact mindless – assistance at the birth of yet another ethnic nationalism. Because most religious nationalisms are ethnic nationalisms, the fanaticism, the abnegation of self (one’s own as well as others’) for the sake of the community, which we associate with religious nationalism, are more often than not predicated on the essential worldliness of this complex of sentiments, expressed most tellingly in the inattention to, even ignorance, and disregard of basic religious (transcendental) principles. Insofar as “religious fundamentalism” refers to religious nationalism, it is, therefore, a misnomer and would be more accurate if changed to “religious superficialism.” For the value put on the outward function of religion increases the importance of its external symbols as it decreases that of its substance, and the observance of form and ritual gains all the significance lost by the sincerity of belief. The conformity of behavior among members of the community is strictly enforced because it expresses the natural order of things, nothing less than the Wesenwille of the race. Nonconformity, likewise, possesses great symbolic significance: it undermines this natural order and for this reason is regarded, as something unnatural and monstrous, with repugnance. The symbolic significance of nonconformity is proportionate to its public character; this may explain the rage against such a literary figure as Salman Rushdie.28 Never to give a moment of reflection to one’s

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112 Nationalism and the Mind religion is no crime from the perspective of religious nationalism: it sees religion as a manifestation of one’s being, not a product of cogitation. But to express skepticism is a cardinal sin; its offense lies in the threat to the cohesion of the collectivity, and as such it cannot be pardoned. This religious formalism adds to the repressive nature of regimes generated by ethnic nationalism. The consideration of religious nationalisms, whether today or in the past, must take into account the type of the profoundly secular loyalty which may be masked (but not materially modified) by its identification with a traditional confessional allegiance. The behavioral propensities of religious nationalisms are the propensities of nationalisms, rather than of religions with which they are associated, and the only generalizations that are warranted in their regard are those pertaining to the collectivistic, and civic or ethnic nature of these nationalisms. The salience of religious nationalisms today should be attributed first of all to the resurgence, or more precisely, the uninhibited manifestation, of national sentiments in general and, in particular, of ethnic nationalisms. It does not indicate any change in the nature of modern collective identities. The tendency of so many ethnic, and occasionally even civic, nationalisms to clothe themselves in religious garb, in turn, is a function of the temporary unavailability of obvious ideological alternatives as a result of the collapse of communism (which for so many ethnic nationalisms was the camouflage of choice for most of the twentieth century) and the consequent disintegration of the entire bi-polar conception. The comforts of the Cold War era, with its pleasing simplicity and secure stability (which we learned to appreciate in retrospect) have been brought to an abrupt end; the new world order which replaced Pax Americana turns out to be not at all what we expected, given our naive notions of reality, and we feel forced to search for new ways of understanding and organizing it. But this new world order is not that new, and its bewildering complexity obscures the very same striving, however multifaceted, that has moved humanity for the past several centuries. It is the striving to invest our finite existence with meaning and dignity, a striving exclusively focused on this world and on that most human aspect of our existence in it – society. This striving is intensely spiritual and secular at the same time. Everything is put to use to satisfy it, including the great religions of the past. But their powers, rendered irrelevant by the reigning creed of nationalism, belong to a different,

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The Modern Religion? 113 older order indeed and are unequal to the task. Geared to our needs, they are wasted. Originally published in Critical Review, 10:2 (Spring 1996) NOTES 1. It is in the nature of a cliché to obliterate, rather than emphasize, the original significance of a concept: for this reason, insisting on the religious character of nationalism no longer appears sufficient. As a result, recently nationalism (specifically, the nation) has been upgraded to the rank of the “God of Modernity” (J. R. Llobera, God of Modernity, Herdon, Va.: Berg Publishers, 1994). 2. Lactanius, Inst. Div. IV. 4:28, quoted in the entry “Church” in Encyclopedia Britannica, 11th edition, Vol. VI, p. 327. 3. For a classical statement of the comparative merits of religion and secular ideologies as order-creating systems see Clifford Geertz, “Religion as a Cultural System” and “Ideology as a Cultural System” in The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1973). 4. The concept of “social consciousness” is developed in S. Ossowski, Class Structure in the Social Consciousness, trans. Sheila Patterson (New York: Free Press, 1963). 5. B. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 2nd edition (London: Verso, 1991), pp. 9–12. For a more recent reiteration of this position, see A. D. Smith, Nations and Nationalism in the Global Era (Oxford: Polity Press, 1995). 6. Anderson, op. cit., pp. 10–11. 7. Geertz, op. cit., p. 104. 8. “In the place of humble sinners to whom Luther promises grace if they trust themselves to God in penitent faith are bred those self-confident saints whom we can rediscover in the hard Puritan merchants of the heroic age of capitalism and in isolated instances down to the present. On the other hand, in order to attain that self-confidence intense worldly activity is recommended as the most suitable means. It and it alone disperses religious doubts and gives the certainty of peace.” M. Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans. Talcott Parsons (London: Unwin Hyman, 1989), pp. 111–112. 9. E. Durkheim (1915), The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, trans. Karen Fields (New York: Free Press, 1995), p. 351. 10. See, for example, E. Shils, Center and Periphery: Essays in Macrosociology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1975), pp. 3–16; 304–316; 317–344. 11. On the protonational character of ancient Israel, Greece, and Rome see H. Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism (New York: Macmillan, 1944), pp. 27–62. 12. On the essentially religious nature of the polis, see Fustel de Coulanges, Numa Denis (1864), The Ancient City: A Study on the Religion, Laws and Institutions of Greece and Rome (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980). 13. See S. Citron, Le Mythe National: L’Histoire de France en Question (Paris: Editions Oeuvrieres, 1987), p. 131. 14. Anderson, op. cit., p. 11.

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114 Nationalism and the Mind 15. L. Greenfeld, Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992), pp. 51–58; 61–66; 77. 16. Ibid., pp. 52–54. 17. R. Hooker (1597), The Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity, in J. Keble, ed., The Works of Richard Hooker (New York: Burt Franklin, 1970), 3:330. 18. T. Sprat (1667), History of the Royal Society (St. Louis: Washington University Studies, facsimile edition 1958), p. 111; also see R. F. Jones, “The Attack on the Pulpit Eloquence in the Restoration: An Episode in the Development of the Neo-Classical Standard for Prose,” in The Seventeenth Century: Studies in the History of English Thought and Literature from Bacon to Pope (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1952). 19. Greenfeld, op. cit., pp. 78–87. 20. Ibid., pp. 91–98. 21. C. Beaune, Naissance de la Nation France (Paris: Gallimard, 1985). 22. Du Rivault, quoted in W. F. Church, Constitutional Thought in SixteenthCentury France: A Study in the Evolution of Ideas (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1941), p. 309. 23. Greenfeld, op. cit., pp. 91–188, passim. 24. An epithet used by Michel Walzer, who refers to the American nation as one that is not jealous. M. Walzer, “What Does it Mean to Be an ‘American’?” Paper delivered at the Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton, N.J., October 1989. 25. This typology was first proposed in Greenfeld, op. cit., pp. 9–11. 26. S. N. Eisenstadt, Israeli Society (London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1967), pp. 368–390. 27. D. Rieff, Slaughterhouse: Bosnia and the Failure of the West (New York: Simon & Schuster), p. 142. 28. The intolerance of nonconformity among the Ayatollah Khomeini’s followers explains their willingness to hunt Rushdie down. But a close reading of The Satanic Verses suggests that the Ayatollah may have issued the fatwa for the pettier reason of personal vanity. The “bearded and turbaned Imam” portrayed as holed up in London is almost certainly a caricature of Khomeini in exile in Paris. See Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses (New York: Viking, 1989), pp. 205–209. For a description of Khomeini in exile see Anthony Parsons, “Iran and Western Europe,” in R. K. Ramazani, ed., Iran’s Revolution: The Search for Consensus (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990).

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6 PRAXIS PIETATIS: A TRIBUTE TO EDWARD SHILS

The preparation of this lecture made me realize once again, and perhaps more clearly than ever, the power of Culture over us. When I was approached last spring about the title of a proposed seminar, I had just returned from a memorial service, held at the University of Chicago, for Professor Edward Shils, a great sociologist who died on January 23 this year, and I immediately said that I would deliver a lecture to honor his memory. Since his life was dedicated to the study of culture,“Culture and Civilization”appeared an appropriate rubric, but I had no idea what I would talk about, which exactly of the many themes in his work I would evoke, or, most importantly, why – what for – was I doing this. After the fact, one can come up with any number of reasons. My reasons might be pedagogical: a discussion of “Culture and Civilization” could not properly proceed without an attempt to understand what – in fact – culture is, to develop a general theory of culture; Edward Shils had developed the thoroughest – the most serious, careful, and searching – such theory. I also might have a personal reason: Edward Shils was a very important man in my life; his death was a great loss; I have not come to grips with it so far; talking about him makes me feel as if, in a way, I am still talking to him – this lecture, therefore, could have a therapeutic function. But the fact is these were not the reasons. My decision was not a result of reasoning at all: I simply felt I owed it to this now dead man, who would never know whether I did this or not. I knew this was the right thing to do. It was what Max Weber called a value-rational action, whose reward lay in itself, because it was intrinsically moral. In brief,

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116 Nationalism and the Mind I was impelled by a force far greater than me, the Culture of which I am a part. Edward Shils died at the age of eighty-four. A month before his death he graded the papers from his last seminar. He was still working on the drafts of his own last essays. He started to write and teach in the 1930s; his career had spanned more than sixty years. In its course, he worked on freedom in teaching and research in the social sciences; on cohesion in the German, American, and Soviet armies; on intellectuals in India and various other Asian and African countries; on virtually every aspect of culture: ideology, science, literature, of the modern Western society. A Festschrift for Professor Shils, published in 1977, was entitled tellingly Culture and Its Creators. In addition to hundreds of articles, he published several monographs, including, in 1981, a book on the nature of tradition, and several volumes of collected essays, among them Center and Periphery, which elaborated on this very influential set of metaphors, which forms the core of his theoretical vision. He never completed his magnum opus, Movements of Knowledge, which was to reveal the conclusions of his life-long study. He left eight versions of this work, thousands of pages, but did not feel, to the end, that he reached the understanding that he sought. As a result, we do not really know what he would have concluded, what we have are just intimations. It is neither possible nor necessary to summarize them in a few minutes. I hope that some of you will trust me that it will be very much worth your while to read his books on your own. Everything he wrote was tremendously suggestive, inspiring; it conveyed an unmistakable sense that one was touching upon, approaching something very important, something serious and vital – “seriousness” and “vitality” were two of Shils’s favorite words. He himself – in his teaching, in his daily communications with people, which were never too far away from teaching – also conveyed this sense. There was something very distinctive about Shils as a human being. One felt in the presence of a great man. It was not just sitting at the feet of a master, or a very famous individual, though he obviously was very famous, and for some people he was a master. I myself, I must confess, never saw him that way, because much of what he had to say I considered mistaken. (It may be arrogant of me to say this now, but I want to be honest; and I believe he knew this about me in any case.) But I felt this greatness about him all the same and all the time. I knew him for a short time, which was nevertheless long – twelve years. During these years he

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Praxis Pietatis 117 never once disappointed me, never made me lose the sense of being in the living presence of something extraordinary, important, and authoritative. After he died, I tried to understand what it was. And now I know: it was his own firm conviction that he was constantly in communication with a transcendental, higher reality, his sense of duty toward it, and of election by it to represent, preserve, and transmit it. His life was a life of service. This grander reality which he consciously and untiringly served was Culture, Tradition – not any specific, this or that culture or tradition, but both in their most general meaning. It was his complete dedication to the service of a higher reality that made one feel in the presence of something great when near him. It was his acute consciousness that this was a higher reality that explained his dedication. The work that Shils was doing was a work of revelation, he was trying – all his life, certainly in the last forty years of his life – to reveal the nature or essence of Culture. Obviously, he was convinced that his work was tremendously important (it is for this reason that he was so very demanding of himself – nothing but perfection would do!); he had a sense of calling in the literal interpretation of the word, and his consciousness of it, it seems to me, was not clouded by doubt. He was explicit, even naive about his election. He spoke, for example, on numerous occasions jokingly, and yet only half-jokingly, of himself as a pope or even a possible saint of sociology – that is of that higher reality of which sociology, to him, represented a theology or, perhaps, a religion; he proposed that, after his death, which, when I knew him, was never too far away, he might be called St. Shils, savoring the name, rolling it on the tongue, as if trying it on. A person of Jewish background and an adherent of no recognized religion (he characterized himself as “a pious agnostic,” though, of course, he was an agnostic only in a very special, unconventional sense, of which I shall speak later), he had a great respect for the Pope, both the person of John Paul II, I suppose, and the office of the Vicar of Christ; he felt an affinity with this office, and one of his last voyages was an exhausting trans-Atlantic trip, undertaken just months before he died, to attend a conference with the Pope at Castelgandolfo. Because he did not doubt his calling, he doubted his mortality. He did not believe he could die before his mission was accomplished. Only weeks before his death, already very weak, he assured me on the phone that he expected to live for another four years, because he estimated he still had another four years of work left. He did not see

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118 Nationalism and the Mind himself as alone, but as one of a group of the elect, to whom and to whose work he felt an immediate connection; this group, unlike other groups, did not suffer from attrition by natural causes: after their death, its members lived on, perhaps they lived on in Shils – this was yet another sense in which he felt as a part, and a custodian, of tradition. Several years earlier I had a glimpse of the moment of transmission of tradition, of Shils taking on the custody from a dying fellow-elect. I came to his office just after he received the news of the death of Raymond Aron, another great sociologist, the great French thinker and Shils’s close friend of many years. He was, obviously, very distraught. We had to be somewhere for some kind of an engagement and walked slowly in the appointed direction, talking. He was speaking of the generation of social thinkers of which both he and Aron were members, grand old men each and every one of them, irrespective of their ages, and came to the conclusion that only four of them, including himself, were still alive. At this point, he abruptly stopped, said, “This means that some work needs to be done. Goodbye, Mrs. Greenfeld,” turned around, left me standing with my mouth still open, and briskly walked home, where the work was waiting. His awareness of connection with people long since dead, whom he never knew personally, was equally acute. It is as if the same blood was circulating though their and his veins, which, in a certain sense, was literally true. This connection was made strikingly vivid to me one day when he decided to share with his seminar a dream he had had. In this dream, Shils was wandering in the corridors of an old German castle. In a niche by the narrow window in one of them, he noticed a man sitting and writing at a desk of the kind one would imagine was used by Faust; and this man, Shils realized, was Max Weber. Professor Shils, who was at the time perhaps seventy-five years old, corpulent, even pudgy, a gourmand who never bothered to conceal or restrain his enthusiasm for good food – I want you to picture this – tiptoed to the great man’s desk and stood there, holding his breath, hesitant to speak. Some moments passed. Then Weber lifted his eyes, took a long look at Shils, and said: “I approve of what you are doing.” Weber, for Shils, was the exemplary student of culture as such, in its general sense. He was seeking, Shils believed, the same essential knowledge of it that Shils himself was seeking, and advanced very far toward having it, but not far enough. Shils was called to continue Weber’s quest; Weber’s approval confirmed Shils’s conviction of calling.

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Praxis Pietatis 119 This quest was a quest for Truth, but in a different, possibly more profound, sense than in science; Shils, I am sure now, looked for ultimate meaning. Remarkably, he tried to find this meaning through science. He devoted his life to the study of culture, but in his mind it, early and perhaps imperceptibly, became reified, and he believed in it as one believes in God; he studied and worshiped it at the same time, like Newton – who was a fervently believing Christian – studied nature and worshiped God in it at the same time. For Shils, as for Newton, the study of empirical reality was at the same time a service of adoration; he was an agnostic only in the sense in which Newton was an agnostic, that he did not possess the essential knowledge of his deity, of whose existence he was nevertheless certain and whose presence he constantly felt. He very precisely characterized himself as a “pious agnostic.” He was a social scientist whose erudition was immense and whose powers of perception were astonishing, but at the same time he was definitely something of a religious figure. He was a great teacher in a religious sense, a kind of a sociological prophet; he was renowned not only for his penetrating analyses, but for the strength of his convictions – not a characteristic of a scholar as such – and at the University of Chicago, he was for decades known as “the conscience of the University.” Indeed, scholarship, including science, and morality were never separate in his mind: scholarship was intrinsically moral because, he believed, it touched on the “serious,” and for that reason he was not merely impatient with bad scholars – especially those who betrayed the values of disinterested pursuit of knowledge for any reason at all – he considered them a moral outrage; bad scholarship was not just worthless, it was a sin. His life, which was his work, was a life of piety: praxis pietatis. Hence, the title of this lecture. A tribute to his memory, it is also an act of piety in a way, a proof that he was, in a large measure, right, that culture is a reality, a powerful, creative force beyond us, compelling us to do things the meaning of which we might not fully understand. Earlier I said that it would be impossible to summarize Shils’s views on the countless subjects about which he wrote, and indeed it is. What I shall try to do is to interpret his theoretical vision and to place him in the grand sociological tradition, which he carried on almost single-handedly and personified during the last half century. As I am doing this, I shall ruminate on the concept of culture (rumination, Shils taught me, is a very useful intellectual exercise). It may not lead us very far, but even so, inspired by the example of Edward Shils,

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120 Nationalism and the Mind provoked by his ideas, it is the best homage to him, and at the very least it will keep his tradition alive for a little while longer. As such, it is also praxis pietatis. Culture and civilization, the subject of this unit, understood in their general meaning, rather than as the terms of a specific dispute between German and other Romantics and the heirs of the Enlightenment, is the focus, the very subject-matter of sociology. Most sociologists, of course, are not aware of this, they preoccupy themselves with trivia, and many practitioners of other disciplines – history, anthropology, various branches of the humanities – who consider culture their domain, would be surprised that sociology has anything to do with it. But, while these disciplines focus on various aspects of culture, Culture as such is the distinctive focus of sociology; it is its defining subject, its very raison d’être, for society, human society, is culture. Culture exists when numbers of essentially separate individuals – the atoms, the only active elements of the social matter – cohere together in enduring collectivities, which also assume the character of individuals, though of a different order, and, in a way, act as one. Social integration – this cohesion – is a function of culture. Culture is, in turn, a function of the need to integrate, which is a biological imperative that cannot be realized through the biological constitution of individual human organisms. Social integration is a function of culture in the sense that culture creates, actually produces social integration. How exactly it does this is a matter for complicated and very extensive empirical investigation. But culture is a function of a biological imperative to integrate in a very different, indirect, and limited sense of being made sensible – to a rational observer, such as us – by the existence of this biological imperative. Society – constant co-operation of individual organisms – is a necessary condition for the survival of the species among all higher forms of animal life. In most cases, the forms and skills of co-operation are biologically prescribed and transmitted through individual organisms in the form of instincts, but human beings in this respect suffer from a great disability. Two wolves from different packs or two lions from different prides, meeting in the wild, would immediately read each other’s intentions and know what to do with each other. A meeting of two men in the wild is simply inconceivable, because men do not survive in the wild long enough to meet, and they do not survive because they lack the inborn ability to read each other’s

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Praxis Pietatis 121 intentions and know what to do with each other. Human nature requires a compensation for this disability. To be able to co-operate – without which the survival of the species is impossible – human beings need a functional equivalent of instincts, essentially some blueprints of forms and skills of co-operation, and culture represents this functional equivalent. But a functional understanding of a phenomenon, the understanding why it should exist, only then amounts to an explanation of why it does exist, that is, how it came about, when it is possible to ascertain the mechanisms that translate a need into the means for its satisfaction and actually bring about the phenomenon in question. If these mechanisms cannot be ascertained, the postulation of a functional relationship, which makes the existence of a phenomenon intelligible, does not amount to its explanation and has, basically, no empirical significance. From an empirical or scientific standpoint, it makes no more sense to claim that culture is a product of our biological nature than it does to assert that it is a God-given gift, though either of these propositions may in fact be true, because we cannot ever prove empirically that this is so. In the case of the connection between biology and culture this causal relationship cannot be proven because culture is an emergent phenomenon. An emergent phenomenon is a complex phenomenon that cannot be reduced to the sum of its elements, a case in which a specific combination of elements, the possibility of which is in no way given in any of the elements, produces a certain emergent, new quality, which in a large measure determines the nature and the existence of the phenomenon, as well as of its elements, and which cannot be understood or explained on the basis of any amount of, however scrupulous, dissection. The concept of emergent phenomenon originates in biology; its original referent is life. For this reason analogies between life, on the one hand, and society or culture, on the other, are never really far-fetched: they highlight the most important quality of both, their emergent, irreducible character. Life is irreducible to the inanimate matter of which, and only of which, every living cell is composed; it is a quality beyond and apart from this matter, which exists in the boundary conditions provided by it, yet shapes it at the same time, insofar as this matter belongs to the living thing. The emergent phenomenon of life is so astonishing that it is almost impossible to confront it without the help of a religious faith, which represents the moment of emergence as an act of creation.

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122 Nationalism and the Mind Society or culture is equally, if not more, astonishing: it is also irreducible to the matter of which it is composed and which provides boundary conditions for it, but this matter is humanity, living, potentially creative, intelligent beings. Nothing in our constitution as biological or psychological organisms explains it; as biological or psychological organisms, each one of us is as absolutely powerless, insignificant, and uncreative vis-à-vis it as any particular atom of inanimate matter is vis-à-vis a living organism; we become empowered, creative, and significant only as carriers of culture, exposed to its magic touch; it truly transforms us: in it, we acquire a different, social nature. Without us culture would not exist, but neither would we without it, and it is culture which makes us what we are. The irreducibility of an emergent phenomenon implies that at the moment of emergence there occurs a break in continuity, a leap from one interconnected world or reality into another essentially disconnected from it, a transformation the mechanism of which, by definition, cannot be traced to the first reality, but is extraneous to it. An acute consciousness of the emergent quality of social reality or culture, of its autonomous nature, like the consciousness of the emergent nature of life, makes it very difficult to resist an urge to interpret it as divine. I cannot say whether it is good or not to resist this urge. In itself, this acute sensitivity, an ability to be awed by the world, is a rare and compelling characteristic, probably indispensable for a good social scientist. But I know that, like any faith, this interpretation presupposes a logical leap (which is what the leap of faith is), a suspension of one’s rational judgment, and, if one does not take the precaution to eliminate it from one’s empirical investigations as irrelevant, it is likely that one’s investigations will no longer deal with the empirical. The first social theorist to imply that society was God, and the only one to state this explicitly, was Max Weber’s contemporary and perhaps his only equal among the many would-be-fathers of sociology, the French sociologist Emile Durkheim. Durkheim did not use the term “emergent phenomenon,” but he clearly recognized the emergent nature of social reality and defined it as a reality sui generis, a reality higher, grander than man, which gave meaning to men’s life and even death. Durkheim imagined society as a collective individual in the sense of a concrete physical being, a palpable, material force towering above little men, physically moving them, pushing and pulling them in different directions in accordance with its own needs, as an animal may move the cells in its limbs in accordance with its

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Praxis Pietatis 123 needs. This great being is made vivid on the pages of Durkheim’s books, where it truly comes alive; if one has not realized the reality of society on one’s own, one can no longer deny it after reading Durkheim. But, interestingly, this being leads only an intermittent existence. It springs to life when men congregate, come together in groups; and it dies, or perhaps enters a state of hibernation, when they disperse. It is most alive when the interactions are at their utmost density and intensity. These moments of dense congregation and intense interaction, moments of emergence in other words, when many individual men are collectively transformed into a different, social being, Durkheim calls sacred. These are the moments in the presence of the divine. Men alone, removed from this presence, inhabit the sphere of the profane. The moments of emergence, of social vitality, and of the sacred are also the moments of generation of ideas or symbolic representations. The ideas are generated by the society, not by any one of the individuals in a group, but by all of them, simultaneously and together, in a kind of mystical union, as if there emerges a physically existing collective mind, even a collective brain, capable of registering and processing external stimuli. These stimuli may include various things. Durkheim describes generation of religious ideas among Australian aborigines, where the stimuli include elements of the native flora and fauna. The collective mind registers a certain tree or animal, and this tree or animal becomes the totem and is introduced into the minds of the individual members of the group as the symbol of the divine. Systems of symbols generated in this fashion he called “collective consciousness.” This “collective consciousness” was much more than ideas and values shared by individuals in a society; it was the consciousness of the actually existing collective mind. Since society was God, it was the source of good and good in itself. Anything that sustained and contributed to the life of society was, by definition, moral. Morality was defined as social integration. This made for a profoundly and unconditionally conservative position: any society was worth preserving at any cost, because it was, by definition, moral and divine; it was a form, a body of God.All of this sounds like pure metaphysics, but Durkheim believed that he was simply drawing inferences from empirical observations. I should like to make several comments about this fantastic theory. First, it sounds crazy, but it is in a large measure true. Moral is in fact social. And society really exists beyond and above men who constitute

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124 Nationalism and the Mind it. Second, morality, religious beliefs, collective consciousness are very important subjects in Durkheim’s writings; he is rightly considered the author of a foundational theory in the sociology of knowledge or culture, indeed his theory of society is a theory of culture at the same time. And yet, culture plays a clearly subordinate role in his thinking. It is epiphenomenal, not independent, not, as such, creative and authoritative; it emanates from society, which is imagined as a material force, and only represents or symbolizes this force. This, Durkheim’s materialism, curiously, might be related to his interpretation of society as divine. He was so sensitive of its reality, it was so real for him, that he physically felt its presence, and conceived of it as a physical being. He could feel it but could not touch it; it was everywhere, but could not be seen – it was natural to conclude that this materially existing force was God. Here was another atheist of Jewish origin, who was overwhelmed by the grandeur of the universe. Durkheim was one of the greatest minds social sciences ever produced. He was remarkably perceptive, endowed to the highest degree with powers of both intuition and ratiocination; he was able to capture the essence of the most complex social processes – his concept of “anomie,” for instance, is, perhaps, the most powerful explanatory device of all ever proposed by the social science, and indispensable for our understanding of modernity – he was a lucid and systematic thinker. How on earth could an intellect of this quality have produced such an outlandish theory? The lucidity of Durkheim’s thought and writing makes it possible to establish exactly where in the process of his thinking he took his leap of faith. One can actually watch it happening in his most systematic theoretical work: The Rules of Sociological Method. The leap occurs in the course of the elucidation of the emergent nature of society. Starting from the premises of empirical, positive inquiry, which allow one to postulate only that which can be empirically ascertained, Durkheim proposes that human individuals represent the most significant group of facts one can observe while studying society and the only active elements in it. He goes on to show that, even though one cannot observe anything but human individuals in action (or the results of their action), these observations systematically and often dramatically vary in accordance with the characteristics not of individuals, but of their combinations, or groups. These variations and characteristics of groups – as such, unconnected to characteristics of individuals – also represent positive, empirical facts and thus prove the existence of a

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Praxis Pietatis 125 reality of a nature different from the biological reality of the human individual. Durkheim shows, on the basis of carefully presented evidence, that this reality is far more powerful than is the individual: indeed the behavior of the individual is by and large determined by the nature of his or her society, not the other way around. This allows Durkheim to postulate the principle of duality of human nature, which is, on the one hand, biological or individual, and, on the other hand, social. As elements of society, human beings remain biological individuals, but they also necessarily take on a different character; they are transformed into creatures of a different order. So far – so good, even superb: nobody before or after has argued the positive reality of society with such elegance. But, it is here that Durkheim loses his touch with reality and is transported, taking us with him, out of the realm of positive fact into metaphysics. Blinded but for a moment by the spectacular vistas opened by his argument, he jumps from the empirically supported claim that society is a reality sui generis and more powerful than man, to a non sequitur conclusion that it is independent from man. He who claimed that men are the only active elements of social reality its students can observe and postulated the duality of human nature, loses sight of men and of their nature as individuals; they cease to exist for him as anything but cells in the social organism. I begin this discussion with Durkheim because I believe that Edward Shils was, deep down, a Durkheimean. He never acknowledged this; he was deeply dissatisfied with Durkheim’s treatment of collective consciousness, and he was convinced he was carrying on the work of Max Weber. But, like Durkheim, he, I feel, was overwhelmed by the grandeur of social reality, and was thus incapable of a reserved and dispassionate analysis of it, which would make him a Weberian. His language was characterized, very aptly, as “chaste,” but his work was very passionate; as I said before, this was the work of adoration, and the very chastity of his language is explained, I think, by the fact that such passion demanded of him to be very careful with words. As I said before, I do not know whether being or not being overwhelmed, in this context, is better; being overwhelmed might be a sign of a greater sensitivity to social reality. But Weber was not overwhelmed (if he was awestruck, he did not let this affect his work). Weber also clearly recognized the emergent nature of social reality, but he never lost sight of the empirical constraints of its study. Human individuals were the only active elements of society. Empirical

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126 Nationalism and the Mind analysis of society necessitated focusing on human individuals, that is, methodological individualism. It necessitated keeping in mind constantly not only the social nature of individuals but their other, biological and psychological, nature. It was because of this exigency of empirical social inquiry that Weber, unlike Durkheim, was, above all, preoccupied with culture. Weber’s empirical focus implied the recognition that humanity was a thinking species with an inborn capacity to produce symbols, and that culture, here a comprehensive category for symbolic systems and processes, was the essence of social reality emerging as a result of human association. Social reality was an essentially symbolic reality; it was the centrality in it of the symbolic that distinguished human society from societies existing among other species. The central subject of sociology, according to Weber, was the study of social action, which he defined as meaningfully oriented action, in other words action oriented by or grounded in symbolic systems. This did not at all imply that none but the symbolic processes went on in society; there were many others, and some of them were very important in terms of their impact on social action. But these nonsymbolic processes, which could be traced back to the biological or psychological constitution of human beings and which thus did not reflect emergent properties of society, were not distinctive, and therefore not definitive, of human societies. They could be observed among other species as well. One such very important nonsymbolic phenomenon, in my interpretation of Weber’s view, was charisma. But everything social, insofar as “social” pertained to human society, was symbolic, namely cultural. To understand society meant to understand culture; to understand a particular society meant to understand the culture specific to it. Since culture was an emergent phenomenon, which did not, could not exist independently of human individuals, but only through and in them, this was not enough, for it was constantly affected by factors extraneous to it and yet existing in it, pertaining to the biological and psychological properties of human beings. But the consideration of these other factors properly belonged to the jurisdiction of other disciplines – biology and psychology – and was marginal to sociology, whose focus was on the autonomous, irreducible, and grand reality all its own. Weber’s notion of culture, unlike Durkheim’s strikingly concrete “collective consciousness,” was an amorphous, composite notion; and, unlike Durkheim, he did not leave a general theory of culture or

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Praxis Pietatis 127 of social integration, but rather countless specific theories about various forms and aspects of culture and social integration. In fact, there hardly was an aspect of culture he did not touch upon and did not illuminate in his laborious writings, and yet these efforts did not combine into a unified view. A scientific understanding, a theory of an empirical phenomenon, necessarily begins with a definition. The definition should capture the essence of the phenomenon, thereby setting it off and allowing the examination of its relationships with other phenomena. Culture proved very difficult to define. The definitions that were attempted stressed various characteristics and functions, but barely brushed its surface. It proved equally difficult to define life. So far as I know (and – in my deep ignorance of biology – I rely on the 1989 issue of the new, 15th edition, Encyclopedia Britannica), there is, correspondingly, no generally accepted theory of life. The argument between mechanists and vitalists, i.e. those who believed in the ultimate possibility to reduce life to laws of physics and chemistry, and those who postulated the existence of some “vital force,” was resolved only in the sense that both options are now considered inadequate. Somewhere from the depths of my memory I recollect a remark by the great French nineteenth-century physiologist Claude Bernard to the effect that, given that the definition and understanding of the fundamental nature of life appears for the moment impossible, one should concentrate on the study of its forms and mechanisms. (This, you may recall, made Claude Bernard the symbol of godless materialism for Dostoyevsky; Dmitri Karamazov, at the time of the trial, uses his name as a slur, indiscriminately applicable to all that is immoral and soulless: for, from a certain point of view, to claim that life is just a combination of physiochemical properties is to deny God.) Max Weber was doing in the study of culture what Claude Bernard proposed to do in the study of life: he shelved the question of fundamental nature and focused on forms and mechanisms. For Edward Shils, this, I believe, was not enough. So far as empirical study goes, a definition is a cornerstone of any theory. There can be no rational, or causal, explanation without definition. To attempt one without the other is analogous to asking, as Alice does of the Cheshire Cat in Wonderland, which way should she take, while she does not know where she wants to go. The Cheshire Cat wisely advises Alice that if she does not know where she wants to go, it does not matter which way she would take. The question in itself is absurd. In causal explanations, which are but accounts of how one

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128 Nationalism and the Mind thing leads to another, if we do not know what the it is to which something is supposed to lead, our claims dissolve in empty speculations. Throughout his life, Edward Shils was looking for the essential knowledge, an understanding – but a rational and empirical understanding – of the fundamental nature of culture, and he set out to find it by first coming up with the definition. What he was doing was trying to see through all its external expressions and depict – actually describe – the inner essence of culture. This description had a static and a dynamic aspect, it was far more detailed than Durkheim’s description of society (it is simply astonishing what Shils saw with his inner eye), but it had some striking parallels to Durkheim’s vision. The essence of Shils’s depiction was captured in his elaboration of a pair of concepts: the “center” and the “periphery.” In their elaboration Shils as if pushed off Durkheim. He wrote, in a 1988 essay describing the history of these concepts:“My interest has always been in the integration of society … Durkheim’s idea of conscience collective did not help … Since the 1930s, I was trying to arrive at an intelligible account of what makes a large aggregate of human beings into a society … The development of the conceptual scheme of center and periphery is a step in the right direction.” The concept of “center,” as used by Shils, carries a dual meaning. In its primary sense it belongs to the sphere of values and is a metaphor for what is of core importance in the value system of a society, its irreducible or critical elements. Another term for “center” in this sense is “central value system.” Shils also refers to it sometimes as “transcendental center.” Understood in this sense, “center” plays a crucial role in social integration: the irreducible values and beliefs that constitute it establish the identity of individuals in a society as members of that society and bind them into a common universe; in this sense,“center” represents a sort of social “genetic code.” This meaning of the term “center” implies a corresponding idea of “periphery.” The “periphery” consists of the material on which the creative, sociogenic function of the center is performed. The mechanism through which the center integrates the periphery is consensus – something very similar to Durkheim’s “collective consciousness.” The process of consensus is specific to, that is, definitive of social reality, in the same way in which exchange is specific to the economy and coercion to polity. Essentially, society is a consensual reality. Exchange, coercion, and even conflict are only possible in society on the basis of some consensus.

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Praxis Pietatis 129 In its second sense the concept “center” refers to the “central institutional system,” which Shils at times calls “the earthly center.” Although seemingly analogous to the “central value system,” it is in fact very different. In this sense “center” is not really a metaphor. It denotes the authoritative institutions and persons who express or embody the central value system. Authority and values are intimately related (for central value system is the source of legitimacy and, as such, creates authority), though sometimes authority may evolve out of sheer power and de facto domination, which being by nature aweinspiring, will only later connect to and perhaps modify the central value system. In any case, “center” in this second sense has the connotation of a physical, spatial concentration that “central value system” lacks. The “central institutional system” is theoretically different from the central value system; it is not the “genetic code” of society. But it is one of the most important mechanisms or vehicles of its transmission, as well as the main operational means for the assessment of the central value system; for, operationally, the central value system is that which is expressed and embodied in the institutional center. The institutional center is not coterminous with the government or the state; it is comprised of many different and sometime warring elites. The “periphery” corresponding to the “center” in this sense is the institutions and persons who have less authority or who lack authority altogether. These can be institutions and persons expressing or embodying marginal values that coexist with but do not belong to the central value system, or institutions and persons remote from the spatial concentrations of authoritative institutions. Speaking of centers and peripheries in this sense, we are not concerned with the nature of the life-blood of society (as we are in connection with the central value system), but with the channels through which it is carried to specific communities or pockets of society and to its geographical periphery. Shils’s work on tradition added a dynamic element to his elaborate analysis of the statics of symbolic reality. Tradition was the existence of culture in history, culture understood as process, rather than structure, but the process in which the structure – the transcendental center and its corresponding periphery – lived, and through which, specifically, the vital and creative forces that constituted the center were perpetuated and transmitted. Of his book Tradition our own Peter Berger said:“Its topic is vast. Mr. Shils tries to explore not this or that tradition, but the role in human societies of tradition as such – in

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130 Nationalism and the Mind the very wide sense of everything that is traditum, handed down, from one generation to another.” Shils himself wrote: This book about tradition is evidence of the need for tradition. If there had been other comprehensive books about tradition and traditions, this book would have been a better one. It would have given me a point of departure easier to start from, it would have given me a standard, and it would have made me more aware of omissions and misapprehensions. But there is no such book. There are many books about particular traditions. There are books about tradition in Islamic theology and law; there are books about tradition in Judaism; books about tradition in Roman Catholic and Protestant Christianity. There are books about particular traditions in literature and art and law. There is however no book about tradition which tries to see the common ground and elements of tradition and which analyzes what difference tradition makes in human life.

This was similar to saying that there have been books on this and that form or aspect of life, but not on Life as such. The relations between centers and peripheries and their relative weights vis-à-vis each other changed in time. In modern society, Shils noted an expansion of the center (in the primary sense of the term) into the periphery, a growth of “civility,” which he defined as “the sense of membership in and of responsibility for the entire society,” an expansion, therefore, of the public into the private, or, to use Durkheim’s terms, of the “sacred” into the “profane.” Indeed, the concepts “center”and “periphery”are very similar to the Durkheimean diad.“Center”is the sphere of the significant, the creative, the vital, and the serious, which makes the individual feel more than just an individual, makes one transcend oneself, transforms one’s nature – just as the “sacred” is for Durkheim. The expansion of the center into periphery in modern society implies the increasing pervasiveness of social integration, growing social cohesion. In this, again, Shils’s thinking is quite akin to Durkheim’s, both thinkers standing in a very exclusive company against the dominant view that modernity spells the breakdown of vital social ties, disintegration, and atomization. Like Durkheim’s society, center for Shils took on a character of a material, physical presence or energy. The opposition of center and periphery reflected this physical character. Periphery was what was remote from the source of energy, where its intensity waned; center was the source. Shils thought of the impact or experience of the center in terms of degrees of proximity to it. Social structure, the

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Praxis Pietatis 131 system of social stratification, for example, was at base a hierarchy of degrees of proximity to the vital force of the center. This literal, ontological reification of the center led Shils to misread Weber’s discussion of charisma. Weber, indeed, conceived of charisma as a kind of physical, animal energy, a very concrete psychophysical quality of certain specially endowed individuals, similar to hypnotism. He saw it as very important and capable, in certain social conditions, of dramatically swaying collective behavior. But remember, “collective” did not equal “social” for Weber, social was symbolic, consequently, he did not include charisma among bases of social, that is, symbolic, action, and explicitly defined it as existing on the verge, the margins, of the social, as something within the sphere of society and yet not of its emergent properties. Shils on several occasions mentioned that sometimes, while alone, thinking of society, he felt charisma so intensely that he would get up and purposelessly walk to and fro in a state of great agitation. He compared this impact to that of music; “charisma,” he would say, “makes you do things!” But, according to Weber, one could not experience the impact of charisma unless in the physical presence of a charismatic individual: charisma was a particularly powerful nonsymbolic quality of an individual organism. For Shils, because it was so powerful as to produce physical effect, it was “ultimately symbolic”; it was the very essence of the center in the sense of the “central value system,” the “awe-arousing centrality” itself. Shils’s interpretation of Weber’s concept of “charisma,” which was, of course, integral to his own vision, was the cause of the only explicit disagreement between us. This was a disagreement of absolute principle: to question this point was to question everything in his scheme. I disagreed with him publicly, during one of his extraordinary seminars; I was young and foolish at the time, insufficiently aware of how dear an argument may become to a scholar, and as a result unconscious that I might have been inflicting pain. Edward Shils told me to hold my tongue – he was the only person who, luckily for everyone concerned, talked during these seminars – and to justify my objections in writing, which I did. Then, for the first time, he called me to his home and, when I came, said, still standing in the doorway: “Mrs. Greenfeld, I disagree with everything you write. If I did not, I would have to reject my own conclusions of the past ten years. But I think that what you have to say is very important, and I want you to write and publish an essay on this subject.” In the ensuing months he guided me through three drafts of that essay, forcing me to strengthen

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132 Nationalism and the Mind and helping me to polish the argument whose intention was to prove that he was wrong. I was already then struck by the exceptional generosity of spirit, and selflessness, exhibited in this reaction. I understand now that it also reflected his dedication to the thing beyond him, the ideal that he served and a particular tradition of inquiry which was to achieve the knowledge of this ideal. He welcomed every honest effort to carry on this tradition. What mattered for him was not whether he was wrong or right, but the Truth. Of course, I never convinced him, but my disagreement sufficed to make him yet again rethink his own ideas, for he never found them satisfactory – that’s why he never published his largest and most ambitious work – he never achieved certainty; to the end of his days he remained ignorant of the fundamental nature of the higher reality he adored, a pious agnostic. Shils’s vision appeared to refine and add on to Durkheim’s. Because Durkheim imagined the emergent phenomenon of society as, fundamentally, physical energy generated by the physical proximity of individual biological organisms, it came and went, ebbed and flowed with the density of physical interaction, almost being born every time anew; its existence was a row of discrete periods of vitality that alternated with periods of attenuation. Of course, it never completely died: it lived on in symbolic representations that individuals carried in their minds at all times, even when dispersed; but in these representations, it appears, it was but a faint shadow of its real, vibrant self. Shils, in contrast, imagined the emergent phenomenon of society as essentially symbolic reality, which was perpetuated as tradition and lived in the human minds most fully. In distinction to Durkheim – for whom, it seems, a certain, independently existing physical energy projected itself into symbolic representations, which reflected it, but were not it themselves – for Shils, the symbolic representations as a system were the source of the physical energy. Like Weber, Shils perceived society as culture, which Durkheim did not. But this would not explain why Shils found Durkheim’s view so unsatisfactory as to refuse to recognize the underlying affinity between his own and Durkheim’s ideas, and particularly between Durkheim’s juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane and his own center and periphery. In science, we try to go beyond our predecessors, knowing that those who come after us will go beyond us. It is a cumulative process in which we all build on the achievements of those who worked before us.

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Praxis Pietatis 133 Shils refused to build on Durkheim’s legacy because his intellectual project transcended science. The problem was that what he wanted to know – the fundamental nature of culture – could not be known rationally and empirically. It was, in other words, rationally and empirically unfathomable and inscrutable, like God. When rational and empirical knowledge is impossible, words acquire significance of an order quite different from the one they have in science. They become the direct, immediate means of knowledge, means of revelation, rather than analysis, which may lead to knowledge at some point. Naming the rationally unfathomable thing correctly becomes all-important, because the correct name seems to bring out its essence, calling it allows one to face it. Under these conditions, the terms one uses, the words, are no longer interchangeable: certain terms are inherently true, all the rest are fundamentally erroneous. At the same time, even the true terms are still only representations of the essence, they are still not it. There is something curious about Shils’s discussions of culture: the care with which, it seems, he avoids using the word “culture” itself: given that this is what he is constantly preoccupied with, he uses the word very rarely indeed and almost never explicitly refers to his subject by this term. The rational and empirical understanding of the fundamental nature of culture, its essential understanding, is impossible because we cannot externalize it, cannot step outside it conceptually and envision the moment of emergence, when the elements which are not in themselves cultural combine and become culture. Maybe this is possible in relation to a particular life cell – and the ability to successfully visualize this moment in relation to it would mean the ability to create life; but it is never possible in relation to culture, because the cells of culture are human minds and they cannot be observed at all outside of culture. The emergence of culture, like the emergence of life, is fundamentally an historical problem. But with life, possibly, as with Durkheim’s society, history constantly repeats itself, while with culture, which exists as tradition, it does not. The creators of every new form of culture are necessarily creatures of culture themselves. To step out of culture to observe it from the necessary distance, we would have to step out of the history of humanity as a thinking species – at that point, conceptually, we won’t be anywhere near anything cultural; it will no longer be within our field of vision. This means that, as empirical students of culture, we must be confined within this emergent reality; we have no choice but to follow the advice of Claude

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134 Nationalism and the Mind Bernard and the example of Max Weber; we can never essentially understand, nor can we rigorously define the power that gives meaning to our existence. As scientists, we must give this project up. But we should never lose sight of the reality we cannot fully know and, perhaps, we should be grateful that we live in a forever mysterious world. Edward Shils conceived of intellectuals “as the carriers of autonomous traditions of the transcendental center.” “The intellectuals of the most elevated sort,” he wrote,“seek a primacy of connection with the transcendental center of existence. They seek its ultimate laws. They attempt to disclose those things which are more vital than what others have seen …” Professor Shils was such an intellectual of the most elevated sort. His quest was ultimately futile. But it was not at all in vain. In striving, to his last day, to attain the unattainable, he tested the limits of our ability to know; he exemplified the mysterious force he tried to understand; he focused our gaze on the vital, the serious, and the central; he taught us an appreciation of the magnificence of the social – cultural – reality. For those fortunate to have known him, he set a standard of intellectual dedication against which we are bound to measure ourselves as long as we live. Some thirty years from now, when I am taking stock of my life, I might dream of wandering in some dark corridors and finding the old Professor Shils, sitting, absorbed in work, at a desk in a niche. I would surely tiptoe to that desk and hold my breath, waiting for his judgment. And I would hope, when he lifted his eyes, he might recognize that, despite all my doubts, I remained faithful to the tradition of which he was such an inspiring custodian, and that he would say to me, as Max Weber most certainly did to him: “I approve of what you are doing.” Originally prepared as a lecture for the interdisciplinary seminar of the University Professors at Boston University, where it was delivered on 16 October 1995, and published in The American Sociologist (Winter 1996)

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7 THE POLITICAL SIGNIFICANCE OF CULTURE

The question of whether cultural and political concerns are separable, which I was asked to address in these pages, is a fundamental question of sociology; it is, in fact, a question of the nature of social reality, and its examination requires that we begin with the somewhat abstract consideration of politics, culture, and society as such. A discussion of this sort may, at first sight, appear out of place in the context of world leaders and academics debating the changing nature of global security; yet, it is as essential for a correct understanding and effective resolution of this “realpolitical”issue as the (special) theory of relativity was for practical matters such as the fission of the atom. The proposed topic of the debate – the changing nature of European security in today’s international relations, including the precarious relationship between security policies and the politics of culture – is predicated, it seems to me, on a certain understanding of this complex problem which presupposes a particular answer to the question posed to me. It presupposes that cultural and political concerns represent two different, thus separable, spheres of reality; that since the end of the Cold War, cultural concerns have assumed a new significance, giving rise to a new kind of politics – politics of culture; and that the change in the nature of European security and stability can be largely attributed to this ascendancy. This, in turn, presupposes the view of culture as, essentially, extraneous to politics and of its political significance (i.e. of politics of culture) as a temporary, historically circumscribed occurrence, which may orient security policies in the direction of containment and dissipation of such cultural influences.

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136 Nationalism and the Mind Contrary to this view – which appears to me to lurk behind the assignment – I am going to propose that all politics are politics of culture; that the significance of culture in politics is a permanent feature of political reality; that change in the nature of global stability should be attributed not to the altered relationship between the spheres of culture and politics, but to the ascendancy of particular forms of culture; and that the efficiency of security policies may very well depend on the accuracy of the relevant cultural analysis, making this seemingly esoteric pursuit one of the most practical undertakings in which those for whom security is a concern may engage. Human society is a corollary of human life. It is, therefore, a biological necessity. As such, it cannot be properly understood without reference to the complex of biological characteristics – deficiencies as well as endowments of the human nature – which form the boundary conditions for its existence. (This does not, of course, mean that these biological characteristics determine the nature of social reality; there is no socio-biological thrust to my argument, as I hope to make clear below.) Deficiencies create certain needs which the endowments make possible to fulfill. The most important of these creative deficiencies is, no doubt, the inadequate instinctual structure of the human species. Unlike other animals, we, human beings, do not carry within our genes the rules of social behavior – and thus the image of the social order – which make for the co-operation between individual organisms that is essential for our survival. This creates a biological imperative for a functional equivalent of instincts – a different kind of prescriptions for orderly behavior; our large brain enables us to answer this need by coming up with symbolic representations of the social order, images of society, what Clifford Geertz calls “models for” social reality. Such “models for” constitute culture in its most general sense. Culture, therefore, is the symbolic analogue and functional equivalent of genetic rules for co-operative behavior, of which we, as a species, are deprived. Being a biological imperative, culture represents a sociological constant: every society has a culture. But because it is, in every case, a product of human creativity, cultures vary across societies, and every society has a different culture. In fact, a society is defined by its culture; each society (and this is true of a nation as much as it is true of any self-conscious subgroup within a national population) is, in the first place, a reflection and embodiment of a particular image of or “model for” a social order. In this sense, it is more accurate to say that every

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The Political Significance of Culture 137 society is a culture.“Models for” social order, or fundamental cultural presuppositions, in different societies may well be incompatible; as a rule, reasons for congruence or affinity between different cultures are historical, that is, accidental. This incompatibility, under certain conditions, translates into a political conflict, which it implies as a possibility. Some forms of culture – or some forms of models for social order – are more conflict-prone than others, and the realization of this possibility, among other things, depends on the degree to which a culture is open to it: the readiness with which it perceives the incompatibility between its fundamental presuppositions and those of other societies, and interprets this incompatibility as in some respect offensive or threatening to its existence. Since (human) social reality is essentially cultural reality, and any society is an embodiment or realization of a particular cultural model, the same must apply to aspects of social reality, such as politics. Indeed, political order, though not wholly determined by culture (the multifaceted human nature precludes determination, in the strict meaning of the word, of any aspect of social life), is shaped by culture directly and to a very significant extent. Any enduring political structure – and political order presupposes endurance – is based on its acceptance as legitimate, or, in other words, as moral and just; and it is culture that defines what is to be considered as moral, just, and legitimate. Every political order thus represents a reflection and realization of a culture’s central, legitimating beliefs. (There is nothing new in what I am saying so far; it will be immediately recognized that I am relying on the discussion of political institutions in one of the most venerable classics of sociology: Max Weber’s Economy and Society.) This being so, political and cultural concerns cannot be separated by definition. But the cultural nature of politics would represent a security problem only if culture is assumed to be inherently conflictual and violent. Is this assumption justified? Our thinking about these matters, never sufficiently clear, is clouded today by the use of euphemisms – politically correct, but increasingly remote from the phenomena they are supposed to designate – and the conceptual confusion in which such use inevitably results. In order to avoid reference to the embarrassing subject of race, for example, we equate ethnic identity (which, for all intents and purposes, stands for racial, biological identity) with cultural identity, and politics of ethnicity with politics of culture; in doing so we learn to

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138 Nationalism and the Mind confuse ethnicity with culture. This confusion is further aggravated by the fact that we believe ethnicity to be the natural material of identity and every identity an ethnic identity at root. The most violent conflicts of our time – since the Second World War, at least – have been conflicts over issues of identity, couched in primordialist, naturalist terms which today we call “ethnic.” As a result, we jump to the conclusion that culture (i.e. ethnicity, i.e. identity) is the carrier of violence and irrationality, and that its intrusion into the otherwise presumably non-violent and rational world of politics is a danger to international security and political stability. That in the process we substitute culture, which traditionally stood for the super-ego, for the furies of the Freudian Id – confounding polar opposites and wreaking havoc on the very theory from which we derive most of our notions about human violence – does not daunt us. But while every identity, including ethnic identity, is a reflection of culture, forms of identity cannot be reduced to ethnic identity, nor can culture be reduced to ethnic identity or to identity in general. As to ethnicity, it is only remotely related to ethnic identity and may not be connected to culture at all. We use the term “ethnicity” to refer to various ascriptive characteristics – that is, characteristics which are not of one’s own choosing, but with which one is associated due to the accident of birth – believed today to be the sources of our essential political identity which defines our place as political actors in the widest possible context. Some of these ascriptive characteristics, such as language and religious and secular traditions and customs, are obviously cultural, but others, such as physical type or territorial roots, are not. Yet, the term “ethnicity” applies equally to all of them, and all of them, equally, are considered capable of generating ethnic identity. More important, however, than the fact that only some of these presumably identity-generating qualities are cultural, is the circumstance that ascriptive, or ethnic, characteristics as such cannot generate identity at all. All of us have ascriptive qualities which distinguish us from others, including members of our very families, and we are born into certain subcommunities which are distinguished from others in the larger communities to which we belong in numerous potentially noticeable ways. Every society, in other words, is ethnically diverse, ethnic homogeneity being utterly impossible and hardly imaginable. The reason why we do not think of it this way is that, in the vast majority of cases, we do not notice ethnic, or ascriptive, differences among people, and attach to them no importance

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The Political Significance of Culture 139 whatsoever. For instance, in Europe and North America today we do not class people by the color of their eyes; it would seem preposterous to see eye-color as the basis for one’s ethnic identity, but, in itself, eye color is not less noticeable or real than the tint of one’s skin. In Russia, one does not attach too much importance to the differences in pronunciation and phraseology that distinguish residents of Moscow from those of St. Petersburg, and one certainly does not see these as an indication of ethnic differences. But this linguistic disparity, however slight, is nevertheless more pronounced than the one presumed to exist between the languages of Serbians, Croatians, and now Bosnians, all of whom not long ago would be recognized as the speakers of one and the same Serbo-Croatian language. The fact is that ethnic, ascriptive differences are noticed and form elements of an identity only when the culture invests them with special significance and assigns them a place in its symbolic model for the social order. It is clear from the above examples that such investment and assignment does not at all depend on the actual magnitude of the differences or on the salience of any particular ascriptive characteristic: the attribution of the cultural significance is quite independent of the so-called “objective” situation, for, as I have already said, we perceive only such elements of that situation which are made culturally significant. Our social world is culturally constructed and none of our qualities as social actors exist outside of the magic circle drawn by our collective imagination. Now, the political significance of ethnicity is, in the first place, a function of its cultural significance. Though the investment of any set of ascriptive characteristics with cultural significance does not automatically lead to ethnic politics, it forms the necessary first condition for such politics. Until quite recently, ethnicity had been of little importance in politics. Politically significant identities were not ethnic, but rather estate (that is, reflective of social stratification) and religious in the sense very different from the one attached to religion when it is defined as an ethnic characteristic. The identity of Christians, Muslims, and Jews was constituted essentially by the bond between the individual soul and the Deity and inconceivable outside of the Christian, Muslim or Jewish faith. This faith was not carried in one’s blood – as it is presumed to be, for instance, in the case of the secular descendants of South Slav Muslims – and even in Ireland one could not care less whether an atheist came from a Protestant or a Catholic family (as one does in the telling joke, bandied around among

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140 Nationalism and the Mind students of ethnicity). Religious identity was a matter of personal belief, commitment, and responsibility; as an element of ethnicity it became a matter of biology, a quality of a group, entirely independent of individual choice. It became possible to speak of “the religion of origin” – a meaningless notion for a believer; at the same time, one’s socio-economic position was increasingly recognized as a matter of achievement, and, in most societies, the importance of “class of origin” declined dramatically. These changes in the nature of identity, in general, and the increased political significance of ethnic identities, specifically, reflected the emergence and quick ascendancy of a new cultural model for social order which was to transform the social – and political – reality, making our world what it is today. This cultural model, the symbolic and very real foundation of modern society was nationalism. A discussion of the emergence of nationalism will take us too far afield; in the present context, it would be sufficient to define it and relate national identity to ethnic identity. Nationalism is best approached as a type of socio-political ideology, similar to a type of religion, for instance, monotheism – and representing a set of basic principles which, within certain limits, lend themselves to various interpretations and, as such, may serve as the foundations of different and, from certain points of view, even contradictory cultural systems. Christianity is vastly different from Islam, which, nevertheless, shares with it the fundamental principle of one omnipotent God. Similarly, one may distinguish between several dramatically different types of nationalism, easily recognizable as types of nationalism, despite pronounced differences among them, because they share the basic principles of the nationalist form of consciousness. The core political principle of nationalism is the principle of popular sovereignty. Its core social principle is the principle of the fundamental equality of membership in the national community. Finally, it is important to mention the essentially secular focus of nationalism, which sharply distinguishes this modern form of culture from the great transcendental religions that provided models for civilizations of the past, and which has profound implications for almost every area of social and political experience in modern society. Different types of nationalism are based on different interpretations of the first two principles: the principle of popular sovereignty and the principle of equality of membership. Specifically, nationalisms are distinguished in accordance with the definition of the nation they

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The Political Significance of Culture 141 adopt (the bearer of popular sovereignty) and the criteria of membership in the nation (who is to be included in the community of equals). The nation can be defined as a composite entity, an association of free and equal individuals, or in unitary terms, as a collective individual. The first definition gives rise to individualistic nationalisms and favors the development of liberal political arrangements. The interests of the nation, as well as its sovereignty or will, in this case, are but reflections of the interests of the majority of its members and their wills. The rights of the individuals – human rights – are supreme among the nation’s values, and very few circumstances justify the sacrifice of the human life. The definition of the nation as a collective individual, by contrast, results in collectivistic nationalisms which tend to spawn authoritarian political arrangements. In this case, the nation is believed to possess a will and interests of its own, to which the wills and interests of its individual members are subservient and may at any moment be sacrificed. It is the rights of the nation, rather than human rights, that have the pride of place among social values, and human life is held in far lesser esteem. Collectivistic nationalisms tend to be authoritarian, because the will of the nation, which cannot be gauged from the wills of the majority of its members, has to be deciphered and interpreted by an elite claiming special qualifications to do so. This elite (which can assume the character of intellectuals, as is very often the case, or of a political party, of which we also know some examples) then acquires the right to dictate this will to the masses of the population, who must obey. The criteria of membership in the nation, which represent the second set of characteristics that distinguishes between types of nationalism, can be either civic or ethnic. In the case of civic criteria of membership, nationality is coterminous with citizenship and in principle is believed to be a matter of individual choice and commitment. As such, it can be acquired or lost. In distinction, ethnic criteria of membership presume that nationality is inherent and, as such, unchangeable: one can neither acquire a particular national identity if one is not born with it, nor abandon it if one is. Theoretically, the superimposition of these two sets of features creates four types of nationalism, but an individualistic and ethnic nationalism is logically impossible; thus nationalism exists in three basic varieties: individualistic and civic, collectivistic and civic, and collectivistic and ethnic. Whenever we speak of ethnic identity, we in fact refer to this last type of nationalism. It is nationalism which

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142 Nationalism and the Mind invests ethnicity with cultural significance. In this sense, ethnic identity, which is so often seen as the primordial raw material of nationalism, is a product of this modern form of consciousness. As I have argued in print on several occasions, the different types of nationalism have dramatically different propensities in the sphere of internal politics as well as international relations. Specifically, ethnic nationalisms differ markedly in their characteristic tendencies from individualistic and civic nationalisms. Among other things, ethnically defined nations are more likely to engage in aggressive warfare than individualistic nations. This is so for several reasons. Individualistic nationalisms are not, in principle, particularistic, for they are based on the universalistic principle of the moral primacy of the individual. This goes for any individual, whether or not he or she belongs to the national community; as a result, the borderline between “us” and “them” is frequently blurred. One’s nation is not perceived as an animate being which can nurture grievances, nor are other nations regarded as individuals harboring malicious intentions and capable of inflicting insults. The culprits and the victims in every conflict are specified, and sympathies and antipathies change with the issues and points of view. Moreover, individualistic nationalisms are by definition pluralisms, which implies that at any point in time there exists a plurality of opinions in regard to what constitutes the good of the nation. For this reason, it is relatively difficult to achieve a consensus necessary for the mobilization of the population for war in individualistic nations; it is especially difficult in the case of aggressive war, when no direct threat from the prospective enemy is perceived by the national population. Ethnic nationalisms, by contrast, are necessarily forms of particularism. The borderline between “us” and “them,” as regards memberships, is relatively clear, the nations are seen as individuals capable of suffering and inflicting insults, and the national collectivity is essentially a consensual, rather than conflictual, pluralistic society. All these qualities facilitate mobilization. In addition, during war, ethnic nationalisms are more conducive to brutality in relation to the enemy population than civic nationalisms. This is so because civic nationalism, even when particularistic, treats humanity as one fundamentally homogeneous entity. Foreigners are not fellow nationals, but they are still fellow men, and with some effort on their part, it is assumed, they may become fellow nationals. In ethnic nationalisms, by contrast, the borderline between “us” and “them” is in principle impermeable. Nationality is defined as

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The Political Significance of Culture 143 an inherent trait, and nations are seen, in effect, as separate species. Foreigners are no longer fellow men in the same sense, and there is no moral imperative to treat them as one would treat one’s fellow nationals, just the same way as there is no imperative to treat our fellow mammals, or even fellow great apes as fellow men. The very definitions of ethnic nations presuppose a double-standard of moral or humane conduct. The tendency to “demonize” the enemy population, considered to be a necessary condition for “crimes against humanity,” is built-in into ethnic nationalisms, for enemy populations within them are not necessarily defined as humanity to begin with. According to the characteristic psychologic of ethnic nationalisms, in which both one’s own nation and other nations are defined in terms of inherent traits, the evil other (whoever that may be) is always harboring malicious intentions, and is ready to strike against the innocent nation at an opportune moment. For this reason, ethnic nations tend to feel threatened and to become aggressive – both to preempt perceived threats of aggression against them and because the evil nature of the adversary justifies aggression, even if no immediate threats are perceived, at the same time as it justifies brutality in relation to the enemy population. All these tendencies of ethnic nationalisms have been clearly reflected in the conduct of the Serbian and Croatian parties throughout the course of the devastating conflict in former Yugoslavia. But they are just as characteristic of other ethnic nationalisms, even though, under certain circumstances, they may be hidden from view. The greater salience of nationalist sentiments, especially ethnic nationalist sentiments, and the re-activation of national conflicts in Eastern Europe following the conclusion of the Cold War – which made the end of the twentieth century so visibly unstable and, understandably, heightened security concerns in Europe – can be attributed neither to the change of modern political identities, nor to the introduction of culture into politics, but solely to the disintegration of imperial systems which held these sentiments and hostilities in check, without modifying them in the least. It must be emphasized that the resurgence of nationalism and the so-called “politics of culture” are related to the end of the Cold War only as simultaneous but independent effects of the same cause – the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Cold War itself was not, as was thought, a confrontation between the embodiments of two universalistic ideologies: Communism and

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144 Nationalism and the Mind Liberalism, but of two nations, whose identities are to this day defined by two contradictory types of nationalism. The ease with which former Communist bosses transform into right-wing nationalists attests to the deep affinity between communism and ethnic nationalism. The former, as I have argued in other contexts, is in fact a metamorphosed variety of the latter. Ostensibly an internationalist and a universalistic doctrine, communism only thinly camouflaged the nationalist character of the regimes in the Soviet bloc, and in particular of the regime in the Soviet Union itself. The abandonment of the camouflage was unlikely to change the nature of our formidable adversary of the past decades and only at peril to our security can be interpreted as a victory over it. With concepts of national self-definition remaining unchanged, one cannot expect changes in the dispositions of major players on the political stage. However, this very absence of change in the character of nationalism in the changed international circumstances which allow for a more open expression of nationalist ambitions creates both an opportunity and a necessity to rethink the theoretical vision of international relations which has informed our security concerns thus far. We need a new paradigm, so to speak. The end of the Cold War may not have changed the nature of our security concerns so much as revealed their source. It has made the influence of cultural values, especially values reflecting the national identities and consciousness of different societies, on politics undeniable, and we must come to grips with the notion that such values represent an essential ingredient of the political process.We must understand that nationalism (like culture, in general) is not a uniform phenomenon, and that the political implications of various types of nationalism, and thus of culture, differ dramatically. One type of nationalism, ethnic nationalism, contributes disproportionately to the volatility of politics and constitutes, in the absence of restraints, a permanent threat to international stability. It is a dangerous, potentially violent form of culture. Security alliances of liberal democracies (and here I speak as a concerned citizen rather than as a social scientist) must deem subscription to the principles of ethnic nationalism unacceptable among their members. It must be closely watched and contained, and the first step to containing it is the ability to distinguish clearly between it and alternative forms of identity. Originally published in The Brown Journal of World Affairs, 4:1 (Winter/Spring 1997)

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8 SCIENCE AND LITERATURE AS SO CIAL INSTITUTIONS 1

In the image of modern society and in the modern consciousness science occupies a place of honor and authority unrivaled by any other form of intellectual endeavor. Its salience distinguishes modernity from other periods in history, and it is to it we owe the generally optimistic tenor of our way of life, our confidence in the future, and the pervasive idea of progress, fundamental to modern experience. This centrality, which makes science a natural object of respect, also makes it a target of criticism and attack, and the antinomian bent of the modern temper contributes to its vulnerability. Science is under attack often. The twentieth century, which has been a period of unprecedented triumphs for science, has also been the time of almost constant, though not uniform as to place and disciplinary focus, attack on it, antiscientism emerging alongside scientism as a major modern tradition.2 The attack on science is not always bad for it: social disapprobation has, on occasion, spurred science on, prompting scientific communities to abandon their vested interests in erroneous established theories, to venture new hypotheses, and thereby to reaffirm the principles of scientific method. Thus the neo-Romantic, anti-rationalist assault on causal physics in post-First World War Germany, proved an inspiration for the quantum theory, speeding paradigmatic change, and strengthening the cognitive apparatus of physical science and, eventually, its position in society. 3 But whatever its implication for science itself, the antiscientistic attack on science is unhealthy for society, for it always aims at, and, if effective, undermines, much more than science.

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146 Nationalism and the Mind Since the days of the early Romantics in Germany and in Russia, the two cultural habitats, both destined to become major scientific powers, where the modern tradition of antiscientism has flourished most luxuriously, the attack on science takes the form of claims undermining its privileged epistemological position, that is the presumption of its ability to access directly empirical reality, or “truth” about the empirical world, and produce objectively valid knowledge. The privileged position is unjustified, the argument goes, because science is only as true as any other form of knowledge, for instance, poetry, fiction, religion, or art. Since epistemological relativism is based, in the first place, on the anthropological-philosophical presupposition of the essential uniformity of symbol-producing, cultural activities, it considers self-evident that these activities belong to the same category of phenomena, representing but species of the same genera – knowledge. This raises some problems in regard to the definition of knowledge. But the presupposition is supported by the further assertion – also of Romantic derivation, but this time, sociological – that the products of these activities are all socially constructed, i.e. constructed by man-in-society, man as a species being, and that, being identical in this their social origin, they must, to an identical extent in all cases, be subject to social influences and cannot be significantly different in their epistemological implications and effects.4 This argument is made by people of various training. But since it advances a claim about a certain – quite important – aspect of empirical social reality, or rather all of its explicitly or emphatically symbolic aspects, and implies certain propositions about the nature of the social reality in general, which makes it a sociological argument in its orientation, as well as ontological presuppositions, I propose to examine it in a systematic fashion, comparing science and – given the subject of the conference – literature from the sociological point of view and approaching both as socially constructed systems of relations and meanings, or social institutions. Such an examination in the presence of an audience composed predominantly of non-sociologists requires a brief discussion of the nature of society and the place of institutions in it. Society, like life and, perhaps, the mind, belongs to the narrow but tremendously important category of natural emergent phenomena. Emergent phenomena are complex phenomena, irreducible to the sum total of their elements, phenomena whose distinguishing qualities are not found in any of

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Science and Literature as Social Institutions 147 their elements and yet come about when these elements are combined, and whose distinctive behavior cannot be explained by reference to any of the regularities explaining the behavior of their elements, but can explain many of these regularities once the elements become elements of the emergent phenomenon. Society exists when individual, separate organisms of the human species cohere in groups which give an impression of unity and behave, in a sense, as organisms in their own right. This coherence or social integration, like life, is a process; it is never complete, never perfect, and it stops only with disintegration. New inchoate forms of sociological integration constantly come into being. Durkheim calls these inchoate forms “social currents.” When social currents crystallize, i.e. acquire the semblance of structures, they become social institutions. Of course, the term “structure,” when applied to social reality, is only a metaphor; it is a heuristic device, helping us to come to grips with the enormous complexity, and the fluidity, the protean quality of social phenomena; and social institutions,no less than social currents and social integration, in general, are in fact processes, rather than structures. Any particular society, like any living organism, is a process. Nevertheless, it is useful to envision it as a stable structure, in which institutions form the interrelated and stable building blocks. A social institution is best (that is, most usefully for the purposes of empirical research) defined as a patterned activity, whose enduring or patterned quality is captured in the concept of “social role,” guided by a set of social norms, and oriented toward a specific fundamental goal or value. Let me here quote myself on the subject: This goal or value is the satisfaction of some human need or – to avoid teleology – appetite, and it can also be called the “function” of the institution. As a process, a social institution is changeable and forever changing. But it is not interchangeable with other social institutions and cannot be reduced to other social phenomena. It is oriented towards a definite goal, value, or function, peculiar to itself; and this goal, value, or function gives the process its unique, distinctive quality, makes it a social institution distinguished from all the rest and establishes the borders between this particular activity and the outside society. The goal, value, or function of a social institution – the satisfaction of a certain appetite – may be socially constructed but is usually naturally given, or at least in part defined, by non-social, psychological, or biological propensities of human beings. The nature of

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148 Nationalism and the Mind these propensities in any given case determines the internal logic of the institutions based on them. The manner in which the goal of an institution is achieved, on the other hand, is socially determined. Social determination explains the vast variations within the same social institution in different ages and societies, but this variability is limited by the internal logic or laws prescribed to the activity by its fundamental goal. The internal nonsocial logic of the goal towards which the social institution is oriented, and which defines its character, is what accounts for the perception of society in terms of autonomy of institutions – a fundamental concept of Weberian sociology reflecting its multicausal, nondeterministic character – as well as for much of the fascinating and frustrating complexity of social reality itself.5

Not every social phenomenon, not even every social system, is a social institution (neighborhoods, for example, are not, and neither is language). To be an institution, a social phenomenon must be an activity that possesses an internal logic which reflects its goal; although susceptible to influences from the outside and constantly interacting with the rest of social reality, it must be in this sense autonomous. A paradigmatic and most common example of a social institution is the family, but social phenomena rather different from it, such as religion, science, and the arts, also qualify for being regarded as social institutions. The analysis of every social institution should begin with a discussion of its fundamental goal. In regard to literature, such discussion was initiated by the Russian Formalists, a group of linguists and philologists, mainly active between 1916 and 1929, which included such scholars as Boris Eikhenbaum, Yuri Tynianov, Viktor Shklovsky, and, for a while, Roman Jakobson. Russian Formalism originated as a school of prosody, in the first years of its existence focusing on the study of formal elements of poetic language. After 1924, however, its leading members became increasingly interested in the relationship between literature and society, having concluded that “the science of language and literature [belonged to] the category of social, more precisely, sociological disciplines”6 and that no coherent literary theory could be constructed without the consideration of this relationship. But though they clearly recognized that literature was a social phenomenon, they also stressed that it was “a specific set of facts,”that is, a social phenomenon sui generis, displaying characteristics that

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Science and Literature as Social Institutions 149 distinguished it from other social phenomena. This emphasis bears a close affinity to Clifford Geertz’s insistence on paying attention to the formal qualities of symbolic constructions as the first step in their sociological and anthropological analysis – reflected in his treatment of religion, ideology, and common sense as “cultural systems,” that is, systems of meanings.7 The Formalists, however, and despite their name which suggests otherwise, transcended this formalism, going further in the direction of sociological understanding of literature. The specificity of literature, what Formalists referred to as the “literariness” or the artistic quality of certain linguistic activity and its products, reflected the fact that its fundamental goal, value, or function was aesthetic. It was the use of language not as, primarily, a vehicle for communication, but in a way that made its properties “palpable,” thereby making possible the appreciation or enjoyment of these properties. The natural “appetite” toward which literature was oriented, thus was the propensity for the sensual enjoyment of linguistic form. Bakhtin ridiculed this proposition as basing the high art of literature – in the Russian context, the divine art – on “the naked hedonistic sensation.” But this understanding of the aesthetic function is largely corroborated by the experience of other arts and allows us to explain certain regularities in the development of music and painting, as well as of literature. Moreover, whether or not the empirical proposition as to the exact nature of the propensity lying at the basis of literature as a social institution is accurate, the emphasis on the fundamental function as a non-cultural, universal, psychological propensity is sociologically sound; if the hypothesis of the sensual enjoyment of form is wrong, we must come up with its functional equivalent, and so long as we lack an alternative hypothesis, we must keep the Formalist view, for it is the only one which makes sociological sense. The basic function of the social institution provides a sort of boundary condition for the possible variation of the concrete form, or mode of existence, of this institution, and explains both the nature and extent of influence of other social phenomena on it, and the patterns of evolution within it. Talking of literary evolution, formalists referred to the origination of new literary forms from earlier ones, according to internal laws of literary development, with no extraliterary factors intervening. According to the formalists the palpability of form, without which the fulfillment of the literary function was

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150 Nationalism and the Mind impossible, was subject to “automatization”: through use forms tended to acquire a cliché-like character and to cease to be palpable. The very success of a literary device contained in itself a necessity of its abolition and substitution by another one. Inherent in the mechanism of literary evolution – a yearning for palpable form and the tendency of forms to become automatized – was the tentative direction of literary change in any given case (though not the overall direction). It was referred to by the formalists as the phenomenon of the “canonization of junior genres.” At any given period a number of linguistic phenomena coexisted with the literary phenomenon and there were different degrees of literariness within literature itself, so that it was possible to speak about centers and peripheries in literature. The substitute for the automatized form would always come from peripheries of literature, or from other linguistic phenomena, not from the forms or genres nearest to the dominant form, since those would be already nearly automatized. The peripheral form closest to being directly opposite to the dominant automatized form would have the better chance to substitute for that form. The literary tradition, thus, as Viktor Shklovsky put it, was transmitted not from fathers to sons, but from uncles to nephews, and tradition itself was understood as a jumping-off ground and not as a revered system of ideas carried on, developed, and incorporated into new works. The phenomenon Formalists were talking about is, in fact, an instance of the law of marginal utility and the tendency toward product differentiation. The utility (or pleasure) derived from an object (in this case, a form) diminishes with use, and the more successful a form is, the more frequently it is used (or encountered), the more certain and widespread is the diminution of the utility that can be derived from it. According to the Formalist conception of literary change, the laws of literary evolution provided boundary conditions for the possibility of genesis, that is, of influence by external social factors. Since literature was a social phenomenon, it did not exist in a vacuum and, while it had its own function, all the materials on which it could be exercised were taken from the larger society. Both specifically literary and other social factors necessarily participated in the creation of the literary or literary-historical fact, namely in the endowment of some material or form with literariness, in its acquisition of the literary function. The “sign of literariness” constantly moved from one material, form, or fact to another – literary phenomena frequently

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Science and Literature as Social Institutions 151 becoming “marginal facts of life” and facts of life becoming literary facts. The Formalist position on the patterns of interaction and cross-fertilization of literature and society in the process of literary development was summarized by the Czech structuralist Jan Mukarovsky, who wrote: “Each change of artistic structure is induced from the outside, either directly, under the immediate impact of social change, or indirectly, under the influence of a development in one of the parallel cultural domains, such as science, economics, politics, language, etc. The way, however, in which the given external challenge is met and the form to which it gives rise depend on the factors inherent in the artistic structure.” This position closely resembles a theory in what may be called the Mertonian sociology of science, most explicitly argued by Joseph Ben-David, according to which extrascientific social factors can often explain changes in problematics, timing of the solution of one or another scientific problem, and its place, but cannot ever explain the nature of the solution itself, which is determined internally – and thus do not systematically impinge on the validity of science.8 This theory is opposed by the so-called constructivist school in the sociology of science, which carries on the classical, Marxist, tradition of the sociology of knowledge and is the sociological counterpart of the antiscientistic, relativistic position in philosophy, represented by Feyerabend and, perhaps malgré lui, Kuhn.9 The argument of the constructivist school makes explicit the grounds for attack on the privileged epistemological position of science, revealing the fundamental assumption of epistemological relativism. Science, like any other social activity, being socially constructed or patterned, its access to empirical reality must be mediated by, therefore obstructed, by extrascientific social factors, such as norms, conventions, interest, as much as that of any other social construction. In the words of one of the main representatives of the constructivist school, Barry Barnes: “Science is a part of culture like any other,” therefore,“there is no reason why [external] determinants [of scientific knowledge] should be regarded as absent.”10 The proponents of this sociological position, however, fail in the exercise of their professional duties, i.e. as sociologists. They overlook the central features of science precisely as social construction – the nature of the value-orientation in this institutional complex and the fact that, like any other social institution, science must be essentially unlike any other social institution. The nature of the central goal or

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152 Nationalism and the Mind value of science is captured by Weber in his poignant essay “Science as a Vocation.” Defining science as a calling in the context which is clearly not religious, Weber calls attention to the social significance of any inner passion – an obviously individual, psychological disposition – for the character of the scientific activity and its product – scientific knowledge. This passion is empirical curiosity – the desire to uncover regularities in, and in this sense to know and understand, the world around us. The nature of this desire imposes a set of boundary conditions on the manner of its satisfaction, which are dramatically different from the conditions imposed by the aesthetic propensity for the sensual enjoyment of form. The social structure of science, the norms that guide scientific activity, the roles in which it is organized, and the relations between the institution of science and wider social context, therefore, must be quite unlike those of literature (or religion, or ideology, etc.). To begin with, curiosity dictates to science a particular method (which constitutes a central element in the normative structure of science), while the aesthetic desire admits of a wide variety of methods. Scientific method, which is independent of the subject matters of any particular discipline and is equally applicable to and binding on physics and biology or social sciences, can be described, in Popper’s already axiomatic terms, as the method of conjectures and refutations,11 the disciplined, empirical, and rational, refutations representing the methodical element proper. It is clear that nothing less than that would satisfy a genuine passion for knowledge and understanding of the empirical reality. This passion is incapable of what Weber calls the “intellectual sacrifice” of faith – it is fundamentally incredulous – and, to get satisfaction, it willingly submits to numerous other sacrifices, such as, for instance, the sacrifice of certainty, of ambition, of leisure. This does not mean that every scientist makes these sacrifices, as it does not mean that for every scientist, or even for the majority of scientists the profession of science constitutes a vocation, a calling, which they must answer because of an inner passion. When an individual propensity, such as curiosity, is transformed into a social value, and activity based on it becomes institutionalized, it adds to a society a new structure of opportunities, which is likely to attract to it numerous entrants seeking satisfaction of precisely such, incidental to its central orientation, needs as ambition, need for leisure, and a certain kind of certainty. As any social institution that occupies a definite place in the system of stratification

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Science and Literature as Social Institutions 153 and is internally stratified, science allows the satisfaction of these needs to some extent. It appears to be a somewhat roundabout and ineffective way to achieve these incidental goals, as the social structure of science systematically demands their sacrifice; but then, errare humanum est, and having once entered the profession of science for the wrong reasons, one often finds that it is too late for a career change, when the mistake is discovered. The relative but still fundamental uniformity of the scientific method – necessarily reflected in the uniformity of the normative structure of science – in comparison to the “methodological pluralism” of literature already presupposes a certain linearity, and directness, of scientific development, as opposed to the multilinear and multidirectional development of literature. These dissimilar developmental tendencies are further reinforced by the differences in the mechanisms of scientific vis-à-vis literary evolution, and the possibilities it allows for scientific vis-à-vis literary genesis. The mechanism of literary evolution, the psychological dynamics underlying the process of stylistic change, as already mentioned, is captured by the Formalist concept of “automatization” of form. The principal operative in it is the principle of marginal utility: the necessary decrease of pleasure derived from a particular form with use, which is obviously related to the function of “literariness” or the desire for palpable, sensually pleasing form. The psychological mechanism of scientific change, in distinction, is intolerance to inconsistency, a sensitivity Kuhn pinpoints with his suggestive concepts of “anomaly.”12 The relation between this mechanism and the inner passion of science is as direct as that between “automatization” and “literariness.” The desire to understand the regularities of the empirical world is necessarily connected to the sensitivity to, and intolerance of, what appear to be irregularities. Unlike the mechanism of literary evolution, which allows for zigzagging and cyclical patterns of development, including the revival and ascendancy of previously automatized forms, however, the mechanism of change in science systematically pushes it in the direction of progressive elimination of inconsistencies, or in the direction of increasing “verisimilitude” in the sense Popper attributes to this word, of theories whose “truth content” more and more exceeds their “falsity content,” making every succeeding successful (that is, rigorously tested) theory, in terms of its correspondence to facts, a “better approximation to truth,” than the preceding one.13

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154 Nationalism and the Mind The accumulation of inconsistencies, or “anomalies,” as Kuhn had noticed, provides the internal impetus for scientific change. But at times, and in some areas more than in others, the impetus may come from the wider social context. The interest of society in finding a cure for AIDS, for instance, may suggest a research agenda for biology, which would not be directly related to the path of the discipline’s natural evolution. Certainly political exigencies have been known to redirect interests in physics, and of course, the social sciences turn like weather-vanes whichever way the winds of social change happen to blow. So, in science, as well as in literature, one can also speak of genesis. But in literature external social influences may define both the materials which are made palpable form and the methods by which palpability is achieved, thus changing the nature of the “literary fact” itself and penetrating to the very core, the content itself of literature. These pervasive influences tie literature inseparably to the nature of society within which it is produced, assuring that it can be abstracted from it only at the cost of often significant modification and impoverishment (this is what we get in translations); thus they particularize literature. In science, in distinction, the method of conjectures and refutations, made necessary by the nature of scientific curiosity, limits external influences to questions (materials or subjects of probing and understanding) only. The answers given to the questions, the content of scientific thought and knowledge, remain for all intents and purposes untouched by the social context in which it is produced; in this sense science has universal validity and can be considered objective. Moreover, the diversification of scientific interests under the influence of external social context, i.e. social genesis in the case of science, does not change the overall direction of scientific change, inherent in the mechanism of scientific evolution and dictated by the scientific method. This change remains cumulative, with new scientific theories superceding the achievements of the past, which become antiquated. In terms of its consistency with the regularities of empirical reality, science today is better than that of yesterday, the standards of scientific excellence are higher. One cannot say that of literature. The anticipation of having the arguments which often become intermeshed with a scholar’s very identity antiquated is a high price to pay for the belief in the validity of science and thus in scientific progress, but, as Weber argued so perceptively, those who feel called to science resign to this self-abnegation. In science, unlike in literature, religion, or

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Science and Literature as Social Institutions 155 ideology – to mention but a few examples – “truth” is independent from the ego: one does not represent it, but seeks it. It is, therefore, the social structure of science, its nature as a social construction, that allows one to defend its epistemological privilege and counter the constructivist attack on its validity. To begin with, science as a social institution is oriented toward a value which is different from the values of other institutionalized cultural systems. Its purpose is different, and just because it is systematically oriented to this purpose, it is likely to achieve it better than any other activity, such, for instance, as literature, to which the purpose of science – knowledge and understanding of empirical reality – is at best marginal. Moreover, as a social institution, and because of the nature of its central institutional value or function, science appears to be particularly well insulated from external social influences and thus less subject to the law of “sociological relativism”than most other social institutions. The boundaries of these other institutions appear porous like sponges by comparison to the walls that the social roles and norms of science erect around institutionalized scientific passion. The elimination from the discussion of “social relativism,” however, deprives the claim of “epistemological relativism” of all foundation. However indirect and imperfectly systematic and effective, science, one has to conclude in all fairness, is the most direct, systematic, and effective way to objective, valid empirical knowledge available to mankind. But all this tells us nothing about the reasons for its extraordinary ascendancy in modern society or for our collective obsession with it, whether in the form of loathing or adulation. Why do we take science so seriously? Why do we, as a society, spend so much time and energy in the attempt to prove that it is just a part of culture like any other, and why, when a natural scientist plays a joke on a trend in literary criticism, this becomes national news, meriting an explicit and organized response? After all, there is nothing in empirical knowledge as such that necessitates putting it on a pedestal: in fact, in the overwhelming majority of historical societies, it was considered a particularly unimportant kind of knowledge, largely irrelevant to the core existential questions. And one would hope it is not the connection of science to brute force, i.e. technology, from word processors to the atomic bomb, which makes it a general intellectual authority. The answer to these questions has to do with the nature of modern society, and specifically with the nature of modern Anglo-American identity.

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156 Nationalism and the Mind The birth of what we call “modern science,” that is scientific activity characterized by sustained growth, coincides with the institutionalization of empirical curiosity, or the emergence of science as a social institution.The scientific passion itself,of course,existed for millennia before this, but unprotected by the social structure, it was relatively unproductive, easily suppressed and diverted to the service of other, institutionalized, propensities, and, prevented from following its inner logic, capable of only intermittent advances, often succeeded by long periods of decline. In other words, the human capacity for science existed, but the social conditions for its realization were absent. The creation of these conditions was a result of an historical accident. The momentous event took place in seventeenth-century England,and the structural transformation, the shift in social attitudes which made the individual predilection for scientific activity an important social value, was reflected on the level of actual organizations by the foundation of the Royal Society of London in 1662. Until recently it was customary to think, following a suggestion of Weber14 and the famous Merton thesis15 which developed it into a theory, that the fundamental reason for this shift in attitudes was Protestantism. In fact, it was English nationalism. Nationalism was an historically novel type of collective consciousness and identity that emerged in England in the beginning of the sixteenth century, largely coinciding with the Reformation. It replaced the traditional, religious and estate, form of consciousness and identity, which preceded it, and symbolically separated England from the rest of the Christian world. It also changed the nature of political experience within England. The twin principles of nationalism were the principle of popular sovereignty and the principle of the fundamental equality of membership in the nation. As a result, it made dignity, heretofore a prerequisite of a privileged few, the experience – and soon after the need – of everyone included in the national community. This, in turn, dramatically increased the commitment to the collective dignity of the polity, making national prestige the paramount collective interest, and giving rise to the international competition in every sphere of national engagement. The new, national and competitive, spirit of the English almost immediately revealed itself in the changed orientation of the military, diplomatic, economic, as well as various cultural activities, in all of which the English, in words and in deeds, claimed for their nation superiority over any political competitor. The English religion was the

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Science and Literature as Social Institutions 157 purest and the best, among other things because – this was, perhaps, the most astonishing of such claims – “God was English.” The English economy was most flourishing (or would be, if only its potential was realized), and English artillery was most effective. English, the language, was the most expressive and the sweetest of all tongues, whether dead or living, its literature second to none. “The undoubted due,” of English poets, thought Dryden, was to be recognized for “excelling Aeschyllus, Euripides, and Sophocles”; Purcell’s music, according to him, was “equal to any foreign composer.” Dryden’s lyrics for Purcell’s “King Arthur” included the following paean to the “Queen of Islands,”“fair nymph of Britain”: For folded flocks, and fruitful plains, The shepherd’s and the farmer’s gains, Fair Britain all the world outvies; And Pan, as in Arcadia, reigns Where pleasure mix’d with profit lies. Tho’ Jason’s fleece was fam’d of old, The British wool is growing gold; No mines can more of wealth supply, It keeps the peasants from the cold, And takes for kings the Tyrian dye.16

In Annus Mirabilis, Dryden voiced his confidence in Britain’s future greatness, and it was tied to science: But what so long in vain, and yet unknown, By poor man-kind’s benighted wit is sought, Shall in this Age to Britain first be shown, And hence be to admiring Nations taught.17

Competition follows the same basic rules everywhere, product differentiation being one. England was a latecomer to the world of letters; in the beginning of the late sixteenth century, Erasmus counted five or six learned men in London, where Leland found one “slender”library. Even the heroic achievement of the Elizabethans could not put this culture on a par with those of France or Italy, the heirs of classical antiquity and the standard-bearers of literary excellence of the day. So, in the battle of the ancients and the moderns, the English took the side of the moderns: science, they declared, not literature, would be the repository of the national genius. One can spend hours citing seventeenth-century paeans to English science and science – vis-à-vis such “trifles” as literature or

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158 Nationalism and the Mind classical learning – in general. Excerpts from Thomas Sprat’s 1666 History of the Royal Society alone would keep us entertained until late at night. One has to keep in mind, however, that the activity so apostrophized, in England as elsewhere, at that time showed only the feeblest signs of life and that this adulation preceded each and every one of the great achievements that were to substantiate Bacon’s fervent belief in that sciencia was potencia. The early English scientism, that is, the ideology which defined science as an important social value and ensured its institutionalization and development, was based not on the record of science, but on a conviction in its potential contribution to the national greatness of England. Apart from the fact that in science England in the seventeenth century faced no serious competition and thus found a niche which offered it a chance to achieve real and visible superiority, there were other features which recommended this activity to the particular attentions of English nationalists. There existed a deep affinity between the natural and then the normative orientation of science – suspicion of authority, reliance on direct experience, what we now call “organized skepticism,” above all, the value of individual reason – and the principles of the original English individualistic national consciousness. As a result, not only did England – and, a fact of tremendous importance for the understanding of the position of science in the modern world, later America, which inherited and developed the original English nationalism – define science as a foremost area of national effort and, therefore, international competition, but it also came to view science as the central expression and embodiment of the national spirit, thus incorporating it as an element of its very identity. By the time of the Restoration, it was a matter of consensus, at home as well as abroad, that England was “the land of experimental knowledge.” The emergence of England as the greatest world power, and the model of political, as well as cultural, modernity, helped to impose its sense of priorities on other societies which, however reluctantly, came to recognize the importance of science and were drawn into the competition for scientific supremacy. But the national origins of science were never forgotten and never forgiven. And the attack on science more often than not camouflaged an attack on the entire Anglo-American complex of social values – the individualistic civic nationalism which became identified with the values of the West and the principles of liberal democracy.

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Science and Literature as Social Institutions 159 Beyond these specifically historical factors, what installed science on its pulpit as the general intellectual and even moral authority of the age and what maintains it there is the nature of nationalism itself. Nationalism in general, rather than any particular nationalism, represents the framework of the modern world view and the basis of the modern image of order. It is functionally equivalent to the great transcendental religions – cultural systems which provided the sense of order to numerous societies in the past. Unlike transcendental religions, however, nationalism is a fundamentally secular cultural system: it is focused on this world, the world of empirical reality, accessible to our senses, considering it as ultimately meaningful in its own right. This investment of the mundane with ultimate meaning immediately and necessarily elevates the importance of empirical knowledge. Having, for all intents and purposes, rejected the idea of the creative intelligence behind the universe, even if, in some circumstances, we continue to view ourselves as Jews, Christians, or Muslims, we confound the empirical with the moral, “truth” in the sense of approximate correspondence to the facts with ultimate “Truth,” and we make science the medium of revelation, expecting from it the services of theology. We expect it to answer for us the Tolstoyan question of “What should we do and how should we live?” or at the very least validate the choices we have made, and when it fails to do so,we become upset and angry.We say that science that fails in its moral duty is a bad science and from the fact that it cannot reveal to us the meaning of existence and confirm what we believe in any case we draw the conclusion that it is an ideological construction to begin with and can no more access empirical reality and produce objectively valid knowledge, than any other ideological construction. This conclusion, however, is a non-sequitur. Science cannot perform the function of theology, because it is not theology but science. It is a different social institution, it is oriented toward a different goal. What we perceive as moral failings of science are in fact our moral failings as a society. Science cannot uncover for us the meaning of empirical reality, because empirical reality as such is meaningless: meaning does not inhere in it. We are the creators of meanings in our life, and of values, moral and aesthetic, we choose to subscribe to; we make our choices freely, but dread this freedom and wish they were imposed on us, and, lacking the courage of our convictions, we look to science for validation.Yet, we must hold some truths to be selfevident and recognize that in this secular age leaps of faith are as possible – and as salubrious – as in any other.

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160 Nationalism and the Mind When we, as a society, attack science, we are, in fact, trying to lessen the burden of our moral responsibilities. Such attempts, if successful, are very dangerous. Their result is a demoralization of a social order. They are particularly dangerous in a society such as ours, where an attack on science strikes at the roots of our collective identity. To summarize: as a sociologist, my conclusion is that an attack on science has no intellectual merit and the reasons for it have very little to do with science. And as a concerned citizen I can only say: we must leave science be. Originally delivered at Yale, March 1997 NOTES 1.

2. 3. 4.

5.

This paper was prepared for a conference which was held at the Whitney Humanities Center at Yale University in March 1997. The conference brought together literary scholars with some eminent scientists, such as Phillip Anderson, Stephen Jay Gould, and Ernst Mayr. Its title was “Literature and Science: The Crisis of Reductionism,” but the inspiration behind it, as suggested in the letter by one of the organizers, the literary historian Michael Holquist, was probably the feud between sciences and non-sciences in the academy, brought to a boiling point by an ingenious practical joke perpetrated on the literary studies community by a physicist from New York University, Alan Sokal. With a view to trying, as he later said, “a modest experiment: would a leading North American journal of cultural studies … publish an article liberally salted with nonsense …?” Sokal had penned and submitted such an article, imposingly named “Transgressing the Boundaries: Toward a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity,” to a leading journal in culture studies, Social Text, headed and edited by literature specialists, and, at the time, soliciting papers for a special issue on “science studies.” The article – a work of travesty scholarship from the first line to the last – was gratefully accepted and duly published, and, the deed accomplished, Sokal, in the early summer of 1996, revealed what he had done. At stake at the conference, therefore, was the relative status of the two academic communities – the sciences and the humanities, specifically, literature studies – and their identity as producers of respectable, valid knowledge, which society at large could be expected to take seriously. For a particularly egregious example see David Joravsky, The Lysenko Affair (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1970). Paul Forman, “Weimar Culture, Causality, and Quantum Theory, 1918– 1927,” Historical Studies in the Physical Sciences, 3, 1971, pp. 1–115. See, for instance, Barry Barnes, Scientific Knowledge and Sociological Theory (London: Routledge, 1974); and David Bloor, Knowledge and Social Imagery, 2nd edition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991). Liah Greenfeld, “Russian Formalist Sociology of Literature: A Sociologist’s Perspective,” Slavic Review, Spring 1996, pp. 38–54.

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Science and Literature as Social Institutions 161 6. Iurii Tynianov and Roman Jakobson, editorial introduction to “Problemy izucheniia literatury I iazyka,” Novyi lef 12, 1928, p. 36. 7. Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1973), chs. 4, 8. 8. See Robert K. Merton, The Sociology of Science: Theoretical and Empirical Investigations (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973); Joseph Ben-David, The Scientist’s Role in Society: A Comparative Study (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1971). 9. Barnes, op. cit.; Bloor, op. cit; Thomas Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962); Paul Feyerabend, Realism, Rationalism, and Scientific Method (and) Problems of Empiricism: Philosophical Papers, Vols I and II (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981). 10. Barnes, op. cit., p. 99. 11. Karl Popper, Conjectures and Refutations: The Growth of Scientific Knowledge (London: Routledge, 1963), and Objective Knowledge: An Evolutionary Approach, ch. 1; Appendix 1. 12. Kuhn, op. cit., pp. 52–65. 13. Objective Knowledge, op. cit., pp. 334–335. 14. Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism (New York: Scribner’s, 1976), p. 183. 15. Robert K. Merton, Science, Technology and Society in 17th Century England (New Jersey: Humanities Press, 1970), first published in Osiris, IV, Pt. 2, 1938. 16. John Dryden, The Works of John Dryden (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), Vol. XVI, pp. 60–61. 17. Dryden, op. cit., Vol. IX, p. 150.

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9 AN INVITATION TO A DIALOGUE: A COMMENT ON NEUROSCIENCE AND CULTURE (Inspired by the reading of L. R. Squire and E. R. Kandel, Memory: From Mind to Molecules)

Sometime in the year 2000 I was fortunate to attend both a guest lecture given at Boston University by the eminent neurobiologist Eric Kandel and afterwards a rather festive lunch thrown for him by the then director of my interdisciplinary academic program there. Kandel’s lecture on the brain mechanisms of memory seemed to support some very vague intimations of mine regarding the relationship between the brain and the mind, and I was very interested in what he had to say. During lunch, as we exchanged pleasantries appropriate to the occasion (such as that the condition of the social sciences in today’s universities may be attributable to the shoddy construction of the practitioners’ hippocampus), I made my interest known to Kandel. The result was a present of a recent volume he coauthored with a cognitive psychologist, Larry R. Squire, Memory: From Mind to Molecules. This was my first close encounter with neuroscience, and it proved a great inspiration. The book opened with a criticism of Descartes’ famous formula: “I think, therefore I am.” “It would be more correct to rephrase Descartes’ statement by reversing it to read ‘I am, therefore I think’,” wrote the authors, adding: “In modern terms we would say ‘I have a brain, therefore I think.’ … all the activities of the mind arise from a specialized part of our body: our brain.”1 This argument made perfect sense in the framework of our fundamentally materialistic view of reality, but its presentation as a

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An Invitation to a Dialogue 163 refutation of Descartes’ axiomatic proposition made it strikingly obvious that it was logically faulty. The existence of the I – the individual as the agent – is expressed and proved (to the individual) solely by the fact that I think. In other words: I only know that I exist – I am self-conscious – because I think, and in this sense Descartes certainly formulates the idea accurately. Descartes does not mean that the reason for, or the cause of, my physical existence is my thinking: such meaning would be patently absurd, given that we all (Descartes included) know how children come about. Descartes’ proposition presupposes a necessary relationship between the thinking and the being of the I: the I cannot be known (and so cannot be said to exist) before I think by definition, since knowing it, or being reflectively conscious of it, presupposes thinking; while thinking, on its part, already contains my being as a self-reflective agent (the I). To rephrase the classic statement as “I am, therefore I think” or “I have a brain, therefore I think,” as a result, is both illogical and empirically incorrect, since such reformulation presupposes a similar necessity between physical being and thinking, implying an undeniably wrong claim that every physical being (for here “I” means simply a physical being) or, at most, every physical being with a brain (any mammal, marsupial, and bird, to start with) thinks. The logical faultiness of Squire and Kandel’s position (philosophically, an expression of materialistic monism), highlighted by its juxtaposition with Descartes’ formula, made clear to me that, as a resolution of the great psychophysical problem and an explanation of distinctively human mental functioning, modern neuroscience was inadequate. So too was Cartesian dualism, whose inability to account for the duality (of body and mind) that it postulated has long frustrated philosophers. The two positions, however, exhausted the traditional empirical possibilities. The only empirical way out this left was to focus on the interaction between the psychical and the physical realms, between the spirit and the body, between culture and the brain. Indeed, a student of culture reading Memory is struck by the simultaneous pertinence of neuroscience and the study of culture to each other and their mutual disregard. There is an obvious need for a further synthesis, building on the one expounded by the authors – between cognitive psychology and molecular biology. In the following notes I attempt to develop this conclusion, suggesting and exploring some of the ways in which culture may be integrated with

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164 Nationalism and the Mind molecules, neurons, the brain, and, ultimately, the mind; how it may be affected by, and how it affects processes of specifically human cognition and adaptation. It may be helpful to begin with a reconceptualization of certain, central to the discussion, terms. Throughout the book, “memory” is used as a catch-all for mental processes beyond immediate perception, or for cognitive performance generally. “Learning” is also used very broadly. This makes the occasional mention by the authors of “other mental faculties” and the acknowledgment of general ignorance of their nature in contemporary neuroscience a surprise,2 calling for more precision in definitions. I suggest the following. Learning, as connoting a process common to Aplysia (a sea-slug which has been the focus of much of Kandel’s path-breaking research) and humanity, specifically refers to experience (erlebnis) of contact with the environment. Since all living organisms are in contact with the environment and since for animals, at least, this environment is changeable, they, in the course of evolution, developed mechanisms for adapting to changeable environment, or such special organs that alert them to the new stimuli in it and facilitate their adaptation, by means of the integration of the stimuli into their internal system. The nervous system, as far as I understand, is this mechanism or organ. The more complex the environment, the more complex is the nervous system. The genetic program for the nervous system is a relatively open program even in simple organisms such as Aplysia: though the repertory of responses may be very limited, the amount of stimuli is unpredictable, and, by definition, each “stimulus-response” sequence cannot be preprogrammed. The more complex is the environment, the more of the genetic programming must be open. And the environment is, by definition, more complex when less of it is genetically determined and therefore dependent on the constitution of the organism itself. Adaptation to the changing environment means developing a capacity to react appropriately to the stimuli it generates, which, in turn, implies familiarization with them, their integration into the system by means of a record of the organism’s contacts with the environment. Memory is such a record. This record can be declarative and nondeclarative and can represent numerous aspects of the experience that is recorded: visual,

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An Invitation to a Dialogue 165 spatial, temporal, emotional, olfactory, audial, tactile, etc. – i.e. it can preserve whichever aspect of the experience was perceived, that is sensed, captured by the nervous system (whether unconsciously or consciously, for the extent to which we can say that Aplysia or even a rat or a dog can perceive anything consciously is debatable. Even perception as such is a concept derived from a distinctly human experience and can be used in application to animals only as a metaphor). But memory is a record of more than just contacts with the environment. This record can be manipulated within the nervous system, as it is, for instance, by a rat, in an experiment described in the book, correctly “inferring” from a series of experiences with odors in which cup to find a fruit loop or by a person “figuring out”the principle uniting a series of perceptually dissimilar objects into a category. Such inference or “figuring out” is not a part of the record of experience (or learning in its specific sense), for it is not a part of the experience or learning episode, not a part of the sensorily perceived features of the environment with which the organism was in contact. Neither is it a function of such a record only, for it adds something to it. In fact, memory combines the record of experience with the environment (learning) with records of mental manipulation of this record, i.e. inferences,“figuring out,” etc. There is a record of manipulation, stored in memory, as we say, i.e. in the brain, and the same storage facilities are used for it as for the record of experience with the environment – which is what the word memory in the narrow sense (as applied to Aplysia and to humans) specifically denotes. But manipulation is not memory (or memorization, preserving a mental record) – it is a different mental process. Unlike learning and memory of learning, which is integration of information from the outside, such manipulation (which concerns finding a solution, adapting, to the problem created by the experience with changing reality, fitting this experience into the ordered life-process of the organism) involves as a rule completing the information received through experience by adding to it the unknown information necessary for adaptation and for bringing the system back into equilibrium/state of comfort disrupted by the environment. Namely, it involves creating new, unlearned, not experienced, information inside the brain. In humans, we call the ability to do so imagination. Apparently, animals are capable of it at least to the extent required by the

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166 Nationalism and the Mind complexity and indeterminacy of their environment. The new information can be generated inside the brain (as a result of the manipulation of the learned-from-experience-with-the-environment information) consciously or unconsciously. In animals and very often in humans, apparently, it is generated unconsciously – in the sense that the imaginer is not aware of most of the steps that lead from the stored to new information, but, so to speak, “jumps to conclusions” over these stages and can reconstruct them only rarely and retroactively. (An example of such retroactive reconstruction is Einstein’s reflections on the question “What, precisely, is ‘thinking’?” in the context of the attempt to account for the manner in which he arrived at the theory of relativity in Autobiographical Notes.3) Imagination, therefore, like memory, can be declarative and nondeclarative, depending on where in the brain the mental activity takes place. And because imagined or constructed-inside-the-brain information is also stored in memory (because, in other words, inner experiences are also recorded) and can be recalled like any memory, Squire and Kandel can write that “it is so easy to confuse a memory [i.e. a record of experienced contact with the environment] with a dream or with something we only imagined.”4 Overall cognitive performance is a function of (a) learning, (b) the manipulation of the record of learning, and (c) memory, but it is likely that of the three, the second – the manipulative capacity – is the most important, and its importance must grow with the complexity and indeterminacy of the environment, because the unknowns are becoming proportionally larger and larger and must be constructed, created inside the brain. Of course, a certain amount of learning – i.e. experience of contact with the environment – is necessary for the activation of the manipulative/creative capacity of the brain, because it is the contact with the independent environment that creates a problem and if the organism is not alerted to the problem, it has nothing to solve. But it appears that the ability to imbibe/integrate information from outside, uninterrupted by manipulation, which, by definition, diverts the brain from learning, is not good for the organism. It interferes with the ability to adapt. Squire and Kandel recount the story of a Russian newspaper reporter and later a stage memorist Shereshevskii, whom the neuropsychologist Alexandr Luria studied between the 1920s and 1950s. Shereshevskii had a remarkable memory. He could easily reproduce long lists of unconnected words, numbers, and even

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An Invitation to a Dialogue 167 nonsense syllables, given to him in the course of Luria’s experiments, and this was because each sensory impression, i.e. each encounter with the environment, evoked in him powerful visual images. “Despite the advantages of his prodigious recall,” write the authors, “there were many serious drawbacks. Shereshevskii’s impression of every sensory event was so vivid and rich that he had difficulty extracting commonalities between events and in grasping the general concepts to form a larger picture. When a story was read to him at a fairly rapid pace, he would struggle against the images that were produced to try to determine the meaning … His memory was so cluttered with detail … that he could not make use of the kind of organization that focuses on the regularities among several related experiences.”5 A brain such as Shereshevskii’s, which is too geared for learning, too specialized – an expert learner’s brain, in other words – is not an advantage. A condition similar to the attention deficit syndrome, which interrupts the process of learning as such to allow the brain to live its inner life may be a necessary condition for superior or even adequate cognitive performance. It is not good to be too good a learner. Expertise has a price. Record of experience is only as good as its manipulation, and manipulation can make a very limited experience go far. Even perfect learning is useless when left as it is. That is why, as Squire and Kandel emphasize, forgetting may be sometimes as important as remembering.6 These two abilities: integration of received information and creation/construction of supplementary information may be supported by the same structures of the brain, but they are different and, if not independent, autonomous capacities. As regards these neural capacities: learning – sensory perception of the outside world; imagination – supplementing the information from the outside by information constructed inside the brain; and memory – storing both kinds of information within the brain, human beings differ from Aplysia or rats only quantitatively. What, if anything, makes them qualitatively different? It appears that at a certain point quantity turns into quality. This point is the emergence of culture. The term “culture,” in its broadest sense, refers to the singular nature of the organization of human life and the singular manner in which this organization is constructed and transmitted across generations, namely, to its symbolic nature and its transmission through symbolic, rather than genetic, i.e. physicochemical, blueprints. Like life, culture is an emergent phenomenon in the sense that it is irreducible to the sum of its elements and cannot be

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168 Nationalism and the Mind exhaustively explained by what exhaustively explains its elements. Thus it makes human life a reality of its own kind and breaks the (logical) continuity between biological evolution and this human reality, just as life in its general biological definition (as “contrasted with the lifelessness of an inanimate object” and understood as “the process of living,” rather than a “thing”)7 is a reality of its own kind, the emergence of which represents a break in the continuity of the forms and processes characterizing inanimate matter. The qualitative differences between humans and other animals have to do, first of all, with the fact that the complexity of the human environment is not simply greater than that of other animals, but that it is of an altogether different order of magnitude. Animals carry their immediate and most important environment – their social environment, the organization of interaction with other organisms in their species – in their genes, it is a part of their biological constitution. In humans, society, namely behavior of other humans, is largely independent of the genetic programming of the individual organism. Therefore, while members of other animal species have to adapt only to their physical environment, the environment of the species, human individuals have to adapt, above all, to their immediate, most pertinent, intra-species environment – human society. They do not, like other animals, carry the constitution of society in their genes: it is genetically undetermined, they chart it symbolically (by symbolic means) and thus construct culture. We know this because of the almost infinite variability of human societies. With this addition of symbolic experience, the complexity of the environment increases exponentially and proportionally increases (as, according to Squire and Kandel, it does even in rats brought up with stimulating toys)8 the mass of their brain. This jump – between the animal and humancultured brain – is so great, that all additional increments in the human brain mass (due to the relatively greater complexity of the already cultural environment) may be considered negligible. This means, of course, that humans normally learn by an order of magnitude more than the most intelligent animals and store much more and much more varied information from the outside (the predominant part of which is qualitatively different – symbolic) in their memory. Because of the distinctively prolonged human childhood, much of this learning and memory takes place and is formed in infancy (probably, while the child acquires language). And then, they manipulate this vast amount of information acquired from the

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An Invitation to a Dialogue 169 outside – complete it, construct or create new information through imagination, and store products of their imagination, or records of their inner experiences, in their memory, to manipulate it again and again. A snowball effect is created. Most of the stimuli of the symbolic – primary for humans – environment are in fact products of the mental process itself. With the emergence of culture and the addition of the symbolic environment, in other words, human consciousness or mental life (though not the mental life of every human) becomes self-sustaining, i.e. independent. (Specifically, it becomes independent of learning above a certain minimum.) Thus culture, with the help of the imaginative capacity of the brain, creates the mind. Above a certain minimum, which may be received in childhood, the mind needs very little stimulus from the outside; instead it manipulates and remanipulates – namely, augments through imagination – information already stored in memory, much of which, to start with, it has created at an earlier point. Memory becomes the major reservoir of stimuli for the continued activity of the nervous system/the brain. In a way it competes with the environment; for some it becomes more important than the environment in the organism’s efforts to construct the state of equilibrium/comfort. Or, perhaps, we can say that the cultural environment enters the brain in a major way to start operations there (the mind in fact is culture in the brain), thereby allowing the brain (or at least some brains) to contribute in major ways to the creation of this environment – something that does not happen in animals. In addition, culture, supported by the imaginative functions of the brain, creates two other, crucially important mental phenomena or processes, which further distinguish the human mind from the mental life of other animals. These two mental phenomena are agency or will (the “I”) and identity. Human beings are carriers of will and discretion; they are – each one of them, if normal – independent actors in the sense of being capable of action and not just reaction, whose actions (except involuntary reflexes) are products of decision and choice. When reacting to a cue, whether externally or internally generated (for instance, some external stimulus or a spontaneously firing nerve that triggers a memory-recall process), they are capable of voluntarily interrupting the ensuing mental process, saying to themselves, for example: “I don’t want to think about this now,” “I do not want to react to this in such-and-such a way,” and thereby of shaping their response. It is this intermediate stage between stimulus and

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170 Nationalism and the Mind reaction/action, in which, for humans, the nature of response is still indeterminate and must be decided, that the word “consciousness” specifically denotes. (Conscious recall, in this specific, peculiar to human experience, sense, is intentional, actively willed recall, of which animals seem to be – in the sense that there is no evidence to the contrary – incapable. Rats, or even dogs, seem to make very few decisions, such as “even though I know that the fruit loop is in cup D, I don’t want to dig for it”; if a – hungry – rat knows, it digs; and it is precisely the fact that rats lack an independent will and may be assumed always to want what they are genetically programmed to want, that makes possible learning experiments with them. A human subject may decide to dance on the sand concealing the fruit loop instead, and this decision is independent of the subject’s capacity for transitive inference.) Moreover, humans are capable of independently, i.e. at will, generating cues and starting mental processes. For instance, a person can say to oneself: “I want to remember such and such episode” or “I want to begin thinking about such and such subject,” and thereby start the process of memory recall or manipulation. One can study transitive inference in rats among other things because rats do not have a will: there is no doubt that they will want a fruit loop – they are forced to want it. People are not genetically forced to want almost anything – perhaps to go to the toilet – every other genetic imposition, including hunger, sexual desire, and pain, can be resisted by the will. How do they acquire binding volitions, i.e. desires which compel them to act? Since the primary environment for humans is cultural, adaptation to it necessitates the creation in the brain of a cognitive map of this reality – similar to the spatial representation of which, as Squire and Kandel remind us, rats are also capable. It is possible that such a map is accomplished by something like place cells (similar to rats’ place cells) in the human brain. The cognitive map of the cultural environment is in fact the representation of the social order in the individual’s mind. The individual’s place on this map is his/her identity.9 This identity, like the indication of the rat’s place on the spatial map, defines the individual’s possibilities of adaptation – or to refer to specifically human reality, “powers,” “liberties,” and “rights.” Because the environment is so complex, the human individual, unlike the rat, is presented by the cognitive map with various possibilities of adaptation which cannot be objectively and clearly ranked. They must be ranked subjectively, i.e. the individual must choose or decide which

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An Invitation to a Dialogue 171 of them to pursue. Will or agency (we may also call it self = the “I”) is the mechanism for making choices or decisions.10 In the beginning of Memory, as Squire and Kandel propose to rephrase Descartes’ statement “I think, therefore I am,” because “all the activities of the mind arise from … our brain,” they further argue that there is “a second and larger sense in which Descartes’ original statement is wrong. We are not who we are simply because we think. We are who we are because we can remember what we have thought about … every thought we have, every word we speak, every action we engage in – indeed our very sense of self and our sense of connectedness to others – we owe to our memory, to the ability of our brains to record and store our experiences.”11 This, the authors’ second criticism of Descartes, concerns the nature of identity. Descartes’ statement, however, does not touch upon this issue at all. It certainly does not mean that one’s identity (as, say, a subject of the French king, or as a Catholic) is exhaustively defined by one’s ability to think. Squire and Kandel implicitly equate identity and agency and commit an error in doing so. Identity (which is experienced, in part, as “our sense of connectedness to others,” for instance to other Catholics or other subjects of the French king) is very specifically a product of a particular historical cultural context, directly affected by it and subject to change with its changes (though not necessarily with the change in one’s personal circumstances). For example an evocative retelling of a story of a centuries-old defeat, of which one can have no memory (in Squire and Kandel’s sense), can create in a person of Serb origins a new and acute sense of connectedness to other people of Serb origins – thereby changing the nature of this person’s identity from Yugoslav, largely based on recognition of political ties, to Serb, ethnic identity, believed to be genetically ingrained and carried in blood – and make this person, despite the memory, stored in the brain and easily recoverable, of consistent personal experience of good relations with people whose ancestors were Muslim, take arms against these people. Such changes in identity, as we, in the beginning of the twenty-first century, know only too well, though less well in the United States, perhaps, than elsewhere, are quite common and rarely, if ever connected, to brain damage or malfunction of any kind. In contrast, agency or the “I” is the creation of culture as such, a constant and central presence in human existence, and, though identity and agency interact in many complex, though yet unexplored, ways, every healthy human brain is capable of harboring only one agency

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172 Nationalism and the Mind from infancy to old age, and every change in the sense of self, whether triggered biologically or culturally, is a sure sign of neural malfunction. While genetically people are not forced to want almost anything (as reflected in the ability of the will to resist almost any physical imposition), the lack of such genetic compulsion forces them with equal strength to strive for a sense of order, the reduction of the unmanageable complexity of their environment to manageable proportions. This need for order may take different forms, depending, to a very significant extent, on the genetic predispositions or sensitivities of the particular brain. For some people, it would express itself as a need for meaning, for others, as a need for audial harmony or visual organization. For normal or average people, namely people in whom all the sensitivities or predispositions are developed adequately, but none of them overly acute, it will express itself generally as a need for simplicity and predictability of reality. In any case, everyone would experience pleasure/comfort when the need for order is satisfied, i.e. people will be conditioned to desire things that satisfy the need for order. The specific nature of the conditioning will vary with the cultural context. The will/agency/self, the expression of subjectivity, is the function of the autonomy of consciousness – i.e. the mind’s independence from the natural environment and learning and memory, related to the latter, its being self-sustained, which makes possible a multitude of desires – and of identity, which represents to the individual his/her options. In turn, both the autonomy of consciousness and identity are products of culture. (There is no subjectivity in rats or even monkeys, even though, according to Squire and Kandel, every monkey’s brain is unique,12 and thus there is individuality in monkeys and rats. But because monkeys and rats do not have choices, the uniqueness of their brains does not give rise to subjectivity, thus to agency, will, and self. However unique, every rat or monkey remains a representative of all rats or all monkeys.) What is the system in the brain that supports the will? Perhaps, it is neurons similar to those that make possible – in rats – the perception of the stimuli which require an adaptive reaction, transmitting to other neurons the command: “do this or that,” neurons whose function it is to sense desires imposed on animals by their genes, but in us culturally constructed and mediated by consciousness and self (even though not necessarily consciously mediated: a person is not always fully aware of what he or she wants).

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An Invitation to a Dialogue 173 Similarly to the mind in general, of which it is an important element, but to a greater extent and in more specific sense than other parts, such as the self, identity, while a physico-chemical representation in the brain, is a reflection and a representation of culture. Thus it is a part of the environment of the brain, as well as a part of (the modified structure of ) the brain itself. It is internal and external to the brain at the same time. As a representation of the (cultural) environment, it forces itself upon the brain as any external stimulus, as it were issuing commands to the brain. It is the agent of a particular culture, from whom human agency (the creation of culture in general) gets its cues. To sum up: Culture – through conditioning – determines the individual’s likes and dislikes, programming the brain to will certain things – programming the will (like the rat’s “will” – i.e. rat – is programmed genetically). Identity presents to the individual the possibilities, helping to establish their subjective ranking: because you are what you are, you must will this and not this. It commands the will what to choose and to decide. In terms of the brain systems which support them, the agency and the identity are likely two different processes, but in terms of their expression in behavior, they work in tandem and are parts of the same mental process. In every specific case the will and the identity are determined by culture; the brain processes, therefore, are directed by culture. The vast majority of the records or representations in memory are also determined by culture – the contents of memory, thus, the raw material of the imagination, are culture-given.What is done to these records in the brain (i.e. how they are manipulated) depends on the brain. But cultural selection – i.e. the social success of some imaginings and failure of others, again, in most cases exclusively, depends on culture. It is possible that in the future neuroscience will discover which specific systems in the human brain support different imagination processes, will (self ), and identity and uncover the molecular/cellular basis of these cognitive phenomena. It is also possible that it will figure out when precisely in childhood or adolescence human consciousness becomes self-sustained, allowing one to postulate the existence of a mind, when will and identity develop, and when learning in its specific sense recedes in importance as a source of stimulation as compared with internally generated stimuli. These are, in themselves, fascinating questions, and some of them, those pertaining to gradual socialization or acculturation of the human child,

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174 Nationalism and the Mind are also extremely important practically. Neuroscience capable of such discoveries, however, must be a new neuroscience, different from the cognitive neuroscience deriving its conclusions about humanity from experiments on Aplysia and rats; it must be a cultural neuroscience, that would take into consideration the break in continuity, created between animal and human mental processes by culture, and focus on the culturally triggered events in the brain. While the study of culture would benefit immensely from the contribution of this branch of biology, the horizons of neuroscience itself would be vastly expanded by the recognition of its limits at the borders of the emergent reality of culture.13 Written in Fall 2000. NOTES 1. Larry R. Squire and Eric R. Kandel, Memory: From Mind to Molecules (New York: Scientific American Library, 1999), p. ix. 2. Ibid., p. 213 and elsewhere. 3. Albert Einstein, Autobiographical Notes, P. A. Schilpp trans. and ed. (La Salle, I: Open Court, 1979), p. 7. 4. Squire and Kandel, op. cit., pp. 213, 79. 5. Ibid., pp. 75–6. 6. Ibid., p. 206. 7. Ernst Mayr, This is Biology: The Science of the Living World (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997), p. 2. 8. Squire and Kandel, op. cit., p. 200. 9. Contrary to Squire and Kandel’s assertion (op. cit., p. 201), it is not memory of individual experiences (i.e. of learning) that constitutes one’s identity. For this reason, identity is often inconsistent with one’s experiences (for instance, one may have an identity of an important man, let’s say, a nobleman of high birth, and yet be treated by the environment as some nonentity; this condition of inconsistency between one’s view of oneself and one’s experience is referred to as “status-inconsistency”) and does not easily change in accordance with one’s experiences (for instance, one may have an identity of a wealthy man and, having lost his wealth in a stock-market crash, preserve this identity and constantly get into financial trouble carrying on in accordance with it, rather than in accordance with one’s changed circumstances). For this reason, too, older people, whose memory may be affected by the normal aging process, do not, as a rule, lose the sense of their identity; on the contrary, as one ages, this sense of identity often becomes much more rigid than before. Finally, for this reason of independence of identity from memory and learning, animals do not have an identity. This is a peculiarly human characteristic. 10. At this point in the discussion I am in a position to continue the analysis of Memory’s opening criticism of Descartes’ “I think, therefore I am.” The authors,

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An Invitation to a Dialogue 175 as I mentioned, predicate their reformulation on the claim that “all the activities of the mind arise from a specialized part of our body: our brain.” But to claim that “all the activities of the mind [presumably including the formation of the mind itself] arise from the brain” is grossly inaccurate, and therefore wrong. All the activities of the mind, rather, happen in the brain, made possible by the brain, and facilitated by it, but most of them (including, most importantly, the mind itself) arise – in the sense of being caused or created – somewhere outside our body altogether. They arise from culture. 11. Squire and Kandel, op. cit., p. ix. 12. Squire and Kandel, op. cit., pp. 197–198. 13. Understanding culture’s impact on the brain through identity and will may also help treat psychological/personality disorders, thus strengthening psychiatry.

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10 NATIONALISM AND MODERN ECONOMY: COMMUNING WITH THE SPIRIT OF MAX WEBER

I

In the first chapter of Economy and Society, Weber defined the nature of the discourse he proposed to develop in this late work. After years of hesitation and searching he decided to designate it by the name “sociology,” writing: Sociology, a word often used in quite diverse ways, shall mean here: a science which seeks interpretative understanding of social action, and thereby will causally explain its course and effects. By “action” is meant human behavior linked to a subjective meaning on the part of the actor or actors concerned; such behavior may be overt or occur inwardly – whether by positive action, or by refraining from such action, or by acquiescence to some situation. Such behavior is “social” action where the meaning intended by actor or actors is related to the behavior of others, and conduct so oriented.1

The choice of the term assured the incorporation of Max Weber into the annals of the discipline of sociology, newly institutionalized within the academy in his time, to be claimed and revered as one of its founding fathers. As it happened, this was an incorporation of the name (nominal incorporation, so to speak), rather than of the work or, even less so, the thought, for today very few sociologists – and perhaps not a single sociology department, as a matter of policy – would define sociology this way. The spirit of sociology as it exists and has existed in the course of the century which bestowed on it the status of

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 177 a science and placed it within research universities would be entirely foreign to Max Weber; he would not have liked, one suspects, to have fathered it. Any examination of paternity, however, would reveal that the historical individual in question is the offspring of Karl Marx. Like many an accidental father, the great ideologue was quite oblivious of such possible effect of the generative act and later entirely uninterested in the creature he had unintentionally spawned. The actual instrument of Marx’s, as every, paternity was, of course, a swarm of unthinking carriers of his message and, since in this case these agents of dissemination were also human, he cannot be held wholly responsible for the final result. The fact of his paternity, nevertheless, remains beyond reasonable doubt. The discipline of sociology belongs squarely – however astonishing this is, when one recognizes the full implications of such belonging – within the philosophical tradition of historical materialism. Historical materialism implies that history is a material process, i.e. a process essentially similar to the process of life; that historical configurations, such as societies, are material (namely, physical, chemical, and/or biological, for these categories exhaust the meaning of “material”) configurations generated out of previously existing material configurations by material means and in turn generating by material means new material configurations. The locus classicus of Marx’s sociology, “The German Ideology,” in fact, suggests that Marx regarded history as a direct continuation of the biological evolutionary process, obviously conceived in Lamarckian, rather than Darwinian, terms, and therefore implying the inheritance of acquired characteristics. One finds there, among other, equally fantastic, claims, the postulate that the division of labor in society and resulting class divisions originate in the sexual act (which makes the reproductive metaphor most appropriate indeed in the context of this discussion).2 It so happened that the human “spermatozoa” actually involved in sowing the seed of sociology as we know it were mostly upper-class educated Americans caught in the leveling cataclysm of the Gilded Age. The Civil War finally broke the national resistance to industrialization and, a latecomer to the race for industrial supremacy, the country was industrializing with a vengeance. Combined with its stupendous natural resources, among which one must include the selfconfidence and burning ambitions of the common men and women

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178 Nationalism and the Mind (at that time, mostly men) who composed its population, this process with its myriad of new opportunities led to the creation of heretofore unimaginable new wealth which concentrated in new hands. America did not produce “soap for scum”and these new hands, the hands of Rockefellers and Carnegies and others like them, were unwashed. The sensitive noses of the old moneyed elite were offended by the lowly smells that emanated from them. In response to the status revolution brought by the industrialization they led a revolution in American higher education. Perhaps the most important result of this latter revolution was the establishment of the social sciences.3 Two motivations, though fed at one psychological spring – the resentment against the new, socially undistinguished, rich – lay behind their definition and institutionalization, and, in particular, the definition and institutionalization of sociology. One, the earlier, was a desire for social reform which would bring about a just society – specifically, a society in which nobody could become as rich as a Rockefeller. The ability to carry out such social reform from an early date was referred to as “social science,” where “science,” as in many other contexts, was used interchangeably with “art,” both words meaning a learned skill or method of doing something. The other motivation was a determination to regain the superior status of the old moneyed elite, whose wealth was made paltry by the spectacular fortunes of self-made industrialists, by claiming intellectual authority. The position of the intellectual was nothing to aspire to in the nineteenth-century United States. But after the Civil War multitudes of affluent young Americans went to study in Germany, and there in the figure of German Liberal Arts Professor they discovered the model of social distinction which they were eager to imitate. Meanwhile, an independent development – the publication of the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin – dramatically increased the relative prestige of science (natural science, of course, but the adjective could be on occasion forgotten), pitting it against religion as the supreme intellectual and moral authority. When they returned from Germany with their smattering of liberal education, the much enlightened scions of old (wealthy) American families embarked on the institution building, founding – in every case thanks to the generosity of the new rich, ironically – research universities around their vast uncultured homeland, and defined their own intellectual pursuits (chiefly rumination on the iniquities of a society allowing every bootback to pull himself

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 179 by his boot-straps and make so much money as to rise far above his former clientele of however good family – to do better than his betters) as scientific.4 It is most telling that social sciences in the United States – whose academic establishment was soon to become the model for the rest of the world, followed with minor deviations – emerged not as a result of serendipitous problem-differentiation, similarly to disciplines within the natural sciences,but as a result of conscious product-differentiation in the course of the division of the academic market or, as it is referred to by the participants, “the turf.” The original American “social science” was history, specifically, economic history. During the second meeting of the American Historical Association, in 1885, a group of historians, so recently self-styled as such, separated to form the American Economic Association.5 A decade later some of its founders separated in their turn and formed the American Political Science Association. Finally (as far as our story is concerned), in 1905 some political scientists moved out and founded the American Sociological Society.6 The unfortunate acronym prompted its members to replace “society” by “association” at a later date, but their idea of society was to stay the same as it was when these sociologists were united in the ASS or, for that matter were still historians, economists, and political scientists. As noted above, society has been envisioned as a material entity, social reality as a material reality. Very few American sociologists have been read in philosophy or independently capable of disciplined thinking. Thus very few of them have ever considered the implications of such an acceptance of the Marxist historical materialism. It implies nothing less than a contention that the sociologists’ subjectmatter is in its very essence physical, chemical, and/or biological, and that, therefore, there is no justification for the existence of a separate discipline (or a separate set of disciplines), not embedded in physics, chemistry, or biology, to study it.7 The name “sociology” (and “social sciences”) reinforces these implications. The fact is that, but for lowest animal species, society is a ubiquitous corollary of life. It is not society which distinguishes humanity and justifies a discipline separate from biology to study it, but what makes the human society a reality sui generis, different from society as such. Animal societies are material – biological – entities. (This is why, among other things, they don’t have history, as will be discussed below.) Conceiving of the study of humanity as “sociology” (or “social science”), with its focus

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180 Nationalism and the Mind on society and, especially, the historical materialism underlying it, makes such study a part of biology. And this, given the almost universal biological illiteracy among social scientists, including sociologists, makes the practice of sociology absurd. (Unfortunately, there is more. The idea of science among the “Germany returned” pioneers of American, and eventually global, “social sciences” was at best fuzzy. They knew that science was grand; they knew it enjoyed great prestige and that its pronouncements were authoritative. They knew that scientific knowledge was “valid” and it was increasingly believed that its claims to validity – i.e. truth? – were greater than those of religion. But they had no idea why. Given the fascination with science after Darwin had become a household name, lots of people beside future social scientists wished to know what made science so powerful. So the quest of the laymen was answered, condescendingly, by the most authoritative of all scientists, physicists, and astronomers. One of them, Chauncey Wright, explained the superior validity of science by its remoteness from anything human, defining science as the pursuit of knowledge “when it ceases to be associated with our fears, our respects, our aspirations – our emotional nature; when it ceases to prompt questions as to what relates to our personal destiny, our ambition, our moral worth; when it ceases to have man, his personal and social nature, as its central and controlling objects.”8 With such an ideal of science, social sciences were destined to be the spectacular flop they are, even if social scientists gave some thought to the distinctions between the biological, that is material, societies of the vast majority of animals and societies characteristic of one species – the human species – alone, which could make social sciences a field of independent study.) It is clear from the definition of “sociology” in the opening lines of Economy and Society, quoted above, that Weber did not see humanity through the quasi-biological lens of historical materialism. Human society was for him a meaningful reality; human social process, a mental process. Within the framework established by his definition, social “structures” or “institutions” could only be metaphors for patterned activities which reflect the state of their participants’minds, while the essential, radical questions within it had to be questions about meanings – how meanings emerge, are maintained, change; and how they – and these processes – are reflected in social action at any given moment and in the course of history. Because society was seen as a meaningful reality, Weber would see only meaningful

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 181 factors – i.e. variables the essence of which is their meaning – as exerting causal influence on human social processes or their combination in history. In other words, in the Weberian framework, historical causes would always be clusters of meanings. Their expressions (i.e. the ways of their operation) and effects could be material – as in the influence of shore urbanization on marine ecology or the effects of war or antiseptics on human mortality – but no historical causes could be of a material nature themselves. This is to say that Weber – in his fundamental philosophical outlook – is not a materialist; he does not view human society as a material reality. Saying that Weber is not a materialist, however, does not imply that he is an idealist, for what is important for him insofar as ideas are concerned, similarly to what regards material phenomena such as land, population, natural resources, death, genetic composition, and so forth, is their meaning for the relevant actors – namely, the way they are reflected and refracted in, interpreted by, and interact with the individual mind. It is this focus on the mind that distinguishes Weber’s sociology from what generally passes under this name. Equally distant from philosophical materialism and idealism, he may be called a mentalist. This preliminary discussion has a direct relevance for the interpretation of The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. It implies, for instance, that it is erroneous to see in this fundamental work a response to Marx. Marx’s was an interpretation of a particular, his own, moment in history – a no doubt creative rationalization, in Freudian terms, of his own existential experience. And since his problem was psychological and his aim therapeutic, an adequate understanding of either the subject-matter or of science was unnecessary; Marx took his moment out of its historical context, disregarded the latter, and then pulled history in by the ears to buttress his interested interpretation (whether or not history would actually support it, which as a matter of fact it did not). In distinction, Weber’s problem – and, therefore, interest and aim – was intellectual: to explain one of the most puzzling and central historical phenomena of the empirical modern reality, a phenomenon whose significance could only be appreciated in actual historical context, which had to be constantly kept in mind, as a result. It is the failure of Weber’s readers to keep historical context in mind, and their mistaken interpretation of this brilliant thesis, in the only terms available to them of the materialist/idealist divide, as a

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182 Nationalism and the Mind response to Marx, which are responsible for the widespread misunderstanding of this work and the inability of several generations of scholars to come to grips with, build on, and, finally, leave it behind (as Newton was built on and left behind by physics).

II

That most puzzling and central historical phenomenon, the focus of The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, was the rise of the modern economy, namely of the economy exhibiting and oriented to sustained growth.9 The purpose of the thesis was to explain the shift in social attitudes to economic activity, and the nature of new attitudes, which, in the then existing conditions of material development, pertaining to the state of markets, financial institutions, technology, population, and agricultural capacity, oriented the economy toward, and were responsible for the definition of growth as socially desirable, making it a value and thereby promoting its institutionalization. The argument did not by any means imply that these cultural factors produced the capitalist economic system in its entirety or were responsible for any of its elements except one. The scope of the explanation was strictly limited to the motivations which channeled economic action – to the extent allowed by the current development of commerce, finance, and technology – toward growth. In the absence of these conditions, the spirit of capitalism would have had no body to animate; it would have been economically useless. Yet only its presence could lend to the economy what we recognize as its modern character. Weber referred to the orientation of the economy toward growth as “the spirit of capitalism,”and he called the economy oriented to and capable of growth “capitalism.” The reason he chose this notoriously vague concept might have had to do with its prominence in the discussion in which he was participating, specifically its use in Werner Sombart’s 1902 Der Moderne Kapitalismus, which had already raised the problem of “the spirit of capitalism.” It is clear that the term as such greatly contributed to the confusion about Weber’s argument and was responsible for some of the reaction against it. But though he may not have been sufficiently sensitive to the symbolic significance the word “capitalism” had acquired or was to acquire in the first decades of the twentieth century, Weber made an effort to define the meaning he wished to attribute to it and offered his readers the

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 183 means to avoid the kind of misunderstanding that his critics have most commonly exhibited. In the introduction to the essay, Weber explicitly distinguished the modern economy or capitalism which he was trying to explain (in the body of the argument he used the two terms interchangeably) from other types of economic and capitalistic activity, and specifically defined his explanandum as an expression of a particular degree and, more important, a particular form of what he perceived as the fundamental social process and historical principle – “rationalization.” He wrote: The impulse to acquisition, pursuit of gain, of money, of the greatest possible amount of money, has in itself nothing to do with capitalism … One may say that [this impulse] has been common to all sorts and conditions of men at all times and in all countries of the earth, wherever the objective possibility of it is or has been given … Unlimited greed for gain is not in the least identical with capitalism, and still less its spirit … But capitalism is identical with the pursuit of profit, and forever renewed profit, by means of continuous, rational, capitalistic enterprise … So far as the transactions are rational, calculation underlies every single action of the partners … But these are points affecting only the degree of rationality of capitalistic acquisition … Now in this sense capitalism and capitalistic enterprises, even with a considerable rationalization of capitalistic calculation, have existed in all civilized countries of the earth, so far as economic documents permit us to judge – in China, India, Babylon, Egypt, Mediterranean antiquity, and the Middle Ages, as well as in modern times … [T]rade especially was for a long time not continuous like our own, but considered essentially in a series of individual undertakings. Only gradually did the activities of even the large merchants acquire an inner cohesion … In any case, the capitalistic enterprise and the capitalistic entrepreneur, not only as occasional but as regular entrepreneurs, are very old and were very widespread. Now, however, the Occident has developed capitalism both to a quantitative extent, and (carrying this quantitative development) in types, forms, and directions which never existed elsewhere … a very different form of capitalism which has appeared nowhere else: the rational capitalistic organization of (formally) free labor. Only suggestions of it are found elsewhere … [T]he concept of the citizen has not existed outside the Occident, and that of the bourgeoisie outside the modern Occident. Similarly, the proletariat as a class could not exist, because there was no rational organization of free labor under regular discipline … Hence in a universal history of culture the central

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184 Nationalism and the Mind problem for us is not, in the last analysis, even from a purely economic viewpoint, the development of capitalistic activity as such, differing in different cultures only in form: the adventurer type, or capitalism in trade, war, politics, or administration as sources of gain. It is rather the origin of this sober bourgeois capitalism with its rational organization of free labor. Or in terms of cultural history, the problem is that of the origin of the Western bourgeois class and of its peculiarities.10

Granted the unfortunate choice and somewhat inconsistent use of the term “capitalism” (specifically, its application to both modern and premodern types of economic activity, and to continuously as well as sporadically rational acquisition), it is quite clear what Weber’s focus is and what is, consequently, the nature of his question. Modern economy – the “capitalism” of the Protestant Ethic – is distinguished by the type and degree of the rationalization, and by the institutionalization, or the societal character, of the acquisitive drive, two separate though related qualities (there is a possibility of rationalization without institutionalization), both of which represent necessary conditions for sustained growth. “Rationalization” is another problematic concept, also defined only by the many varied contexts in which Weber uses it. “By this term,”he writes,“very different things may be understood … There is, for example, rationalization of mystical contemplation, that is of an attitude which, viewed from other departments of life, is especially irrational, just as much as there are rationalizations of economic life, of technique, of scientific research, of military training, of law and administration. Furthermore, each one of these fields may be rationalized in terms of very different ultimate ends, and what is rational from one point of view may well be irrational from another. Hence rationalizations of the most varied character have existed in various departments of life and in all areas of culture. To characterize their differences from the viewpoint of cultural history it is necessary to know what departments are rationalized and in what direction.”11 The general meaning of “rationalization” which emerges out of the discussion of, and allows its application in, such widely differing “departments of life” as mystical contemplation and economy is that of articulation and organization, primarily cognitive, of an area of experience. The need for rationalization arises from the inherently disorderly nature of reality to which human beings are born (in distinction to other forms of life that emerge fully equipped with detailed blueprints and the means for organizing their environment,

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 185 in effect carrying order in their genes) and the fact that the responsibility for introducing elements of order into it falls to themselves. “Rationalization,”in other words, refers to the fundamental process of the ordering of reality, or its cultural, i.e. symbolic, i.e. mental, construction. It represents a biological imperative, because without it reality would be unmanageable and the survival of the species impossible, and, as a result, it goes on all the time, in every society, and in all spheres of life. In this Weberian framework, to claim that one society is more rational, or “rationalized,” than another would be an absurdity; it would be tantamount to claiming that it is more of a society, or more human.“Rationalization”is not necessarily a cumulative process, and the differences between societies (or spheres of activity in a society) in this respect are likely to be not quantitative but qualitative: while they cannot be more or less rationalized, they are, as a rule, rationalized in different ways. Modern economy, or modern Western capitalism, which Weber sought to explain, was in his view a product of “the specific and peculiar rationalization of Western culture,” which manifested itself, in addition, in Western music, architecture, science, and law. In all these areas, rationalization resulted in the formulation of general principles and the types of organization which were endlessly adaptable (or, at least, appeared so at the beginning of the twentieth century) and capable of endless ramification and therefore internal development. It was this potential for growth (which communicated to these Western cultural phenomena a quality of living entities) which prompted Weber to claim for them a “universal significance and value.”12 To conceptualize the central organizing historical process as “rationalization” is to recognize it as an essentially mental process. As such,“rationalization” goes on in the minds of individuals, and in the overwhelming majority of cases, the significance of particular rationalizations is strictly limited. Some rationalizations, however – those that organize recurrent experiences shared by members of numerically or otherwise influential groups – acquire the character of social processes: their articulation becomes a matter of collective effort with benefits extending far beyond the circle of those who actively participate in it. When the reality that is being rationalized endures over time, rationalization may become the basis of institutionalization. In this case the society commits itself to a particular rationalization – that is, a particular way of organizing a certain area of experience or a

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186 Nationalism and the Mind particular image of order – and, putting its weight behind it, makes subscribing to it normative, thereby incorporating it as, and into, the social structure. It is as part of social institutions that rationalization (in its diverse forms) exerts its most profound and lasting influence and acts as the organizing force in society. When Weber speaks of the “specific and peculiar rationalism of Western culture,” whether in music, science, law, or economy, he is referring to precisely such a social force. For all the attempts to represent him as an idealist, he is in fact interested not in disembodied ideas or even “rationalization” as such but in the socially significant, that is, institutionalized rationalization that transcends its original individual character and acquires societal character. Consequently, the problem he poses in The Protestant Ethic and other works is necessarily twofold: one must explain the evolution of a particular form of rationalization and its institutionalization, which does not automatically follow. Most of Weber’s critics, whether or not they understood the nature of his question, focused on the central empirical proposition of The Protestant Ethic, which related the emergence of the new norms of economic behavior, “the spirit of capitalism,” to Protestantism, specifically to the Calvinist dogma of predestination and interpretation of the idea of the “calling.” This proposition was based on the observation, not seriously disputed in his time or later (however tentative the agreement on its significance), that economic action was visibly reoriented in northern Europe, specifically in England, somewhere around the seventeenth century. The reorientation, in particular, concerned the attitude toward the accumulation of profit (thus growth) which, though for centuries condemned as leading to the perdition of the soul and pursued only erratically, was now practiced systematically and with a confidence that bespoke not just toleration but encouragement by the society at large. To prompt a positive reinterpretation (and institutionalization of such a reinterpretation) of the pursuit of profit at that time and place, a congenial cultural environment, a new moral code, had to emerge in the period immediately preceding it. Since that happened to be the period of religious revolution which affected all of western Europe, but specifically north European societies, the explanation naturally suggested itself. This sensible hypothesis has not been corroborated by subsequent research. It has been repeatedly pointed out that Weber’s interpretation of the Protestant ethic, which was to explain the spirit of

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 187 capitalism, was based on the very documents which formed the basis of his idea of the spirit of capitalism. Systematic examination of the writings of the leading early Protestant divines, which represented the foundational texts of Protestant theology, revealed them as economic traditionalists, as suspicious of enterprise and hostile to profit making (and, therefore, growth) as any medieval Schoolman, if not more so, and so most unlikely godparents of economic progress. This examination, bringing into sharper focus such Protestant theological principles as the ideas of predestination and “calling,”also cast serious doubt on, if it did not contradict outright, Weber’s interpretation of these principles. At the very least, as R. H. Tawney was to conclude, Weber had attributed to them greater significance and consistency than the sources warranted.13 Weber’s almost exclusive concentration on Puritan England, which he chose as the clearest example of the religious origins of the spirit of capitalism, and especially his leaving out of account the equally Calvinist Netherlands, whose economic prowess was both not sustained and, at its zenith, apparently infused with a different spirit, further weakened the argument. A refutation of Weber’s hypothesis regarding the relationship of Calvinist Protestantism to the spirit of capitalism, however, was nothing Weber could not expect and reconcile himself to in advance. For, while he proposed that the ethic of modern economy (the set of economic orientations and norms of behavior implying and encouraging growth) was related to this particular religious ethical system, he also suggested, significantly, that this ethical system could have a functional equivalent and was not the only possible system of thought to have had such an effect. This suggestion made explicit the tentative, provisional, or hypothetical character of the central empirical thesis of The Protestant Ethic, entirely consistent with Weber’s Wissenschaftslehre, specifically, his conviction that the price of scientific progress and improved understanding was the continuous supercession of older hypotheses by new and more accurate ones. Moreover, to prove Weber wrong on this point was to prove him wrong on a relatively minor point of his theory, the essence of which consisted in the claim that the emergence of modern economy presupposed – that is, could not have occurred without – a new set of motivations and a new system of ethics. This was a theory predicated on the realization that human society represents an aspect of life of the thinking species, endowed with prodigious symbolic capacity but insufficient genetic regulation, and thus distinguished by the

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188 Nationalism and the Mind propensity and the necessity for rationalization. The distinctive characteristic of human social action, which made it essentially unlike the behavior of other species, even those capable of highly sophisticated co-operative action, was its meaningfully intentional character. This principle in turn implied that, for meaningful and intentional social action to be consistently channeled in a particular direction, such action had to be invested with a positive meaning: it had to be an object of social approbation, defined as legitimate and morally commendable. In other words, it had to find support in a certain system of ethics. An enduring reorientation in a particular type of social action (for instance, economic) implied its reinterpretation and the development of new motivations and intentions among the participants, which presupposed an emergence of new ethical standards. An invalidation of the proposition that the cultural environment of capitalism was a product of the Protestant Reformation not only did not negate this general and far more important theory, but, as such, contributed very little to the solution of the problem in question (the reorientation of social action and the emergence of modern economy). Such invalidation eliminated one conceivable explanation – that’s all. To stop there, to focus on whether or not Weber was right in claiming this dramatic role for a particular religious teaching, would be to beg the question. Yet this is exactly what most of Weber’s critics did. The fruitlessness of the debate over (or, rather, preoccupation with) The Protestant Ethic, which by now has lasted over a century, providing an eloquent testimony to the compelling nature of its argument – and absolute lack of alternatives – should, no doubt, be attributed to the fact that Weber’s opponents concentrated their efforts on the refutation of a relatively minor point as an end in itself. They failed to appreciate the broader philosophical (and, in Weber’s terms, sociological) significance of Weber’s essay and meet the challenge, specifically, of his contribution to the understanding of the central problem of modern economic history – the origins of economic growth. This failure is most conspicuous where it is of greatest consequence, in the writings of economic historians, and, among them, in Tawney’s trend-setting and in many respects representative Religion and the Rise of Capitalism. The very title of Tawney’s book reflected his misunderstanding of Weber. The focus on religion was misplaced: as Tawney himself convincingly demonstrated, on closer examination Protestantism turned out to be an unlikely doctrine to promote the ethos of the modern

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 189 economic system which Weber called the spirit of capitalism (and nobody ever suspected its major religious alternative of such sympathies). One had to look for the source of this ethical reorientation in a wider cultural context. Instead, Tawney redefined the spirit of capitalism itself, equating it with nothing less than “conscienceless individualism,” thereby identifying capitalism with the egoistic pursuit of one’s material self-interest, uninhibited by moral scruples and social concerns. (That individualism is identical with the spirit, or, as it has been lately referred to,the “culture,”of capitalism – which in turn stands for modern economy and even, specifically, industrialization – is now a common assumption that lies at the basis of much contemporary economic history. It is but a reformulation of the fundamental proposition of laissez-faire economics to the effect that economic growth is a function of greed or natural acquisitive impulse – the very notion which, Weber suggested, should be extinguished in the kindergarten14 – and its roots, like the roots of laissez-faire economics whose French Anglophobic parentage nobody remembers, go back to the vulgarization of Adam Smith’s idea of “invisible hand” and the substitution for his complex view of man as the creature of moral sentiments the surreal but simple image of the self-interested,rational egoist,the embodiment of the propensity “to truck, barter, and exchange.” The misunderstanding of Weber thus is directly linked to the misunderstanding of Smith.) Having thus redefined his explanandum, Tawney resolved the problem of the inconsistency between the ethical principles of Protestantism and the values of modern economy, and was able to retain the explanans. The question was no longer that of the emergence of a new system of social norms and ethical standards, a cultural system of “the peculiarly Occidental rationalism” actively orienting social action, but that of the relaxation of ethical standards which had existed before and the emergence from under the ideological rubble of a self-directed (and inherently rational) natural system. The specific character of the ethical standards that were relaxed was of no importance. What mattered was the fact of relaxation and, perhaps, the process that brought it about. Protestantism, Tawney claimed, did indeed play a role in the emergence of the new “commercial civilization,” but it played this role despite what it represented and because of what happened to it. Its economic function was due primarily not to the nature of the faith, as Weber had suggested, but to the circumstances in which it was put, which ironically led to the loss of faith and resulted in “the abdication of religion from its theoretical primacy over

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190 Nationalism and the Mind economic activity and social institutions.”15 “The elements which combined to produce [the modern] economic revolution,” Tawney wrote, “are too numerous to be summarized in any neat formula. But, side by side with expansion of trade and the rise of the new classes to political power, there was a further cause … It was the contraction of the territory within which the writ of religion was conceived to run.”16 Tawney therefore professed partial agreement with Weber’s thesis, conceding that “Puritanism [was] a potent force in preparing the way for the commercial civilization which finally triumphed after the Revolution.” In effect, however, he substituted for Weber’s mentalist theory an entirely different, materialist argument that can in all fairness be characterized as reversion to orthodox Marxism. He concluded that Calvinism, and in particular English Puritanism, eventually grew less disapproving of the pursuit of profit, more tolerant toward economic motives, less restrictive in respect to enterprise, and able to regard business life in general with greater equanimity than it was originally and than was the case with other currents within Christianity. It thus released “the magnificent energy which changed in a century the face of material civilization” and made economic progress possible. But, he claimed, such friendliness to economic development on the part of the Protestant creed was itself the effect of this development’s “corroding march” on it.“The ‘capitalist spirit,’” Tawney wrote, is as old as history, and was not, as has sometimes been said, the offspring of Puritanism … At first sight, no contrast could be more violent than that between the iron collectivism … the remorseless and violent rigours practiced in Calvin’s Geneva and preached elsewhere … by his disciples, and the impatient rejection of all traditional restrictions on economic enterprise which was the temper of the English business world after the Civil War … Like traits of individual character which are suppressed till the approach of maturity releases them, the tendencies of Puritanism, which were to make it later a potent ally of the movement against the control of economic relations in the name either of social morality or of public interest, did not reveal themselves till political and economic changes had prepared a congenial environment for their growth … in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, had come the wave of commercial expansion – companies, colonies, capitalism in textiles, capitalism in mining, capitalism in finance – on the crest of which the English commercial classes, in Calvin’s day still held in leading-strings by conservative statesmen, had climbed to a position of dignity and affluence … The collectivist, half-communistic aspect [of Puritanism] which had never been

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 191 acclimatized in England, quietly dropped out of notice … [T]he individualism congenial to the world of business became the distinctive characteristic of Puritanism which had arrived, and which, in becoming a political force, was at once secularized and committed to a career of compromise … Given the social and political conditions in England, the transformation was inevitable.17

The “wave of commercial expansion,” the “commercial classes” (whose rise Weber considered the central problem of his essay and of the cultural history/sociology of economics in general), the “world of business,” in Tawney’s opinion apparently appeared of themselves or were, like the spirit of capitalism, as old as history, and therefore did not require an explanation. This argument essentially reversed Weber’s thesis regarding the relationship between economic development and religion. To Tawney, it was economics that gave rise to “the Protestant ethic,” picking out and cultivating one of several currents in the doctrine, and selecting, or in effect constructing, an appropriate ideology for economic development. The role that Protestantism, according to Tawney, was thus forced to play consisted in leaving economics alone, letting individualism take the place of the collective consciousness, and thereby “liberating economic energies”18 or allowing free play to Adam Smith’s (misunderstood) invisible hand. Ideological controls were lifted, all shackles removed, and man could pursue his rational interest. The rest was natural, automatic, self-evident. This argument made sense only on the assumption of the “objective rationality” – thus natural (i.e. biological) character – of the pursuit of material self-interest, namely, gain, and the resulting economic process. When man’s nature is defined as objectively rational, rationality, by definition, becomes the essential expression of nature, or an equivalent of instinct. The trouble with this assumption is not just that it reduces humanity to the level of dumb beasts with their genetically programmed reality (it is simply mind-boggling how a professed Christian could have made such an assumption!) and eliminates with one fell swoop the grand problem of order and the need for social sciences, but that the modern economic process and the behavior that lies at its basis are neither natural nor rational in this sense. Weber stressed this repeatedly, writing in his definition of the spirit of capitalism: In fact, the summum bonum of [the capitalist economic] ethic, the earning of more and more money, combined with the strict

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192 Nationalism and the Mind avoidance of all spontaneous enjoyment of life, is completely devoid of any eudemonistic, not to say hedonistic, admixture. It is thought of so purely as an end in itself, that from the point of view of the happiness of, or utility to, the single individual, it appears entirely transcendental and absolutely irrational … Economic acquisition is no longer subordinated to man as the means for the satisfaction of his material needs. This reversal of what we should call the natural relationship, so irrational from a naïve point view, is evidently as definitively a leading principle of capitalism as it is foreign to all peoples not under capitalistic influence.19

The fact that the spirit of capitalism is not in itself natural and rational, yet is obviously regarded as such, means that it was at some point defined (or interpreted) as natural and rational, and makes it imperative for us to approach the emergence of modern economy as a problem in the cultural construction of reality, in what Weber alternately called “general cultural history” and “sociology,” and in what was in the present essay termed “mentalism.” If one assumes that the orientation of modern capitalism – to profit making and thus to growth – is natural in the sense of being objectively rational and fundamental (as such requiring no explanation), one has to account for the recency and the unevenness of its institutionalization and the fact that for millennia it was allowed only sporadic manifestations. To attribute this to artificially imposed ethical (ideological) restraints would not suffice, for the two indisputably fundamental orientations of human nature – namely, the hunger and sex drives – though always ideologically regulated and often, as we have been told, “repressed,” have, after all, never been reduced to the level of deviant behavior (for centuries the status of profit-oriented economic activity), but, on the contrary have always been provided with institutionalized channels for systematic expression and gratification. The comparison with the natural drives is edifying. Every society invests food and sex with some degree of cultural significance and makes them an object of moral, ethical interpretation. Even the alimentary and sexual experiences are therefore, to a degree, culturally constructed. But the extent of their genetic determination ensures their fundamental moral indifference, in the sense that, on the level of whole societies, these drives neither can be effectively suppressed nor, more important, do they require cultural, ethical stimulation for sustained and robust manifestation. For this very reason, however, these fundamental natural drives have no history; like animal societies, they

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 193 are not historical phenomena. History, including economic history, exists precisely because human social (and economic) reality is genetically indeterminate, not natural in that very weighty sense of the word. We return to the fundamental thesis of Weber’s (mentalist) sociology. History is the march (or, rather, ramble) of rationalization, the endless succession of disconnected attempts to introduce order into experience which does not carry it within itself. The process of rationalization is natural, as is humanity; but man-made things are, by definition, artificial, and so are the products of rationalization – specific orientations of social action, interpretations, ideals, and images, those various “rationalisms” peculiar to one or another culture which Weber tried to delineate, if not always to explain. There is nothing inevitable about them, they do not occur of themselves, they are not self-evident. It is the unnaturalness, irrationality – and historicity – of “the peculiarly Occidental rationalism” that makes it impossible to grasp fully the dynamics of the modern economic process without understanding its cultural origins and necessitates that we find the ethical system which transformed an erratic individual propensity into a social norm and ideal to be systematically pursued. And if Puritanism, Protestantism, and religion in general prove not to be that ethical system, we have to cast our net wider.

III

The preceding exposition of Weber’s theoretical position and specifically the famous essay whose 100th anniversary is the occasion for this special issue of the Max Weber Studies should make it clear both that my argument in regard to nationalism and modern economy derives directly from the premises of The Protestant Ethic; and what exactly are the points on which I agree with it and why, and where I dissent from it and go my own way. In what follows I do not offer an alternative to “the Weber thesis” on the connection between Protestant ethic and the spirit of capitalism – I supercede and, building on Weber’s fundamental insight behind it, lay this thesis to rest. In my disagreement, as much as in my agreement, however, I follow the principles of Weber’s approach. By giving this particular work of his – for a century caught in a limbo of misunderstanding, respected and yet unappreciated – the only kind of burial worthy of a great work of science, burial

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194 Nationalism and the Mind by incorporation in a more general and accurate thesis, I hope I make Weber’s ideas alive, that is creative, again. The ancients defined a genius as a spirit helping living men generate, and only spirits of those given a decent burial could do so. It is our fault, not his, that Weber’s prolific mind has been kept from procreating for so long. The proper exposition and substantiation of my explanation of the emergence of modern economy takes more than five hundred pages of tightly printed text. Therefore, I must limit myself to the barebone statement of the central thesis. This thesis is that the factor responsible for the reorientation of economic activity toward growth is nationalism. The concept of nationalism I use is based on the arguments of my earlier work, equally Weberian in character, which analyzed the nature of this vastly important phenomenon and traced it in the course of the first centuries of its development. Nationalism is a unique form of collective consciousness which emerged in early sixteenth-century England and subsequently spread, first to the English settlements in America, then, in the course of the eighteenth century, to France and Russia, and in the last two centuries conquered the rest of Europe and the Americas, the antipodes, much of Asia, and some of Africa. This consciousness is essentially secular: it is focused on this world and represents it as inherently meaningful.At the core of this consciousness lies a compelling, inclusive image of society, referred to as the “nation,” an image of a sovereign community of fundamentally equal members. National consciousness is inherently democratic: egalitarianism represents the essential principle of the social organization it implies, and popular sovereignty its essential political principle. These two principles, however, may be interpreted in radically different ways, giving rise to sharply different social and political arrangements. The interpretation depends on whether the nation is seen as a composite entity or in unitary terms, and on whether the criteria of national membership, that is, nationality, are civic or ethnic. In practice, these variables (which theoretically may exist in four combinations) yield three types of nationalisms with their corresponding forms of nations and national identities: the individualistic-civic type, the collectivistic-civic type, and the collectivistic-ethnic type. In the individualistic-civic type, which was the original type of nationalism, the composite definition of the nation, that is, the idea of society as an association of individuals, is combined with the civic concept of nationality. It is because the individuals who compose the

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 195 nation are regarded as equal and free that the nation is considered sovereign: it reflects the qualities of its members. The civic nationality, in turn, is equated with citizenship, that is, with the, in principle, conscious acceptance of certain rights and obligations; membership in the nation in this case ultimately depends on one’s will to be a member, and nationality, similarly to religion, may be both acquired and lost. While all nationalisms imply democracy, individualisticcivic nationalisms imply individualistic, or liberal, democracy. The will of the individualistic-civic nations is the will of the majority of their citizens: their governments are representative in fact as well as in principle; they cherish individual, human, rights and foster institutions which safeguard them. In distinction, collectivistic nationalisms envision the nation as a collective individual, possessed of its own will, needs, and interests, which take precedence over the wills, needs, and interests of the human individuals who compose it, and are not to be gauged from those of the majority. The national will must be divined by a specially qualified elite. Such an elite is, obviously, self-appointed, and at the same time its members sincerely believe that they represent the will of the nation. Modern dictatorships are invariably products of collectivistic nationalisms; the democracy to which all of them pledge allegiance is socialist, or popular, democracy. The most common variety of collectivistic nationalism (the most common variety of nationalism in general) is collectivistic-ethnic nationalism. It combines the unitary definition of the nation with the ethnic concept of membership, that is, the view that nationality is an inherent, genetic, characteristic, transmitted by blood and independent of one’s will, a trait which can be neither acquired if one is not born with it, nor lost if one is. The ethnic element in collectivisticethnic nationalism reinforces the authoritarian implications of its collectivistic element, the quasi-biological (ultimately racist) idea of nationality facilitating the image of human individuals as but biological members, or cells, in a greater ideal organism of the nation, and thus denying them every shred of individual liberty. The liberty or sovereignty of the nation, in this framework, is redefined as freedom from foreign domination. In contrast to the individualistic-civic and collectivistic-ethnic types of nationalism, the elements of which reinforce each other, the combination of the unitary definition of the nation with civic criteria of nationality creates an ambivalent, cognitively problematic type. The

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196 Nationalism and the Mind social and political institutions and traditions of collectivistic-civic nations reflect a sort of double vision. The first such nation was France, whose turbulent history attests to the irreconcilable inconsistencies between its national ideals. The type of nationalism (namely, the type of social consciousness and identity) represents the blueprint of social reality in a nation, to a large extent shapes this reality, and so directly and perceptibly affects those who happen to live it. The experiences of individuals in individualistic and collectivistic, civic and ethnic nations may differ dramatically. Still, in one crucial respect these experiences are similar: the inclusive nature of nationalism and its core principles of fundamental equality of membership and popular sovereignty (however interpreted and implemented) give people with a national identity a sense of dignity, which was unknown to most people in earlier periods. It is this sense of dignity that lies at the basis of national patriotism and commitment to national causes. As a form of collective consciousness (the shared image of reality), nationalism implies a system of ethical standards. It is this new and secular system of ethical standards, I claim, that explains the shift of societal attitudes in regard to the acquisitive drive and its dramatic valorization; nationalism, in other words, is the source of “the spirit of capitalism” – the orientation of modern economic action toward growth – and the crucial factor in the emergence of modern economy. This does not make nationalism “the sole agency” in this process. No account of why something happens is complete unless supplemented by the account of how it happens; it is one thing to explain why economic growth became a desired goal, quite another to elucidate the conditions and mechanisms that have allowed for its realization. Like Weber, I attempt to account only for desire and leave the question of capability to economists and economic historians. They have been sharpening the tools of their analysis for a century, and I do not doubt the soundness of their conclusions – insofar as they do not confuse process with cause, and the what and the how with the why. For my part, I only add to the existing account a missing – and essential – motivational dimension. The relationship between the desire and the capability, as Weber had already argued in regard to the capitalist spirit and organization, is not one of necessary or simple interdependence. The two, he wrote, “may very well occur separately.” Today, in particular, examples abound of ardent desire for economic growth even when no conditions

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 197 exist for its realizations, and even today there are cases (which one may assume to have been common in earlier periods) when an enormous potential for growth, that is, an undeniable capability, remains unrealized because there is no desire, as in Russia. The relationship, Weber suggests, is best conceptualized as that of mutual reinforcement of the essentially autonomous factors, with the attitude of mind finding its most suitable expression when the capability exists, and the capability deriving its most suitable motive force from the attitude of mind. Both, therefore, should be taken into consideration in explaining modern economy. Quite aside from its ubiquitous presence in the age of economic growth, several factors recommend nationalism to the attention of a student of modern economy. To start, it has the merit of fitting in perfectly in terms of the chronology of “the industrial revolution” broadly defined and, in particular, allows one to account for the dazzling – and otherwise perplexing – case of Britain. It should be remembered that the historical priority of Britain’s takeoff 20 does not make sense in the framework of the “natural evolution” (à la Tawney) theory in economics and economic history. On the threshold of its economic supremacy, Britain was not the most advanced economy in the world. From the point of view of objective capacity (the buildup of preconditions for takeoff), as late as the end of the sixteenth century, the Dutch Republic, France, Germany, and even Spain or Italy were better positioned to assume the role that fell to Britain. It was exactly because it came from behind and overtook these more advanced economies that its rise was in the nature of a miracle. The fact that relatively backward England, and not the equally Calvinist Dutch Republic, was to accomplish the breakthrough and achieve lasting dominance in the modern economic system is a major anomaly for the “Protestant ethic” thesis as well. Bringing nationalism into the argument, however, resolves these anomalies. Nationalism first appeared in England, becoming the preponderant vision of society there and effectively transforming social consciousness by 1600. More than a century had to pass before signs of similar transformations were felt elsewhere. In the Netherlands, in particular, perhaps because the society was so advanced – economically as well as politically – the development of national identity and consciousness was delayed still further and cannot be discerned until well into the nineteenth century. England, therefore, was the first to acquire a new spirit, which it was the only one to possess for some two centuries, and

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198 Nationalism and the Mind this spirit, this motive force, added to its relatively unimpressive resources an element that reoriented, transformed, and magnified them, inspiring it to undertake a journey for which other societies might have been better equipped and thus giving it a competitive edge over them. Unlike Protestantism, nationalism necessarily promotes the type of social structure which the modern economy needs to develop. Being inherently egalitarian, nationalism has as one of its central cultural consequences an open – or class – system of stratification, which allows for social mobility, makes labor free (that is, able to shift between sectors), and dramatically expands the sphere of operation of market forces. Since it redefines the nature of social hierarchy, in the absence of countervening factors, it elevates the prestige of traditionally disparaged occupations, specifically those oriented to the pursuit of profit, and makes them a magnet for talent – the function Weber attributed to the Calvinist dogma of predestination and the idea of calling. Also, because of the members’ investment in the dignity of the nation – that is, its prestige – which is necessarily assessed in relation to the status of other nations, nationalism implies international competition. This makes competitiveness a measure of success in every sphere which a nation defines as significant for its selfimage, and commits societies which define themselves as nations to a race with a relative and therefore forever receding finish line. When the economy is included among the areas of competition, this presupposes a commitment to constant growth. In other words, the sustained growth characteristic of modern economy is not selfsustained; it is stimulated and sustained by nationalism. While it is conducive to the development of a social structure of the type modern economy requires to exist, and while it stimulates international competition, creating a favorable environment for economic growth, nationalism actively promotes economic growth within this environment only when economic achievement, competitiveness, and prosperity are defined as positive and important national values. This in turn depends on the type and specific character of particular nationalisms. As a rule, individualistic-civic nationalisms, which define nations as associations of individuals, will value economic achievement simply because of its significance, and the importance of economic activity in general, for large numbers of individuals. Therefore, they are likely to include economic growth among national interests. In the framework of collectivistic

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 199 nationalisms (either civic or ethnic), national interests are defined independently from the interests of individuals and may not include economic interests at all, or consider them to be of secondary importance. In ethnic nationalisms where economic activity is not particuarly valued, it is often the minorities who become prominent economic actors, and this may stigmatize both the minorities and the economic activity. For that reason, it is likely that economic activity, and growth, in ethnic nations will be more valued in ethnically homogeneous societies. The initial predisposition of the individualistic-civic English nationalism to value economic activity and achievement was reinforced by certain idiosyncratic features which led it to select the economy (significantly, along with science)21 as a particular area of national superiority. English nationalism thus directly and actively promoted economic growth. The spectacular economic success of Britain, and its rise to superpower status in general, were major stimulants of economic competitiveness, ensuring that many a reactive nationalism also focused on economics, and greatly contributing to the formation of the modern “economic civilization.” The ability of English nationalism to contribute to the British, and then worldwide,“economic miracle” is explained, in the first place, by the fact that the British (as later American) “sense of identity” evolved from the conceptual framework, and on the basis of principles, provided by the original English nationalism, and, second, by this contagious nature of the British example. What is of utmost importance here is that this effect of nationalism was not simply an effect of a cultural factor, but that it was ultimately a cultural effect. It was owing not to the fact that nationalism liberated natural economic energies from the constraining tutelage of ethical considerations and social concerns, and therefore, unlike other ideological structures, such as traditional Christian teaching, did not inhibit economic growth, but, on the contrary, to the fact that it provided a new set of ethical considerations and social concerns that invested economic growth with a positive value and focused naturally diffuse social energies on it. Nationalism is a form of social consciousness, a way of cognitive and moral organization of reality.As such it represents the foundation of the moral order of modern society, the source of its values, the framework of its characteristic – national – identity, and the basis of social integration in it. The fact that the original, English, nationalism,

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200 Nationalism and the Mind to which we owe the forward aspiration of modern economy and its insatiable yearning for ever greater material power was (and to a large extent is at the place of its birth, as well as where it was transplanted, for instance, in the United States or Australia) a form of philosophical and moral individualism in no respect contradicts and should not obscure that. As a principle of social solidarity, individualistic nationalism has proved to be very effective, perhaps more effective than nationalism of collectivistic types, if the exceptional political stability of individualistic nations, underneath the constant ripple of conflict, and the unusually low rate of emigration from them despite the lack of legal impediments, are an indication. This is not surprising if nationalism is understood, as in this case it must be, as a moral ideal, which directs and controls natural appetites, rather than as moral laxity allowing them free rein. The definition of the individual as the highest social value and the fundamental unit of society – that is, as an independent moral actor – adds dignity to the national identity and, taking much farther the commitment to egalitarianism which every nationalism preaches, makes its practice in individualistic nationalisms much more consistent than in nationalisms of other types, thereby increasing national commitment. Individualism (as a moral and philosophical position) and nationalism (as a form of social consciousness and collective solidarity) may be perceived as contradictory only if the moral primacy of the individual is believed to be a reflection of the empirical or natural primacy – a notion, curiously, which is met only in individualistic societies – that is, if the original, or natural, individual is believed to be presocial. While perfectly consistent with the anthropological and sociological presuppositions of contemporary economic theory (also mostly flourishing in individualistic nations), this belief runs counter to all we know of the life of other sociable species, knowledge that the philosophers from economics, given their naturalistic bent, might be expected to take into consideration. A natural individual organism is not an individual in the sense we ascribe to the term, of an independent moral agent. Such individuality is a product of culture, not of nature; it is necessarily an aspiration, a projection of an ideal image, which nature can only approximate, and thus of an image of society – of social consciousness, of a type of rationalization. Already Durkheim recognized the individual as a social construction, specifically a product of organic solidarity. He thought individualism was the way modern society “represented” itself in the minds of

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Nationalism and Modern Economy 201 its members and made them worship it and obey its commands. It was for him the central element of the moral and cognitive complex he called “conscience collective,” the core of a directing, compelling ethic of the kind Weber thought to have found in Protestantism.22 This individualist ethic is the core and distinguishing characteristic of that communal identity, that type of nationalism, which provided the original inspiration for the economics of sustained growth, which we trace back to Adam Smith. But while modern economic theory assumed the principles of this individualistic type of nationalism, and would be inconceivable if it were not individualistic, modern economic practice drew inspiration from nationalism as such. England developed economic nationalism because its national consciousness was individualistic, but, as demonstrated inter alia by the protracted debate around the idea of economic freedom (of which free foreign trade was only one prominent aspect) and the time it took to associate, as a matter of course, private with public interest, early economic nationalism in England was focused exclusively on the common good of the nation, to which the good of its individual members was, as it would be for the opponents of economic liberalism several centuries later, held to be subservient. Originally delivered at the conference dedicated to the 100th Anniversary of the Publication of Max Weber’s Protestant Ethic and The Spirit of Capitalism, June 2004, and published in Max Weber Studies (Summer 2005)

NOTES 1. 2.

3.

4.

Max Weber, “Basic Sociological Concepts,” in Sam Whimster, The Essential Weber (London and New York: Routledge, 2003), p. 312. Karl Marx, “The German Ideology,” in Robert C. Tucker, The MarxEngels Reader, 2nd edition (New York-London: W. W. Norton & Company, 1978), p. 158. See my The Spirit of Capitalis: Nationalism and Economic Growth (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2001), pp. 428–472; also see Richard Hofstadter, The Age of Reform: From Bryan to F.D.R. (New York: Vintage Books, 1955), pp. 144, 153. Metzger, Academic Freedom in the Age of the University (New York: Columbia University Press, 1961), p. 42.

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202 Nationalism and the Mind 5. See my “How Economics Became a Science: A Surprising Career of a Model Discipline,” in Amanda Anderson and Joseph Valente, eds., Disciplinarity at the Fin de Siecle (Princeton University Press: 2001), pp. 87–126. 6. A. W. Coats, The Sociology and Professionalization of Economics: British and American Economic Essays, Vol. II, “The First Two Decades of the American Economic Association” (London: Routledge, 1993), pp. 205–206. 7. A recent issue of the ASA Sociological Theory (Vol. 22:3, September 2004) demonstrates that a good number of sociologists are arriving at this conclusion and attempting to redefine themselves as biologists. 8. Chauncey Wright, quoted in Metzger, op. cit., p. 80. 9. What follows is a somewhat modified version of the “Introduction” to my The Spirit of Capitalism. Nationalism and Economic Growth, op.cit. 10. Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans. Talcott Parsons (New York: Scribner’s, 1976), pp. 17–24. 11. Ibid., p. 26. 12. Ibid., p. 13. 13. R. H. Tawney, Religion and the Rise of Capitalism (1926) (New York: Mentor Books, 1953). 14. Weber, Protestant Ethic, p. 17. 15. Tawney, op. cit., p. 76. 16. Tawney, op. cit., p. 228. 17. Tawney, op. cit., pp. 192–193, 207, 182, 188–195. 18. Tawney, op. cit., p. 98. 19. Weber, Protestant Ethic, p. 53. 20. This term is taken from W. W. Rostow, The Stages of Economic Growth: A Non-Communist Manifesto, 3rd edition (1960) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 39. 21. See my Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992), pp. 78–86. 22. See Emile Durkheim, The Division of Labor in Society (New York: The Free Press, 1984).

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11 NATIONALISM AND THE MIND

It goes without saying – and precisely for this reason I’d like to stress – that I regard giving this tenth annual Gellner Lecture before what is undoubtedly the most distinguished forum in the studies of nationalism as a great honor, which gives me an opportunity to pay personal homage to the memory of a great intellectual. Like my father, Ernest Gellner was born in 1925 in Paris. Like my father, he was born into a Jewish family from an eastern European, Slavic, country in turmoil (Russia in my father’s case, Bohemia in Gellner’s), and like my father, Gellner returned to grow up in that ancestral country. Both in terms of age and in terms of intellectual background I could be his daughter. Gellner’s 1983 book Nations and Nationalism was a departure point for my own work in the field, but, as often happens between generations of parents and children, mine was a radical, rather than a conservative, departure: it was provoked by a profound disagreement, rather than persuasion. This was a disagreement on the most fundamental level, pertaining to the ontology of our shared subject matter. While Gellner, like all the sociological structuralists and philosophical materialists, regarded society and history essentially as a continuation of the biological evolution (though one must stress, Lamarckian rather than Darwinian), I have based my thinking on the empirical generalization that humanity constitutes a reality sui generis, distinguished from the rest of the animal species by the symbolic, therefore not material, instead of genetic, therefore material, transmission of its ways of life across generations. This specificity, which alone makes humanity worthy of a discipline of its own, necessarily translates into the specificity of

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204 Nationalism and the Mind human society, because human society, in distinction to animal societies, is organized symbolically, rather than materially, and into the specificity of human history, because human history, in distinction to the development of other animal species, is subject to the regularities of cultural, rather than biological evolution. And this, in turn, necessitates that the study of human historical and social processes focus on culture, considering cultural, or symbolic, factors as both explanans and explananda. Yet, despite this fundamental disagreement, in some important way, I believe, I follow in Ernest Gellner’s footsteps. I accept his division of the academe into the tribes of “relativists,”“fundamentalists” and rationalists of skeptical temperament, whom he called “Enlightenment Puritans,” and, like he, include myself in the latter group. I fully share his irreverence in regard to institutionalized departmental boundaries “of anthropology, area studies, economic history, politics, and social science,” all of which he crossed. This lecture indeed plans to add to this list and break the irrational isolation of several other traditions of study. I also like to think that my work continues the most inspiring trend in his: the attack on empirically unwarranted intellectual orthodoxies. Would he agree – even though the road I have taken leads me farther and farther away from his conclusions? Perhaps. After all, for Ernest Gellner, as one of his obituaries noted, “being right … often mattered less than throwing out good ideas to be proved wrong.” It is a pity that I never had the chance to ask Ernest Gellner to draw a pictogram of nationalism. It is remarkable how much a thirtysecond drawing can reveal of one’s understanding. I do now ask my students to draw such a pictogram in the beginning of the discussion. They invariably draw flags and/or people with guns. When I ask them for a pictogram of nationalism at the end of the discussion, the emblem changes completely: they draw a globe and little unarmed people, who sometimes say things like: “Oh, my identity!” For flags and guns do not even begin to express what is central and most significant about nationalism. Nationalism, in short, is the modern culture. It is the symbolic blueprint of modern reality, the way we see, and thereby construct, the world around us, the specifically modern consciousness. The core of this consciousness is the image of the meaningful reality which the pictogram of the globe with people attempts to express. Being a pictogram, it can only express its immediately visible features, or

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Nationalism and the Mind 205 outlines; even so, it captures its essential characteristics. This image of meaningful reality is secular – it is limited to this, experiential, world, thereby making this world, the mundane, the source of its own meaning, or ultimately meaningful; while within this world the most significant element is the people who populate it; this image is not only secular, it is fundamentally humanistic.1 Why is this world view called “nationalism”? For purely accidental, historically contingent reasons, specifically the use of the word “nation” – at the time meaning a small group embodying an authority in a conciliar, ecclesiastical setting, or an elite – in regard to the entire population, the people, of England.2 This momentous linguistic event, which occurred in the early sixteenth century, helped the members of the new Henrician aristocracy to rationalize their experience of upward mobility which made no sense in the terms of, and in fact contradicted, the traditional, feudal and religious, image of reality. By the same token, it symbolically elevated the mass of the population to the dignity of an elite and redefined the community of the people as both sovereign – the embodiment of supreme authority – and as a community of interchangeable individuals, each with a generalized capacity to occupy any social position, or, in other words, as fundamentally a community of equals. The word “nation,” therefore, acquired its modern meaning of a sovereign people consisting of fundamentally equal individuals, while the community defined as a nation inevitably began to be restructured as such a people. It was the definition of an earthly community as sovereign which focused attention on this world and on humanity, exiling God beyond its confines and creating an essentially secular consciousness. In its turn, the secularization of the world view reinforced the effects of the principles of popular sovereignty and egalitarianism which between them define the modern concept of “nation.” To sum up: nationalism is a fundamentally secular and humanistic consciousness based on the principles of popular sovereignty and egalitarianism. These three characteristics are present in every specific case of nationalism. Modern culture, more generally, is essentially nationalistic in the sense that it has at its core the nationalist world view and that it projects this world view on every sphere of cultural/social activity. To claim that nationalism is the modern culture is tantamount to saying that it represents the cultural foundation of modern social structure, economics, politics, international relations, education, art,

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206 Nationalism and the Mind science, family relations, and so on and so forth. I shall mention just the most salient of its implications for the character of modernity in the ascending order of importance, starting with modern economy. Modern economy, contrary to a widespread belief, to put it bluntly, is a product of nationalism, for it is this vision of social reality which provided economic activity with the motivation that reoriented it from subsistence to sustained growth.3 The economic effects of nationalism are mainly the result of the egalitarian principle at its core. To begin with, the definition of the entire population, the people, as a nation, that is, as an elite (given the previous meaning of the word “nation” in its ecclesiastical context) symbolically elevates the lower classes and ennobles their activities. Economic activities in general, engaging the overwhelming majority of the people and traditionally denigrated in prenational societies precisely for this reason, gain status and, with it, a hold on the talented people who, under different circumstances, having achieved a certain level of financial independence, would choose to leave the economic sphere. Arguably of even greater moment is the fact that the symbolic ennoblement of the populace in nationalism makes membership in the nation, i.e. nationality itself, an honorable elevated status, thereby tying one’s sense of dignity and self-respect to one’s national identity. This ensures one’s commitment to the national community and, in particular, one’s investment in the nation’s collective dignity, or prestige. Prestige is a relative good: one nation’s having more of it implies that another has less. Therefore, investment in national prestige necessarily gives rise to an endless international competition, for no matter how much prestige one may have gained at a certain moment, one can be outdone in the next. Unlike other types of societies, then, nations are inherently competitive. This competition goes on in all the spheres of collective endeavor: moral (the nation’s record on human rights, for instance), pertaining to cultural creativity (scientific, literary, musical, etc.), military, political. Any particular nation chooses those spheres of competition where it has a chance to end on, or near, the top, and disregards those in which it is likely to be shamefully out-competed. For instance, Russia has always chosen to compete in the cultural and military arenas, and has never been interested in economic competition. Where economic competition is included among the areas of national engagement, however, the inherent competitiveness of nationalism gives rise to the economies of sustained, endless, growth – i.e. to what is recognized as modern economies.

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Nationalism and the Mind 207 Since not all nations include the economy among the spheres of international competition in which they are willing to engage, not all nations develop the specifically “economic nationalism,”i.e. an economic interpretation of nationalism, and therefore a reconstruction of the economic activity on the basis of the nationalist image of reality. Thus, while economies of sustained growth (modern economies) cannot exist without nationalism, nationalism can exist without spawning economies of sustained growth or economic modernization. In distinction, nationalism cannot fail to affect politics, as it does not simply encourage, but logically implies the reconstruction of political structures and processes in accordance with its fundamental principles. The essential secularism and the two principles of nationalism’s image of the social world define this form of consciousness as such, and though its specific expressions, or particular nationalisms, are distinguished by numerous other qualities, it is these three general characteristics which explain the central political features of every modern society. The first of these central features to be listed is the democratization or universality of political action: the striking fact that in modern societies it may be found on any rung of the social ladder and in any corner of the national territory. It is this, dramatic by comparison to other types of societies, level of political participation, which the term “civil society” as a rule describes. Indeed, it would be absurd to talk of “civil society” or “political action” in the framework of the European feudal society or Indian caste society, to mention the two perhaps bestknown non-modern types. The forms of consciousness prevailing in them did not allow for the existence of such political phenomena, which still appear unimaginable to us, being logically incongruent with the two cultural frameworks. The focus of nationalism on this world as ultimately meaningful and the principle of popular sovereignty combine to render social reality changeable and place the responsibility for its shape in the hands of the earthly living community – the nation. The focus on the life in this world dramatically increases the value of this life to the individual and inevitably leads to the insistence on a good life, however defined. One is no longer expected to submit to suffering or deprivation, unless one has special reasons to do so, for the general reasons for such submission – the expectation of rewards in the beyond, transmutation and migration of the souls, the duty to serve witness to the glory of God wherever one is called, or the sheer impossibility to change one’s condition – no longer apply.

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208 Nationalism and the Mind Moreover, in a self-sufficient world, changeable and shaped by people, suffering is generally believed to be man-made. Even natural disasters are likely to be so interpreted: a famine, an earthquake, or an epidemic are as often as not attributed to some human agent’s withholding of the needed but available resources or negligence; personal misfortunes, such as debilitating, life-threatening, and incurable illnesses are blamed on artificially created environmental conditions (second-hand smoke, lead paint, etc.) or on doctors’ incompetence. None of these natural disasters, it is said,“have to happen”: they are no longer believed to be in the nature of things. Of course, the right to a life free of suffering is most clearly asserted when suffering is caused – as it is mostly, in modern societies – by social evils: war, economic or political conditions, competition for precedence, and so forth. Humiliation, rejection, thwarted ambition are felt as unjust – as contrary to expectations and thus resulting from illegitimate intervention of malicious others. As one’s precious time on earth is limited, the change in the conditions preventing the realization of one’s right to a life of contentment, free of suffering, is experienced as urgent, and since those responsible for their creation are only human, any naturally active and temperamental individual, who is not particularly timid, easily gets engaged in whatever form the political process around him or her takes. As a result, involvement in political action (or participation in civil society) under nationalism is a function not of the social position – as it was, let’s say, in feudal and absolutist Europe or in Tokugawa Japan – but of character and personality. Since temperament changes with age, and young people, for instance, are more likely to be impetuous and unthinkingly brave, it is also a function of age: it is noteworthy that all revolutionary movements of the last three hundred years, from the French Revolution to the student one of the 1960s, were movements of adolescents and people in their twenties and to a lesser extent thirties. It is even more significant that in the last three hundred years – but never before – there were revolutionary movements, that is, explicit attempts at social change, movements oriented toward reshaping the world by human design. All forms of consciousness allow for revolts and rebellions, spontaneous eruptions of frustration and rage, essentially expressive collective actions, aimless – perhaps vaguely oriented to the righting of some tremendous, but ill-defined, wrongs – with goals and demands thought through, if at all, only after the fact. But revolutions are a modern form of political action: at their root always lies nationalism.

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Nationalism and the Mind 209 The central political institution of our age – the state – is also a product of nationalism. Specifically, it is an implication of the principle of popular sovereignty. The state is not to be confused with government in general; it is only a form of government, and this form is characteristically modern and necessarily bureaucratic. The concept of “state” as a form of government appeared in the English of the sixteenth century – about fifty years after the entrenchment of the idea of the “nation” and well into the development of the nationalist discourse. It obviously reflected a new reality, as it did later in other countries when the term migrated there in translation. This new reality was the new form of government, called forth by the new form of consciousness, which presented a new image of what a government should be. As nationalism first developed in western Europe, this image contrasted most sharply with the then existing western European ideal of government – the medieval ideal of kingship. The distinguishing characteristic of kingship was its personality: the government was inseparable from a particular person, a person born at a certain time to a certain family, who needed no other qualifications in addition to this accident of birth (of course, never regarded as an accident and at a later stage explicitly reaffirmed as divine appointment) to assume power. In contrast, the distinguishing characteristic of the state became its impersonality. Since supreme authority, in the framework of nationalism, resides in the body of the nation in accordance with the principle of popular sovereignty, the authority of the state is necessarily delegated, representative (in the sense that it only represents the authority of the people), and, insofar as it is subject to recall, limited. Sovereignty is delegated to the office, not to any particular person, and any person exercises authority only as a holder of the office. The state is a government by officers, that is, a bureaucracy. In this sense, Adolph Hitler, the Führer who ardently believed that he represented the will of the German people, was but a bureaucrat, as was Joseph Stalin, the appositely referred to General Secretary, who did not believe in any such thing but made sure that everyone else did. Finally, the principle of the equality of national membership lies at the root of the open recruitment to state offices, which obviously also exerts a most profound influence on the nature of politics in modern society. It is through the principle of equality of membership – its core social principle – that nationalism affects the social structure most directly, because in modern society the system of social stratification – the nodal social structure, in which all social systems meet and connect

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210 Nationalism and the Mind – is based on this principle. In this case, too, the modern, or national, system of social stratification represents the very opposite of the stratification system characteristic of the European feudal society, which it replaced. In place of a rigid structure, sharply distinguishing between strata of which it was composed and, except by special dispensation, allowing no movement between them, we now have an open system with loosely and only theoretically defined compartments, in practice virtually indistinguishable and seamlessly flowing one into another via the numerous channels of social mobility. One no longer has a social position and function, clearly defined by birth, which is supposed to serve one (or, rather, which one is supposed to serve) all of one’s lifetime; instead, one is supposed to choose a function and to achieve a social position (which presupposes specifically upward mobility), moving from one social position to higher and higher ones as one grows older,“bettering oneself ”or “getting ahead.”In modern societies one does not talk of“usurpers,” “parvenus,”or,however great the temptation, “nouveaux riches”: one is expected, even encouraged, to strive, to have ambitions, to be a proficient social climber. And so there is nothing strange in a poor seminarist from Georgia becoming the allpowerful ruler of the great Soviet Union; a son of elderly underpaid Leningrad parents rising through the ranks of foreign espionage to the presidency of only slightly less great Russia; a daughter of a modest greengrocer gaining recognition as the premier of the United Kingdom; and a child of a single mother, unhappily remarried to a garage mechanic from Arkansas, twice being elected to head the United States of America. Our form of consciousness, nationalism, makes this kind of mountaineering normal, respectable, in fact, necessary. The combination of the principles of popular sovereignty and fundamental equality of membership implies democracy: government of the people by the people; therefore, political recruitment must be open to any member of the nation. The process of recruitment in the democratic, national, or modern, societies differs drastically from those based on forms of consciousness different from nationalism, for, whatever the differences between nationalisms (which, as I have argued elsewhere may be very significant), it is in all nations essentially, rather than accidentally, a process of self-recruitment, always dependent on (though not inevitably determined by) individual initiative, the nature of one’s ambition, and talent, while in other societies it follows strictly charted paths from certain initial social positions to specified political functions, which only extraordinary circumstances allow to circumvent.

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Nationalism and the Mind 211 The egalitarian presupposition of nationalism’s image of society, which necessitates an open and fluid system of social stratification, i.e. the class system, characterized by social mobility, makes the individual the historical agent and bases the social position, or status, on transferable goods of wealth and education. When the culture of nationalism is imported into a traditional society, it necessarily undermines the characteristic rigid stratification (such as that of the society of orders, a legal estate, or a religious caste-system), with its status based on birth; the family, rather than the individual, as the historical agent; and – as a consequence – the illegitimacy of social mobility. Since the system of stratification is the nodal social structure, in which all the others crisscross and influence each other, it does not exist separately but only through the others. It is, therefore, clear that a dramatic reconstruction of the social stratification, such as is presupposed by the emergence or importation of nationalism, will change the very nature of the existential experience, of one’s desires and aspirations, frustrations and fears, the very nature of one’s passions, and with them, both of happiness and of suffering. In the modern world, defined by nationalism, one can, nay, is supposed to, make oneself; the open system of stratification allows and encourages ambition; one is free to move and is invited to shape one’s destiny. Only in nations children are asked what they want to be when they grow up. This question is inconceivable, more than that, subversive, in a traditional society where one’s future is determined by birth. The countless children who declare they want to become an American president, or a British prime minister, or whatever is regarded as the preeminent leadership position in Russia at the moment, are not checked as precocious arrivistes, they are praised for the healthy vigor of their aspirations. And this freedom is not limited to the political or even generally occupational sphere. One can dream to become a great scholar or a multimillionaire or a heroic firefighter, or one can think not in terms of greatness at all, rather seeking self-realization as a gardener or fulfillment in love. All these are modern desires, made possible by the egalitarianism of nationalism and the system of stratification it creates. Who thought of marital happiness, when marriage was a contract concluded between two families, rather than a free union between two individuals, and when being a wife or a husband was a job and an office? But the advantages of modernity come with a heavy price-tag. The greater is the choice one is given in forming one’s destiny, the heavier

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212 Nationalism and the Mind is the burden of responsibility for making the right choice. The more opportunities one is offered to “find oneself,” the harder it is to decide where to look. Life has never been so exciting and so frustrating; we have never been so empowered and so helpless. Modern societies, produced by nationalism, because of their very secularism, openness, and the elevation of the individual, are necessarily anomic. As was recognized already by Durkheim, anomie is the fundamental structural problem of modernity.4 Anomie, commonly translated as ‘normlessness’, refers to a condition of cultural insufficiency, a systemic problem which reflects inconsistency, or the lack of co-ordination, between various institutional structures, as a result of which they are likely to send contradictory messages to individuals within them. On the psychological level anomie produces a sense of disorientation, of uncertainty as to one’s place in society, and therefore as to one’s identity: of what one is expected to do under circumstances of one sort or another, of the limits to one’s possible achievement (i.e. aspirations that would be frustrated) on the social, political, economic, and personal planes. In acute cases such a sense of disorientation and uncertainty leads to depression, deviant behavior, even to suicide. On the social level, pervasive anomie necessarily increases the rates of depression, deviance, and suicide. Indeed, Durkheim’s classic discussion of the phenomenon occurs in his study of the rates of suicide. Anomie may occur in all types of societies, but in modern society it is a built-in feature. One cannot have modernity – one cannot have nationalism – without anomie. Anomie, is, in fact, the ultimate cause of cultural change. It both breaks the old cultural routine and encourages the formation of a new one. The general pattern of human history can be imagined as an alteration between relatively brief and rare periods of widespread (though culturally localized) anomie and cultural routine. Widespread anomie, most commonly implying gross inconsistencies between elements of culture impinging on individual identities, specifically inconsistencies within the system of social stratification which defines a person’s position in the social world in general and vis-à-vis particular others, affects large groups of individuals and expresses itself in social turmoil. A readjustment of the stratification system in the course of such turmoil eliminates these inconsistencies, that is, resolves anomie, again making possible unhindered development of identity and routine functioning of both the individual and the surrounding culture. But modern culture (and, as a result, modern

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Nationalism and the Mind 213 history) does not fit this pattern. Nationalism, the novel vision of reality, which was the formula sixteenth-century Englishmen used – quite successfully, so far as they were concerned – to resolve their particular anomic situation, turned out to be anomic, and anomiegeneric, vision. Thus it has produced a culture (meaning a society, a polity, an economy – the entire organization of human life, in short), in which anomie is built-in. In modern culture, in other words, the cultural routine itself is anomic. We live in a constant condition of anomie. As much as the open class structure, the state and civil society, and the modern economy characterized by sustained growth (in nations which choose to compete in the economic arena),anomie is an implication of the nationalist image of reality. Representing a condition of cultural insufficiency, it inhibits the formation and normal functioning of the human mind. I am, therefore, proposing that nationalism inhibits the formation and normal functioning of the human mind. On the most general level, culture is the process of transmission of historical ways of life and forms of human association across generations and distances. As I mentioned in the introduction to this lecture, in distinction to other animal species, such transmission of ways of life and social organization, in the case of humanity, is not genetic, but symbolic. Humans are the only biological species, the continuation of whose existence is dependent on symbolic transmission. The products of this cultural process are stored in the environment within which our biological life takes place, but the process itself goes on inside us. In other words, culture exists dynamically, develops, regenerates, transforms only by means of our minds – which makes culture a mental process. Let me reiterate: culture is a symbolic and a mental process. The fact that it is a mental process means that it occurs by means of the mechanisms of the brain. The fact that it is a symbolic process means that its logic cannot be reduced to the logic of the brain mechanisms, that it is an emergent phenomenon and a reality sui generis. In other words: the neural processes by means of which the cultural process occurs serve only as boundary conditions outside of which it cannot occur, but are powerless to shape the nature and direction of the cultural process. In contrast, culture itself consistently directs the brain, by means of which it occurs, forcing brain mechanisms into patterns of organization and operation which (though, obviously, not impossible) are most improbable given all that we may know of the biological functioning of the brain.

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214 Nationalism and the Mind Most importantly, culture creates the human mind. The mind is also a symbolic and a mental process: it is supported by biological brain mechanisms, but is generated by culture outside of the human brain. The mind is, one may say, an individualized culture process, or culture in the brain. The products of this individualized process are stored primarily in the brain memory. Memory is a faculty humans share with the rest of the animal world; human memory is, therefore, made precisely of the physiochemical “stuff ”that any animal memory is made of.Another mental capacity humans share with other animals is the capacity for learning – namely, for committing to memory experiences of encounters with the environment and adapting to the environment as a result of such experiences. However, in addition to the mental processes, such as learning and memory, which are characteristic of the entire animal world and can be fully accounted for by neurobiology without recourse to anything exogenous to the nervous system, there are clearly mental processes in which the human brain is involved because it participates in the symbolic processes of culture. These uniquely human mental processes include identity, will and symbolic imagination. The “mind”is a collective name for the complex interaction among these symbolic mental processes. For heuristic purposes, the mind may be seen as a symbolic system, and it is highly likely that to this symbolic system there corresponds a neurological system in the brain, the system of specific brain mechanisms and spaces that support the constituent processes of the mind. The term identity in its semiotic (culturological/pertaining to symbolic systems) sense, refers to symbolic self-definition. It is the image of one’s position in the socio-cultural “space” and the image of the relevant socio-cultural terrain itself. It contains and provides information regarding one’s social status, one’s relevant others and the types of relations one is supposed to have with them, one’s immediate and more remote social world, expectations one may have of one’s environment and vice versa, conduct proper to one under various, likely to arise circumstances (i.e. foods one should like or dislike, clothes one is supposed to wear, questions one is supposed to ask and issues one is supposed to be interested in, emotions one may legitimately experience and ones of which one should be ashamed, people one may befriend, marry, respect, despise and hate, and so on). In short, one’s identity represents an individualized microcosm of the culture in which one is immersed, with the image of one’s significant sector in it (which may include God and his angels, paradise and hell,

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Nationalism and the Mind 215 or one’s immediate neighbors, colleagues, and fellow fans of the local football team) magnified and highlighted. Unlike other animals, who carry their social order and the individual organism’s position in it in their genes, humans have to figure out their social order and their position in it for themselves, which involves representing both in one’s mind. Identity, therefore, is a symbolic self-representation, an image a human individual has of oneself as a cultural being and a participant in a cultural universe. At the same time, it is clearly an essential element of human mental functioning and health – that is, of one’s ability to function cognitively and emotionally, and to adjust socially. Problems in identity-formation and maintenance (i.e. crises of identity, doubts about one’s identity, multiple identities) are immediately evident in and directly affect one’s ability to learn and commit information to memory, the adequacy (in other words, cultural propriety) of one’s emotional reactions, and the degree of one’s social adjustment. Identity is literally the central human mental process, for it mediates between one’s natural or biological capacities to learn, memorize, adapt to the environment – the capacities of one’s brain – and one’s functioning as, in fact being, a person. Obviously, two individuals endowed with different brain powers would learn, memorize, and adapt differently, but so most certainly would two individuals with equal brain powers but different identities. Similarly, a damage to one’s brain capacities (as a result of physical trauma or impaired growth) will undoubtedly be reflected in one’s mental performance, but a damage to one’s cultural identity (as a result of a traumatic experience, such as immigration or “loss of face,” or in consequence of impaired formation) will alter mental performance as dramatically. Like all mental processes, identity must be supported by brain mechanisms. Because it is a uniquely human mental process, however, we cannot establish what brain mechanisms these are and explore them in experimenting with animal brain. Since animals perform their social functions based on genetic instructions, they do not need to have a representation of their social position in their brain; they do not have an identity. Still, the representation of an identity within the brain may be analogous to the cognitive map of the spatial environment in animals, such as was found encoded in the firing pattern of the hippocampal pyramidal cells in mice, for instance.5 Perhaps the pyramidal cells can function as identity cells, in addition to serving as place cells. Wherever within the human brain it takes

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216 Nationalism and the Mind place, the uniquely human mental process of identity, which must take place within the brain and use brain mechanisms, could be accessed by means of experiments structurally similar to those of the neuroscientists who study representations of encounters with the physical environment in animals. I mentioned that certain complex patterned processes, such as identity, mind, and culture, for heuristic purposes can be seen as static systems or structures. For instance, it may be useful to represent these three as a hierarchy of structures of increasing complexity, in which identity is the central “organ”of the mind, while the mind is the smallest active unit of a culture. Symbolic imagination cannot be so envisioned. It is analogous, rather, to a tendency or ability of a living entity, such as breathing, or to a physical force, such as gravity, which can be perceived only in operation or in their effects. Symbolic imagination is the central faculty of the human mind, on which every one of the mind’s functions and its very formation (and thus the cultural process in general) depend. Symbolic imagination is an ability to create new information within the brain and, therefore, the creative mental ability par excellence. Our reality, the world we inhabit as human beings, represents a multidimensional fabric of symbolic systems, interwoven, crisscrossing, and diverging in most intricate ways. The most intricate symbolic system which lies at the very core of cultural reality is language. But because we are symbolic creatures, everything around us becomes a symbol. A bow, a glance, a smile, a handshake are symbols. It is on symbols of this silent kind, to which we sometimes refer as body language, that the nodal cultural structure of social stratification, for instance, rests to a far greater extent, than on language proper, whether written or spoken. In context, a casual bow may signify a relationship of equality, a passing glance, superiority and, perhaps, contempt, a forced smile, subservience. All these gestures may also signify something entirely different. A dog is instructed when to wag his tail, and what precisely this means, genetically. Nobody ever gives us detailed instructions, applicable to all our circumstances, when to smile forcibly and when to refrain from smiling, when to look and when to avert one’s eyes, when to answer a greeting eagerly and when to wait for five seconds before acknowledging it. And yet, we all participate in such symbolic exchanges constantly and most of us usually do this on cue (correctly). The logic which guides these exchanges, making certain reactions adequate to and others inconsistent with an

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Nationalism and the Mind 217 action which elicits them, changes not only with time, but also depending on the sphere of social life of which the exchange in question forms a part. A casual bow to a salesclerk in a store would be adequate enough, but highly inappropriate to one’s academic advisor in a corridor. We are given very little information, i.e. we can learn very little from the environment, regarding the correct path of action in most situations we find ourselves in. But on the basis of the few pieces of data our imagination provides us with the clue to the puzzle – the logic operative in any particular case – and so supplies the missing information. Our – correct and incorrect – behavior then becomes a lesson, an additional piece of information to others and to ourselves, and so it goes, a symbolic system is maintained, the cultural process continues. With language this is not much different. Somehow between the ages of three and five, as any parent among us would know, the child acquires the language and starts using it, by and large correctly by the standards of its environment, that is according to numerous rules of grammar and syntax, of which he or she could not have heard, and often creatively, guessing at words outside of the actually learned vocabulary, understanding these words without ever hearing them before. Most of this new proficiency does not come from learning – it comes from imagination. It is only by this means – i.e. owing to our imaginative capacity to complement, and greatly augment, in accordance with the proper principles of consistency which we figure out the little that we know – that a language goes on living, and the same applies to other symbolic systems, from the etiquette of drugstore shopping to high diplomacy, and from cuisine to philosophy. The operative logics – namely, principles of consistency – in different symbolic systems are different. Moreover, in all of these logics, with the exception of the Aristotelian, deductive logic based on the principle of no contradiction, these principles of consistency are context-dependent, that is, historical and constantly changing. Symbolic imagination in essence consists precisely in the ability to figure them out in different situations and, on the basis of such figuring out, construct one’s behavior. How can we systematically move between logics, often combining blatantly contradictory principles? We can do this, apparently, because, under the influence of our cultural experience, our brain has evolved mechanisms – collectively, they support the agency we call will – which, for every event, select the logic (or logics) appropriate to

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218 Nationalism and the Mind the context, while suppressing other logics. What does the will do? It arbitrates in cases of contradictory stimuli. Most often, such arbitrage is unconscious and involves no effort (of will) on our part: we simply receive, and obey, an instruction of the sort: “In the case of the Christian doctrine (or the Jewish law, or Ancient Greek mythology, or a grammatical structure, such as the affirmation that ‘nobody understands me’) you will forget rules of deductive logic.” It is this ability to block one logic to attend to another which explains how people can live quite ordered and contented lives in a contradictory environment. (In the Soviet Union and Soviet dominated eastern Europe such ability, evident from the fact that everybody knew that the social system was based on a pack of lies and yet staked one’s entire life on the validity of its presuppositions, was attributed to the development of a “double consciousness.” In actuality, if a consciousness can be equated with a particular symbolic logic, we all necessarily develop multiple consciousnesses and, depending on the occasion, skillfully select among them the appropriate one.) But will’s arbitrage may involve a conscious effort, and it is for the cases when it does that the language – at least, in the West – reserves the concept of the “will.” For instance, one may be tired and wish to lie down, but have unfinished work (such as formulating the present thesis), in which case the will will instruct the organism: “You will pay no attention to your fatigue, but will be guided by the logic demanding you to finish the work you have started.” Late in the evening, however, it will issue a different instruction: “You will now lay down your work, though unfinished, and take care of your fatigue. Otherwise, you won’t be able to continue your work tomorrow.”Or, in the case of a soldier fearing for his life, the will may declare:“The logic you will obey at present is that of a collective military enterprise. Therefore, you will expose your life to danger and disregard the survival instinct which instructs you to run away and hide.”Or, in the case of a scholar building a career, the will may prompt the person to prefer the logic of scientific inquiry (“Go and raise questions about the dominant theory, on the acceptance of which your promotion depends, because you know this theory to be erroneous”) to the logic of collegial harmony and career building:“Keep your mouth shut and pretend to accept the dominant theory, though you know it to be erroneous, because your promotion depends on such acceptance.”We refer to that will as a “strong” one, which systematically imposes on the person the logic considered to be more difficult to follow. Of

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Nationalism and the Mind 219 course, what is so considered changes with the context, and so do the logics of symbolic systems themselves; these logics are contextdependent: they evolve with the system, and with the system in which the particular system evolves, and thus do not have first, fundamental, principles. We are able to deploy our imaginative capacities correctly, namely, in accordance with the appropriate symbolic logic thanks to the agency of the will, while the will’s arbitrage, much as our capacity to learn and memorize, is mediated by identity. Clearly, it would be much easier for a person unambiguously self-defined as a soldier to risk his life in the face of mortal danger, rather than try to save himself; his identity will, in effect, screen the logic of self-preservation from him, making him, so to speak,“single-minded”in his sharp awareness of the dictates of proper soldierly conduct. A person unsure of whether being a soldier is really “him,” in contrast, will be much more likely to hesitate and run for cover. Similarly, a person lacking intellectual confidence (i.e. suffering from self-doubt and uncertain of the validity of one’s ideas) would be more sensitive to fatigue and ready to procrastinate and be distracted from unfinished work, than one who has a clear identity as a thinker and so does not question one’s ability to produce scholarship of fundamental value. Problems with identity impair the will, making the person indecisive and unmotivated (examples are too numerous and familiar to everyone to need recounting), while an impaired will interferes with routine functioning of symbolic imagination. Since it is symbolic imagination which ensures social adjustment and proper emotional and cognitive behavior, the common effect of such interference is mental confusion, slowing down of simple mental operations and in general mental dulling. Paradoxically, an equally direct, though far less common, effect is the dramatic increase in creativity, that is, in internal generation of strikingly new and improbable information by a small, but significant minority of minds. While the reasons for the distribution of individuals between the majority (experiencing the common effect) and the minority (which reacts by increased creativity) have to do with the biology of the brains of their respective members, the surge in collective creativity is explained by the change in the symbolic, rather than neural, circuits – by what is happening to the mind, in other words, rather than to the brain. As the will is no longer capable of selecting the logic appropriate to each context and the routine channels of

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220 Nationalism and the Mind symbolic imagination are, therefore, closed, hyperactive symbolic imaginations find new channels, “discover” common logical principles behind several previously unconnected logics, and “jump to conclusions” in new, unexpected directions. History of culture attests to the close connection between periods of anomie, which imply problematization of individual identities as a result of which identity formation becomes psychologically taxing, and surges in cultural creativity. But this is an aside, since, as I said, such creative reaction to identity-problems is a reaction of a small minority. Genius is connected to mental disturbance, but the overwhelming majority of mentally disturbed people are not geniuses. This brings us back to nationalism. The modern culture at the core of which lies the vision of nationalism, with its presuppositions of fundamental equality of national membership, and popular sovereignty, and its secular focus – the inherently and pervasively anomic culture – cannot provide one with a clear social map and a sense of a defined, stable, position on it. The picture one receives changes from moment to moment, constantly reorienting and confusing one with changing, often contradictory directions. Though the mapped or pictured reality in question is cultural, it is mapped or pictured mentally, that is, using available brain mechanisms and in a manner, as I suggested, analogous to the way a physical terrain is mapped in the brain of a mouse. The effect on the mind of nationalism, therefore, is comparable to the effect on the brain of a mouse of an incessantly and irregularly changing physical environment, produced, for example, by holding the mouse by its tail and twirling it in the air. No neuroscientific experiments are required to understand that such inconsiderate action would destroy the animal’s mental equilibrium and make it sick. In the cultural framework of nationalism one’s status is no longer defined by birth, and for this reason any social position can no longer be equated with identity. Identity ceases to be a cultural given, which is formed naturally as one grows into one’s social environment. The particular environment into which one grows is not necessarily one’s own. In modern societies, the individual is expected to be the maker of one’s own destiny – how dramatically different from all the other cultures humanity has known! – to make oneself, in effect, which implies the creation of a proper environment for oneself (it is this expectation which is the source of the ideal of a “self-made man”), and to be able to do so, one has first to “find oneself.” Self-definition

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Nationalism and the Mind 221 becomes a matter of choice and responsibility. Instead of being a product of simple learning and commitment to memory of symbolic information from the outside, the construction of identity is turned into a task for creative symbolic imagination, the mental faculty dependent on identity for its routine operation. In this way, nationalism, it may be said, in fact creates a new breed of men: it modifies the way the mind is formed and functions, producing, on the one hand, a small number of exceptionally creative people, and, on the other, a much larger minority of permanently disoriented, confused, and unhappy individuals. The majority of modern individuals continue to function normally, namely, they continue to function the way most human beings have functioned throughout history. The effect of nationalism, clearly, depends on the neurophysiological constitution of the receiving individuals, and is likely to affect deeply only those with an acute innate sensitivity to symbolic inconsistencies. Such sensitivity, similarly to inborn predispositions of other kinds, is distributed unequally, most likely in the pattern of a bell curve, with those above the average only about as numerous as those below. One must both be receptive to numerous cultural messages at once and perceive, i.e. imagine, the inconsistencies among them to be confused by anomic culture. Many people have the capacity to focus on a particular message to the virtual exclusion of others; many are capable of compartmentalizing various messages they receive in such a way as to preclude any relationship – whether of consistency or inconsistency – among them. Most Americans (not all, but an overwhelming majority) well into the twentieth century lived quite contentedly and were not disoriented by the glaring contradictions between the supreme national commitment to equality and the multitude of inequalities of condition as well as opportunity which they witnessed every day. It usually takes a cataclysmic event or a widespread and dramatic change of experience to reveal an anomic situation to individuals who would not perceive systemic cultural inconsistencies on their own (for instance, it took the Second World War and the Holocaust to make the general public in the U.S. aware that antiSemitism was an un-American attitude; it took the participation of urban middle-class women in the labor force to change the view of the “natural” place of women). But, notwithstanding this dependence of the effect of nationalism (and anomie more generally) on innate predispositions of individuals,

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222 Nationalism and the Mind the more open is the cultural system, the more perfect is the realization of the core principles of nationalism in the institutions of a society, the more pervasively anomic it will be, and the greater will be the effects of anomie. The more insistent is the society upon the verity that everyone is created equal, the more intolerable will become one’s inequality to the very best or even the better-off: to the prettiest girl at school or just girls who are prettier, the most popular boy or just more popular boys; to the best or better students or athletes; to those on a faster career track, those with larger salaries or bank accounts; to owners of bigger houses and parents of smarter children – the more kinds of ambition a culture makes possible, the more varieties of self-doubt and envy it creates. Ambition drives creativity, and self-doubt and envy destroy one’s sense of equilibrium and impair mental health. The negative effects of the anomic modern culture, created by nationalism, outnumber the positive ones. There are far more people who are made deeply unhappy by the openness and pluralism of modernity than those who are made happy. It is not a coincidence that socially paralyzing mental disorders are a scourge of the most prosperous and freest nations, that their rates grow together with life-expectancy and as problems caused by the physical environment (starvation, malnutrition, the dangers of heat and cold) and ravages of physical diseases recede; that schizophrenia, bipolar and eating disorders are modern diseases par excellence, that there is an epidemic of depression among America’s teenagers and young adults, ranging from mild (but almost universal) state of malaise to severe, physically destructive illness, which may drive these young people to suicide and, even if it does not, disables and often effectively destroys their lives. To relate this to the poster announcing my talk, it is not the sleep of reason that leads to madness, but the fact that reason is allowed no rest. Nationalism demands from the individual mind to do the work which other cultures take on themselves; therefore it overworks the brain and fatigues it into stupor. In my earlier work on nationalism I have shown what profound effect it has on the political consciousness and behavior of the modern man. In my recent book, The Spirit of Capitalism, which expanded on the investigation begun in Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity, I attempted to draw attention to the formative influence of nationalism on the modern man’s economic activity, specifically its central role in producing economic growth. The aim of my talk here today was to indicate the direct link between nationalism and our,

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Nationalism and the Mind 223 modern men’s, mental formation and health. If I am right, deeper, more accurate understanding of nationalism may be the key to the treatment of ever-spreading mental disorders which have called modern psychiatry and clinical psychology into being and which modern psychiatry and clinical psychology have been trying in vain to cure – more than that, a deeper, more accurate understanding of nationalism may be the key to the very problem of happiness and unhappiness. Those assembled here have been aware for many years, often in the face of opposition from politicians, the media, and our own academic disciplines, of the tremendous importance of our subject. It may, in fact, be far more important than even those assembled here have believed. Originally delivered as The Tenth Annual Gellner Lecture, London School of Economics, 22 April 2004, and published in Nations and Nationalism, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2005) NOTES 1. 2. 3. 4.

5.

For a detailed discussion of the position of religion in the modern world, see Liah Greenfeld, “The Modern Religion?” Critical Review, 10, 2:169–191, 1996. The following discussion is based on Liah Greenfeld, Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992). See Liah Greenfeld, The Spirit of Capitalism: Nationalism and Economic Growth (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001). See Emile Durkheim, Suicide (New York: The Free Press, 1966 [1897]) and Emile Durkheim, The Division of Labor in Society (New York: The Free Press, 1984 [1893]). Larry R. Squire and Eric R. Kandel, Memory: From Mind to Molecules (New York: Scientific American Library, 1998), pp. 124–126.

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INDEX

academe 204 adaptation to changing environment 164, 165–6, 166–7, 168, 170–1 aesthetic function of literature 28, 149 agency (see also will) 171–2, 173 aggression 143 American Economic Association 179 American Historical Association 179 American Political Science Association 179 American Sociological Society 179 Anderson, B. 95 animal societies x, 164, 166, 168, 172, 179, 214 anomalies 153, 154 anomie x, xiv, xxiii–xiv, 220, 221; and cultural change 212–13; and status-inconsistency 9, 72–3, 212 anti-scientism 84, 145–6 apostasy 108, 109 aristocracy 73; French 73, 86; German 75; Tudor English 71–2, 77 Aron, R. 118 art, sociology of 22–5, 26, 27; Marxist aesthetics 22–3, 27; production-ofculture approach 22, 23, 24, 27 Ascham, R. 46 authoritarianism 76, 106, 141, 195 authority: charisma of 2–4, 12 (see also charismatic authority); values and 129 automatization of form 29, 30, 150, 153 Aylmer, J., Bishop of London 48 Bacon, F. 52, 158 Bakhtin, M. 30, 149 Barnes, B. xii, 151 Becker, H. 23

Ben-David, J. 151 Berger, P. 129 Bernard, C. 127 berserk warriors 4–5 Bible, The 101 biology 14, 136, 140, 179, 180; and cognitive psychology 163–4; culture and 120, 121, 122, 136, 163–4 Bosnian Muslims 110–11 Boyle, R. 53–4 brain xxi, 165, 166, 169, 173, 174, 213, 214, 220; and identity 215–16, 219 Calvinism 190–1 Camden, W. 44 canonization of junior genres 29, 150 capitalism 69, 192; liberal democracy and 85; nationalism and 85–8; Tawney and 189–91; Weber and 182, 183–4, 185, 186–7, 191–2 Carew, R. 45 Catholicism 102–3, 104 center/periphery 128–31 charisma (see also genuine charisma) x–xi, 2–4, 31; routinization of 1, 2–3, 4, 12, 13, 14, 15; sensitivity to 12–13 charismatic authority 7–9, 10, 14, 15 charismatic personality 4–5, 9, 10 Chaucer, G. 44 Christianity (see also Protestantism) 96, 98–9 Church and State 97–9, 103–4 citizenship 106–7, 141, 195 class, and Russian literature 35 cognitive dissonance 10 Coke, J. 45

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Index 225 Cold War 112, 143–4 collective behaviour 8, 9, 10 collective consciousness 123, 128, 194, 200–1 communism 144 competition xiv, 157, 198, 206 consciousness 170, 172 conversion 109–10, 128 cooperation 13, 120–1 creativity 219–20; and genuine charisma 11–12 Crompton, R. 45 culture; and biology 120, 121, 122, 136, 163–4; as emergent phenomenon xiv–xv, 121–2, 167–8; and humanity 122, 126; and memory 173; as mental process 213; and mind 169, 171–2, 173, 213–14; politics of xviii, 135–44; and Shils, E. 119, 128, 132–3; social integration as function of 120; society as 126, 132, 136–7; and sociology 120, 126; and Weber, M. 126–7 curiosity 152, 156 Daniel, S. 45 death, religion and 95 definition (importance of) 127 Descartes, R. 162–3, 171 dictatorship 195 differences, ethnic/descriptive 138–9 dignity xix, 206; cultural 45; and national identity 47, 85, 106, 156, 196, 200, 206 distinctiveness of human beings 165, 168–9, 179–80, 188, 213, 215 Divine Right of Kings 81, 102, 103 Dostoyevsky, F. 6, 127 Dryden, J. 157 dualism 163 Durkheim, E. xxiii, 97, 125, 147; anomie 212; collective consciousness 128, 200–1; God is society 97, 123–4; The Rules of Sociological Method 124–5; society as emergent phenomenon 122, 123 Eastern Europe 143, 218 economic growth 85, 182, 186, 196–7, 198, 199; nationalism and 197–9, 201 economic order xviii–xix, 14 economy 197, 199; nationalism and 206–7, 222; Weber and 182, 183 egalitarianism xxiii, 69, 194, 205, 206, 211 Eikhenbaum, B. 25–6, 28, 33–4, 38, 148 Einstein, A. 166 elite 47, 72, 77; nation as xiv, 70, 71–2, 106, 195, 205 Elyot, Sir T. 46 emergent phenomenon 121–2, 126, 132,

146–7; culture as xiv–xv, 121–2, 167–8; society as 122, 123 England (see also English nationalism): capitalism in 87; cultural dignity 45; economy of 197, 199; emergence of national consciousness 44–6; and English language 45; idea of state in 79–81; as nation 48, 72; Parliament 80 English nationalism xiii–xiv, 44, 50, 156–7, 197; and economic growth 199–200, 201; and Protestantism 49; science and 51–2, 53, 156, 158 epistemological relativism 146 equality xv, 50, 222; of membership 100, 106, 140–1, 209–10, 211 Erasmus 157 ethics 188, 189, 192, 201 ethnic identity 137, 138–40, 141–2 ethnicity 137, 138–40 excitement, and charisma 5, 7, 14; symbolization of 10–11 fanaticism 111 feudalism 72, 74, 207 Feyerabend, P. 151 Fontenelle, B. le Bovier de 55–6 Foxe, J., Book of Martyrs 48–9 France 196; Anglophobia 87; capitalism and 86–7; concept of state 81–2; national identity 73, 86, 102–3; relationship between religion and nationalism 101–4 freedom of thought 51 functions of social institutions 149–50 fundamentalism (religious) xvii, 111 Gascoigne, G. 46 Geertz, C. 136, 149 Gellner, E. xv, 203–4 Gemeinschaft/Gesellschaft 14 genesis: in literature 31, 150; in science 154 genius 23, 194, 220 genocide 111 genuine charisma 2, 3, 12, 14; definition 4–6; revolutionary 14–15; symbolization of 10–12 Germany 84, 146; development of nationalism 74–6; relationship between religion and nationalism 104 Gilbert, W. 52 Glanvill, J. 59–60 Glanvill, W.W. 56 goals of social institutions xi, 147–8, 151–2, 155 God: is English 47–8, 157; is society 97, 122–3, 124 Gray, J. viii

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226 Index Halley, E. 53 Harrison, W. 44, 45 Harvey, G. 45 Henry VIII 46, 47 heresy 102, 104 historical materialism 65, 67, 177, 179, 180 history 177, 179, 193 Hitler, A. 17n human nature 125, 191, 192; duality of 124–5 human rights 141, 195 human society 187–8, 204; Weber and 180–1 humanity 125–6, 180; culture and 122, 126; distinctiveness of 165, 168–9, 179–80, 188, 213, 215 identity (see also national identity) xxiii, 94–5, 169, 170–1, 173, 214, 219; brain and 215–16, 219; ethnic 137, 138–40, 141–2; religious 98–9, 139–40; and social position 220 identity-formation 215, 220–1 imagination 165–6, 167, 169, 173, 214, 217 immortality 96 inconsistencies, sensitivity to 9, 11, 153, 221 individual 105, 106 individualism 108, 126, 189, 200–1; Protestantism and 191 industrialization 65, 66–7, 69, 85 inequality 106 institutionalization 184, 185 intellectuals 11, 134; German 74–5, 77; in USA 178 Israel, religion and nationality 108–9 Jakobson, R. 31, 148 John Paul II, Pope 117 Kandel, E. 162, 166; Memory 162–4, 166–7, 168, 170–1, 172 kingship 209 knowledge 50, 133, 146; scientific 43, 51 Kuhn, T. 151, 153 Kulturgeschichtliche Schule (in literature) 21 laissez faire economics 189 language 217, 218 law of marginal utility 30, 150, 153 leadership 9 learning 164, 166, 167, 168–9, 214 legitimacy 2–4; science and 60–1 Leland, J. 51, 157 liberal democracy 85, 106, 158, 210 liberty 50, 106, 195 life 121, 133, 167–8; theory of 127 linguistics 25, 29 literariness 31, 149, 150–1, 153

literary evolution 28–31, 149–51, 153 literary/literary-historical fact 31, 33–4, 150, 154 literature xi, xii, 157; genesis of 31, 150; and literary development 28–33; Russian Formalists and 20–2, 148–9; social function of 36–7; as social institution 27–8, 36, 148, 149–51; and social reality 35, 37–8; and society 154; sociology of 20–2, 25, 27–38, 148–9 logic, symbolic 217–18 Louis XIV xvi loyalty to nation 46, 47–9, 50 Luria, A. 166–7 Lyly, J. 47 Major, J.D. 54 Markham, G. 45 Marx, K. 86, 181; and sociology 177 Marxism/Marxists 65, 66; and Russian Formalists 21, 22; sociology of art 22–4, 27 mass society 8–9 materialism 181, 190 meaning xi, xxii, 119, 181, 188 memory 164–5, 166, 167, 168–9, 214; culture and 173; and identity 171 mental disorders 222–3 mental manipulation 165, 166 mental process, culture as 213 mentalist sociology xxii, 181, 185, 193 Mercier, L.-S. 86 Merton, R. xii, 43–4 middle classes 46 Milton, J. 49–50 mind xxi, xxiv, 214, 216; culture and 169, 171–2, 173, 213–14; and nationalism 220, 221 mind/body problem xx–xxi, 163 models for social order 136–7 modern society xxiv, 64–5, 68–9, 207–10, 211–12; and anomie 212–13; industrial 67; and nationalism 76–7, 88; and nationality 70–1; theories of 66–7; Weber and 67 modernization 65–6; economic factors 67; Marxist theory 65; structuralfunctionalists and 65–6 morality, Durkheim and 123–4 Mukarˇovsky´, J. 32, 151 nation 76, 77, 141, 205, 207; as collective individual 105, 141, 195; as composite entity 105–6, 108, 141, 194–5; criteria of membership 106–7; as an elite xiv, 70, 71–2, 106, 195, 205

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Index 227 national consciousness 194; emergence of 44–7 national identity 69–70, 72, 73, 74, 88, 95, 102–3 nationalism; civic 107–8, 112, 141, 142, 194–6; collectivistic 76, 77, 108, 141, 194, 195–6; economic 207, 208; English xiii–xiv, 44, 50, 156–7, 197; ethnic 107–8, 110–11, 112, 141, 142–3, 144, 194, 195, 199; individualistic 76, 77, 142, 194–5, 198, 199, 200; religious xvii–xviii, 108–12 Nationalism (Greenfeld) vii–viii nationality 70, 106–7, 142–3, 194–5, 206 natural drives 192 need for order 12–16, 172 Nekrasov, N. 34 nervous system 164, 165 Netherlands, development of national identity 197 neuroscience xxi, 163, 173–4 Newton, I. 52, 53, 55–6, 119 nobility, Russian 74, 77 nonconformity 111–12 Oldenburg, H. 52–3, 54, 56 order, need for 12–16, 172 palpability of form xii, 28, 29, 30, 149–50, 154 Parliament, English, in seventeenth century 80 passion 152, 196–7 patriotism, in sixteenth/seventeenth centuries 45–6; indifference to 44 people (see also popular sovereignty) 70, 71, 79, 81 personality (see also charismatic personality) 209 Peter the Great 74, 82 pluralism 108, 142 political action 207–8 political order xviii, 137 political sphere, religion and 98 politics of culture xviii, 135–44 Pollard, A.F. 44 Popper, K. 153 popular sovereignty xvi–xvii, 76, 100, 194, 207, 209, 210; people as nation 70, 106, 140–1, 205 power, Weber and xviii Poynet, J., Bishop of Winchester 46 predestination 96, 186, 198 prestige xiv, 156, 198, 206; science and 52, 83–4 printing 46, 49 prophets 4, 5 Protestantism 47–9, 50, 85, 96, 100–1; capitalism and 186–7, 188–9, 190–1 Puritanism 101, 190–1

Pushkin, A. 34, 35 rationalization xxii–xxiii, 183–6, 193 reading public 46–7 reason 50, 51, 83, 91, 93, 191 Reformation 46–7, 48, 83, 99, 188 religion 140; attacked by science 60; and formation of national loyalty 47–9, 50; and identity 98–9, 139–40; nationalism xvii, 94, 100–4; as a racial characteristic 109–10 religious consciousness 99 ressentiment 87 revolutions 208 Richelieu, Cardinal 81 Robinson, R. 46 Romanticism 84, 146 Rousseau, J.-J. 86 Royal Society 59, 156; foreign correspondents of 54–5; spokesmen of 56, 83; Sprat and 57, 101 Russia: concept of state 82; development of nationalism 74, 77, 110 Russian Formalists xi, 20, 21, 148–50, 150–1; and social reality 37–8; sociology of art 23–5; sociology of literature 20–2, 27–38; 148–9 Russian Orthodox Church 110 Sachs, correspondent of Royal Society 54–5 sacralization of secular xvii, 96–7 Sakulin, P. 24 scepticism 112 scholarship, Shils and 119 science 36, 69, 97, 145, 154, 156; attack on 145–6, 151, 158–9; conjectures and refutations 152, 154; constructivist school 151; Mertonian sociology of 32, 151; and national prestige 51–6, 58, 83–4, 178, 180; nationalism and 82–4; propagandists of 57–60; Protestantism and 43; in seventeenth-century England 57–60; Shils and 119, 132–3; as social institution xiii, 32, 84, 151–2, 155, 156; sociology of 31–2, 38, 151; as source of legitimacy 60–1 scientific change xii, 153–4 scientism/anti-scientism 84, 145–6 secularization 68, 82–3, 100, 205; in England 101; in France 103 self 171, 172; collective 76; self-definition 220–1 Shereshevskii (Russian reporter) 166–7 Shils, E. 97, 116–18; and center/periphery 128–31; and culture 119, 128, 132–3; on intellectuals 134; a pious agnostic 119; on tradition 129–30

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228 Index Shklovsky, V. 29–30, 148, 150 Shücking, L. 22 Smith, A. 189 Smith, Sir T. 44, 47 social action 5–6, 17n; intentionality of 188 social consciousness 199–200 social currents 147 social distinction 178 social hierarchy of nationalism 198 social institutions xi–xii, xiii, 26–7, 28, 180; function of 149–50; goals and values of xi, 26–7, 147–8, 151–2, 155; literature as 27–8, 36, 148, 149–51; science as 32, 84, 151–2, 155, 156 social integration 12–13, 147; as function of culture 120; morality as 123; role of center in 128; social structure and 13–14 social order xviii, xix, 94, 95, 96; models for 136–7 social stratification 68–9, 85, 131, 198, 209–11, 212 society (see also modern society) 122, 126, 146–7; as culture 126, 132, 136–7; Durkheim and 122–4; is God 97, 122–3, 124; literature and 154; spirituality and 97 Society of Antiquaries 44 society of orders 69, 72, 76, 78–9 sociological relativism 155 sociology 64, 88; beginnings of 176–8; culture and 120, 126; Weber and 176–7, 181 Sohm, R. 7 Sokal, A. 160n Sombart, W. 182 sovereignty (see also popular sovereignty) 78–9 speculation 66 Spirit of Capitalism, The (Greenfeld) viii spirituality 97 Sprat, T. 57–9, 60, 101, 158 Squire, L.R. 162, 166; Memory 162–4, 166–7, 168, 170–1, 172 Stalin, J. 209, 210 state 69, 98; Church and 97–9, 103–4; in middle ages 99; nationalism and xv–xvi, 77–82, 209–10 state-formation 68

status-inconsistency xiv–xv, 72–3, 74 suffering 95–6, 207–8 suggestibility 7–8 suicide 212 symbolic environment 168, 169 symbolic systems 125, 126, 213, 214, 216–17; logic of 217–19 Tawney, R.H. 187, 188–91 theology 159 Thynne, W. 44 Tocqueville, A. de xv Tolstoi, L. 35 tradition 129–30, 132 traditional society 15, 72, 211 transcendentalism 93, 94, 95, 96, 159 truth 159 Tynianov, Iu. 29, 31, 148 USA: church and state in 103; birth of social science 177–9; science and 158, 180 values 11, 15, 128, 129; authority and 129; charisma and 6, 8, 9, 10, 14–15; internalization of 13, 14; of Protestantism 50 violence xviii Virgil, P. 44 Wallis, J. 52 Walzer, M. viii Weber, M. xvi, xviii, xx, xxii, 125; and charisma 2–4, 4–6, 7, 11; Economy and Society 2–4; and human society, 67, 180–1; influence on Shils 118; notion of culture 126–7; Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism 181, 182–3, 193; Russian Formalists and 37; ‘Science as a Vocation’ 152; sociology and 176–7; and the state 78 Wright, C. 180 will xxi, 169–70, 171, 172, 173, 214; and identity 219; and symbolic logic 217–18, 219–20 Wolff, J. 23 Zhirmunskii, V. 31–2