Digressions&Impressions

A fairy tale on Causation (and Hume)

Once upon a time there were four aristotelian causes; then Hume came along and discredited final, formal, and material causes. By a ruthless process of elimination efficient causation simply became causation. And, while in the Treatise Hume modelled such causation on the template of then ruling mechanical (scientific) philosophy with its emphasis on contact between and regular succession of cause and effect, in the more mature first Enquiry (1748) he invented, as the stanford encyclopedia of philosophy claims with surprise ("surprisingly enough,"), the modern conception of causation by offering a counterfactual definition of it, "We may define a cause to be an object followed by another, and where all the objects, similar to the first, are followed by objects similar to the second. Or, in other words, where, if the first object had not been, the second never had existed.” Proving, once again, that lack of logical rigor need not prevent fertile insight.

The fairy tale is not wholly misleading. But note three caveats: first, final causes remained respectable throught the nineteenth century in various scientific contexts (not the least physics and biology). I leave aside to what degree teleology is still lurking in contemporary sciences.

Second, the reduction from four to one kind of cause hides the deployment of a whole range of 'funky' causes. Among the more prominent of these funky causes are (i) eminent causes, where qualities or properties of the effect are already contained in the cause.* Crucially, the cause and the effect are fundamentally unalike or differ in nature.* But also (ii) immanent causes that aim to capture the idea that some effects take place within the cause of them. In recent metaphysics such causes are understood as (free and) moral agents, but in Spinoza, immanent causation is a feature of the one and only substance (who is not well understood as a moral agent). The most controversial funky cause were causes that (iii) were simultaneous with their effects over enormous distances. Hume goes after this with an argument that, if succesful, would suggest that the existence of simultaneous cause-effect relations would undermine the very possibility of succession, and so no motion would be possible, "and all objects must be co-existent." (Treatise 1.2.3.7-8) And as the new science became organized it became very tempting to treat (iv) laws of nature as (second) causes.+ (This is especially prominent in those who denied occasionalism.) 

A final example of what I have in mind here is (V) the significance of causes that can jump the invisible/visible or (insensible/sensible) barrier(s). The hidden causal sources are often called 'powers,' which are responsible for manifest effects. In fact, in the early modern period this is one of the main expanatory causal schemes. It's because this is scheme is so influential in the early modern period, that in the Treatise, Hume uses features of it to articulate the problem of induction, which, of course, even in Hume contains multiple problems of induction [recall here].

As an aside, which is also the implied moral of the fairy tale, that more than four causes were tried out during a fertile intellectual age like the early modern period is no surprise. For, if we want to distinguish and classify the great variety of differences that, in a sense, make a difference even Aristotle's four causes may seem too few. I suspect the historical path dependency of this fact -- a great variety of differences that make a difference were labeled a 'cause' -- has made it so elusive to offer a unified, semantic analysis of causation. Historically there have been many paradigmatic causes that really fit in different boxes. And so our contemporary, ingenious analysts can always generate a counter-example or find an intuitive challenge to any attempt to offer a hegemonic definition or analysis.** 

The aside is really the third caveat. In so far as one notion of causation predominated (be it the regularity, counterfactual or manipulative view) in which the homogeneous causal-effect structure is fairly restrictive, but what can enter into the relata is rather permissive, this predominance re-opens the door to new kinds of causes that aim to track differences that make a difference not well served by such homogeneity, especially if these can be operationalized with new mathematical techniques and improved computing power falling in price. We can understand, say, probabilistic  causation as one such example, and hybrids that we find in causal networks as another kind of example.

 

Pufendorf and Locke on Tacit Consent (in language and money)

But that the Nature of Discourse may be more throughly understood, it must first be known, that there is a two-fold Obligation respecting Discourse, whether exprest with the Voice, or written in Characters. The first is, that those who make use of the same Language, are obliged to apply such certain Words to such certain Things, according as Custom has made them to signify in each Language. For since neither any Words nor any particular Strokes form’d into Letters can naturally denote any certain Thing (otherwise all Languages and Characters for writing would be the same; and hence the Use of the Tongue would be to no purpose if every Man might call every Thing by what Name he pleas’d;) it is absolutely necessary among those who speak the same Language, that there be a tacit Agreement among them, that this certain Thing shall be so, or so call’d, and not otherwise. So that unless an uniform Application of Words be agreed upon, ’twill be impossible for one Man to gather the Meaning of another from his Talk. By virtue then of this tacit Compact, every Man is bound in his common Discourse to apply his Words to that Sense, which agrees with the receiv’d Signification thereof in that Language: From whence also it follows, that albeit a Man’s Sentiments may differ from what he expresses in Words, yet in the Affairs of Human Life he must be look’d upon as intending what he says, tho’, as was said, perhaps his inward Meaning be the clear contrary. For since we cannot be inform’d of another’s Mind otherwise than by outward Signs, all Use of Discourse would be to no purpose, if by mental Reservations, which any Man may form as he lists, it might be in his power to elude what he had declar’d by Signs usually accepted to that end.--Pufendorf, Samuel and Barbeyrac, Jean. The Whole Duty of Man According to the Law of Nature (1673, 2003). Liberty Fund, 1673.  pp. 120-121

As regular readers know I have been directed toward Pufendorf's account of tacit consent because of my reading of Martin Lenz's entertaining and stimulating Socializing Minds (recall this post, especially; but also this one). Lenz (pp. 138-139) explicitly quotes the passage above, and notes four key anticipations of Locke in Pufendorf:

• • the characterisation of language as the great instrument of society,
  • the anti-naturalist conventionalism and the argument that if language were naturally significant, there would be just one language
  • the use of customary outward signs for inward meaning
  • the tacit agreement that binds everyone to apply words in accordance with the received use (receptus usus).--Socializing Minds, p. 138

Lenz is surely right about this, and I accept his contention that Locke's account of the conventionality of language (especially at Essay 3.2.8 and 3.11.11) is inspired by Pufendorf's  De Officio hominis civis, or at least that it would have evoked it to contemporary readers then.

So, this raises the question to what degree what I call recall 'the Humean template' for analyzing convention is already present in Pufendorf. The elements of the Humean template are: (i) a sense of common interest (i*) felt in each person's breast; (ii) and it (that is, (i)) observed in others; (iii), this fact (the existence of (i&ii) creates collaboration; (iv) the collaboration is structured in non-trivial ways; (v) and this has good consequences or positive externalities for society. (I avoid the language of 'utility' to avoid issues pertaining to utilitarianism.) And (vi) a Humean convention is contrasted with practices founded in promises and in practice regulated by formal governmental law. In addition, (vii), the process (i-iii) need not be verbalized at all. It can be entirely tacit. And I argued (recall) that Locke articulates the Humean template at Essay 2.28.10 in the context of describing how moral terms are structurally the same in each language even though they can refer to locally different moral behaviors and characters/character-traits. (And that we can also find (recall) the template in the Second Treatise, paragraph 50 in his account of the value off money.)

If we then look at the quoted passage from De Officio, we can read that Pufendorf treats the convention in terms of an existing "custom." And while this is fully compatible with the elements of the Humean template, we are left without an account how the custom could arrise. That's to say while Pufendorf makes, as Lenz notes, the obligatory character of the convention quite clear, he leaves its origin quite mysterious. For, earlier, Pufendorf defines custom as "the frequent Repetition of Actions of the same kind does also incline the Will to do certain Things" (pp. 34-35). But why linguistic practices get repeated in particular patterns is simply contingent now. 

This absence of a mechanism of how tacit consent arises is actually notable when Pufendorf explicitly treats of the practice:

Consent is usually made known by outward Signs, as, by Speaking, Writing, a Nod, or the like; tho’ sometimes it may also be plainly intimated without any of them, according to the Nature of the thing and other Circumstances. So Silence in some Cases, and attended with some Circumstances, passes for a Sign expressing Consent. To this may be attributed those tacit Contracts, where we give not our formal Consent by the Signs generally made use of among Men; but the Nature of the Business, and other Circumstances make it fairly supposable. Thus frequently in the principal Contract, which is express, another is included which is tacit, the Nature of the Case so requiring: And it is usual, in most Covenants that are made, that some tacit Exceptions and imply’d Conditions must of necessity be understood.--pp. 111-112

Pufendorf is undoubtedly correct that even in explicit covenants lots of tacit exceptions and implied conditions are presupposed and understood. (In a later passage he treats as plainly resulting "from the Nature of the Thing." (p. 127)) That there is often a social scaffolding on which a formal contract is built is pretty much a shared insight of all critics of Hobbes. But how we should think of the character and sources of this 'necessity' is left opaque in Pufendorf.

I don't mean to suggest Pufendorf never has a mechanism when he is discussing custom. So, for example, when it comes to price formation of prices in the market place (so called vulgar prices) he writes the following. 

But the Vulgar Price, which is not fix’d by the Laws, admits of a certain Latitude, within the Compass whereof more or less may be, and often is, either taken or given, according to the Agreement of the Persons dealing; which yet for the most part, goes according to the Custom of the Market. Where commonly there is Regard had to the Trouble and Charges which the Tradesmen generally are at, in the bringing home and managing their Commodities, and also after what manner they are bought or sold, whether by Wholesale or Retail. Sometimes also on a sudden the Common Price is alter’d by reason of the Plenty or Scarcity of Buyers, Money, or the Commodity. For the Scarcity of Buyers and of Money, (which on any particular Account may happen) and the Plenty of the Commodity, may be a Means of diminishing the Price thereof. On the other hand, the Plenty of Buyers and of Money, and the Scarcity of the Commodity, inhanses the same. Thus as the Value of a Commodity is lessen’d, if it wants a Buyer, so the Price is augmented when the Possessor is solicited to sell what otherwise he would not have parted with. Lastly, it is likewise to be regarded, whether the Person offers ready Money, or desires Time for Payment; for Allowance of Time is Part of the Price.--pp. 143-144

Here it is quite clear that the customary price itself reflects underlying costs and even disutility of production and procurement ("the Trouble and Charges which the Tradesmen generally are at, in the bringing home and managing their Commodities") and also reflects supply/demand conditions ("plenty or scarcity"/"plenty of buyers...wants a buyer") in the market-place as well as what we would call inflation, but in Pufendorf's time is felt in terms of the availability of coins [say because the local gold/silver/copper value of coins has made it attractive to melt them down or export them], or "ready money." Interestingly enough buying on credit ("time for payment") is not treated as pure equivalent for buying with coin, presumably not just in virtue of the delay ("allowance of time"), but also the implied risk.  Here Pufendorf has a relatively clear account of the mechanism by which the vulgar price can change, but again, he has no account of how it can become customary (except that conditions  of change are not operative).

I have not done an exhaustive survey of Pufendorf. (You go read, Of the Law of Nature and Nations: Eight Books!--Seriously, I welcome suggestions.) But Locke deserves some credit for recognizing that Pufendorf's account of convention and tacit contract left too much unexplained. And while I have not defended the adequacy of the Humean template, the fact that Locke adopts it in non-trivial ways is no small advance over Pufendorf's analysis.

Lenz and Locke (and Hume) on Semantic Convention

Thirdly, it is not enough that men have ideas, determined ideas, for which they make these signs stand; but they must also take care to apply their words as near as may be to such ideas as common use has annexed them to. For words, especially of languages already framed, being no man's private possession, but the common measure of commerce and communication, it is not for any one at pleasure to change the stamp they are current in, nor alter the ideas they are affixed to; or at least, when there is a necessity to do so, he is bound to give notice of it. Men's intentions in speaking are, or at least should be, to be understood; which cannot be without frequent explanations, demands, and other the like incommodious interruptions, where men do not follow common use. Propriety of speech is that which gives our thoughts entrance into other men's minds with the greatest ease and advantage: and therefore deserves some part of our care and study, especially in the names of moral words. The proper signification and use of terms is best to be learned from those who in their writings and discourses appear to have had the clearest notions, and applied to them their terms with the exactest choice and fitness. This way of using a man's words, according to the propriety of the language, though it have not always the good fortune to be understood; yet most commonly leaves the blame of it on him who is so unskilful in the language he speaks, as not to understand it when made use of as it ought to be.--Locke An Essay Concerning Human(e) Understanding, 3.11.11

In his entertaining and instructive book, Socializing Minds (recall yesterday's post), Martin Lenz calls attention to (and partially quotes) the passage quoted above. For Lenz the passage describes what he (Lenz) calls the "acceptance conditions" as "consolidated by other members of the speech community." (p. 130; see also. p. 131.) Lenz emphasizes, correctly, that for Locke the meaning of words is, in part, established by their proper common use. There is -- as Locke's use of 'propriety' signals -- something normative about this 'proper'. And this normativity is the effect of the desire to be understood and the fact that the correct usage (see below on 'speaking properly') has already been established.

Of course, at 3.11.11, the situation is a bit complicated because Locke defines 'propriety of speech' that 'which gives our thoughts entrance into other men's minds with the greatest ease and advantage.''And the 'advantage' here is to us (the speaker) and not to the community. So, that Locke is not merely describing acceptance conditions in 3.11.11 (although I do not deny that this is involved in the proper significantion and use of terms), but also the rthe art of persuasion (again not the role of skill in speaking) here. So, in context, Locke is not merely discussing acceptance conditions, but the role of such acceptance conditions in (a poetics of) rhetoric. (I don't think Lenz needs to disagree with this, but he doesn't mention it; and later in the book (p. 174) Lenz draws a a perhaps too sharp contrast between Locke and Hume on the significance of rhetoric to their account of language.)

The contrast between private property and a common measure (about which more below) that Locke invokes (at 3.11.11), of course, echoes his treatment of convention. And Lenz had prepared the reader to notice it not just by quoting these words, but because earlier he had discussed Locke's account of convention and tacit consent when he introduced the idea of 'speaker consolidation' (p. 110) which is how linguistic conventions are themselves established and (now I quote Lenz again) "set the standard for use." (p. 111). Lenz appeals to Locke's earlier account at 3.2.8, which I quote in full:

Words, by long and familiar use, as has been said, come to excite in men certain ideas so constantly and readily, that they are apt to suppose a natural connexion between them. But that they signify only men's peculiar ideas, and that BY A PERFECT ARBITRARY IMPOSITION, is evident, in that they often fail to excite in others (even that use the same language) the same ideas we take them to be signs of: and every man has so inviolable a liberty to make words stand for what ideas he pleases, that no one hath the power to make others have the same ideas in their minds that he has, when they use the same words that he does. And therefore the great Augustus himself, in the possession of that power which ruled the world, acknowledged he could not make a new Latin word: which was as much as to say, that he could not arbitrarily appoint what idea any sound should be a sign of, in the mouths and common language of his subjects. It is true, common use, by a tacit consent, appropriates certain sounds to certain ideas in all languages, which so far limits the signification of that sound, that unless a man applies it to the same idea, he does not speak properly: and let me add, that unless a man's words excite the same ideas in the hearer which he makes them stand for in speaking, he does not speak intelligibly. But whatever be the consequence of any man's using of words differently, either from their general meaning, or the particular sense of the person to whom he addresses them; this is certain, their signification, in his use of them, is limited to his ideas, and they can be signs of nothing else.--John Locke An Essay Concerning Human(e) Understanding, 3.2.8

What's neat about Locke's account is that he inscribes his account of linguistic convention into his political theory in two explicit ways. First, and less significantly, he argues that once a linguistic convention is established even an absolute ruler has very limited power to tinker with it. In fact, Locke goes much further than this and has Augustus deny that he cannot innovate in language by stipulation. A moment's reflection does allow one to recognize that on Locke's account, Augustus' power allows one to corrupt (by force law) existing words and disassociate them from established ideas.* (This is a sufficiently common phenomenon in political speech that I will leave it to the reader to find some examples.)

Second, the linguistic convention the implied measure or the existing common use of words and its stability, in particular, rests, and this might be thought paradoxical, on the inviolable liberty each and every one of us has to make words stand for any of our ideas!  Notice, first, that this is a commitment to an egalitarianism of a sort that is akin to Locke's account of our relative status in the state of nature. Second, the analysis of the convention rests on a kind of methodological individualism. It is in virtue of the fact that 'naturally' all individuals have the power to innovate that Augustus is denied once the convention is up and running (in linguistic social life)! This fact (a kind of natural equality to innovate) is ground in the fact that 'naturally' we don't have access to each other's ideas (which are inacessible to others without some mediation of language or other signs).

What 3.2.8 adds is that convention isn't just needed for what Lenz calls speaker 'consolidation' or 'acceptance conditions' in making us adhere to pre-existing standards of use, but also helps explain why there can be different language communities. Because once there is (say) some geographic or political (or religious) distance between different language users, acceptance conditions can stabilize in locally different equilibria. Once they interact again (through trade or migration) these conditions may well shift given the needs of exchange and social persuasion. (From here, it's really a very small step to Adam Smith's account of certain kinds of language use as non-servile persuasion.)

Given all these appeals to property and credit in the passage(s) above, it is tempting (recall) to look at Locke's account of convention in the second Treatise. But today, I postpone this and focus on an earlier passage in the Essay, where Locke explicitly appeals to tacit consent. And this passage makes explicit (in the context of discussion moral terms) the role of convention in linguistic diversity:

Thirdly, the LAW OF OPINION OR REPUTATION. Virtue and vice are names pretended and supposed everywhere to stand for actions in their own nature right and wrong: and as far as they really are so applied, they so far are coincident with the divine law above mentioned. But yet, whatever is pretended, this is visible, that these names, virtue and vice, in the particular instances of their application, through the several nations and societies of men in the world, are constantly attributed only to such actions as in each country and society are in reputation or discredit. Nor is it to be thought strange, that men everywhere should give the name of virtue to those actions, which amongst them are judged praiseworthy; and call that vice, which they account blamable: since otherwise they would condemn themselves, if they should think anything right, to which they allowed not commendation, anything wrong, which they let pass without blame. Thus the measure of what is everywhere called and esteemed virtue and vice is this approbation or dislike, praise or blame, which, by a secret and tacit consent, establishes itself in the several societies, tribes, and clubs of men in the world: whereby several actions come to find credit or disgrace amongst them, according to the judgment, maxims, or fashion of that place. For, though men uniting into politic societies, have resigned up to the public the disposing of all their force, so that they cannot employ it against any fellow-citizens any further than the law of the country directs: yet they retain still the power of thinking well or ill, approving or disapproving of the actions of those whom they live amongst, and converse with: and by this approbation and dislike they establish amongst themselves what they will call virtue and vice.-- Locke An Essay Concerning Human(e) Understanding, 2.28.10

Locke here anticipates the Humean observation (in the appendix to the Second Enquiry) that there is remarkable stability in moral terminology while there is enormous diversity what the content (qua behavior or character) applies to. And this is an effect of the fact that the meta-ethical measure that regulates the local linguistic conventions just is local approval and disapproval (not again the role of credit here). 

Again, at 2.28.10 Locke uses the contrast with an explicit political social contract to illustrate the nature of the tacit convention. And he claims that this convention operates orthogonally to the official political social contract. And that there are practices of approval and disapproval that are not regulated by law, but by independent judgment presumably in light of one's interest (like/dislike/approbation) and evaluation of what is (to use Smithian language) praiseworthy. The point echoes Hobbes's and Spinoza's observation that the law cannot fully control (although certainly corrupt) the minds of the ruled, and these maintain a kind of informal credit economy (or score in a language game) that tracks local judgments of merit. So, here, too, we see that the privacy of ideas is presupposed to maintain the conventionality of the shared linguistic social world.

I am struck, anew, how much of Locke's account anticipates Hume's official treatment of a convention, which has (recall) seven (or eight) parts: (i) a sense of common interest (i*) felt in each person's breast; (ii) and it (that is, (i)) observed in others; (iii), this fact (the existence of (i&ii) creates collaboration; (iv) the collaboration is structured in non-trivial ways; (v) and this has good consequences or positive externalities for society. (I avoid the language of 'utility' to avoid issues pertaining to utilitarianism.) And (vi) a Humean convention is contrasted with practices founded in promises and in practice regulated by formal governmental law. In addition, (vii), the process (i-iii) need not be verbalized at all. It can be entirely tacit.

Of these, all are explicitly present except (i-ii), although (i*) is in Locke's account of linguistic conventions in the Essay (and so kind of entails (i)). And (ii-iii) are implied once the convention is up and running (as the example of Augustus illustrates). The fact that in his account of convention Locke embraces (i-vii), while being a bit ambigious about (i-iii) is as I noted (recall) also true of Locke's account of the conventions of property and money in the Second Treatise. So, that is to say, Locke has an internally consistent 'template' of what a convention is that he applies to a number of large scale social institutions, and this template anticipates in crucial ways Hume's account who refines it by making some features (and implied mechanisms of stability) more explicit. 

That's enough for today on this topic. TBC with a nod to Pufendorf.

 

Why is Hume important to foucault?

It is here that knowledge breaks off its old kinship with divinatio. The latter always presupposed signs anterior to it: so that knowledge always resided entirely in the opening up of a discovered, affirmed, or secretly transmitted, sign. Its task was to uncover a language which God had previously distributed across the face of the earth; it is in this sense that it was the divination of an essential implication, and that the object of its divination was divine. From now on, however, it is within knowledge itself that the sign is to perform its signifying function; it is from knowledge that it will borrow its certainty or its probability. And though God still employs signs to speak to us through nature, he is making use of our knowledge, and of the relations that are set up between our impressions, in order to establish in our minds a relation of signification. Such is the role of feeling in Malebranche or of sensation in Berkeley; in natural judgement, in feeling, in visual impressions, and in the perception of the third dimension, what we are dealing with are hasty and confused, but pressing, inevitable, and obligatory kinds of knowledge serving as signs for discursive kinds of knowledge which we humans, because we are not pure intelligences, no longer have the time or the permission to attain to ourselves and by the unaided strength of our own minds. In Malebranche and Berkeley, the sign arranged by God is the cunning and thoughtful superimposition of two kinds of knowledge. There is no longer any divinatio involved - no insertion of knowledge in the enigmatic, open, and sacred area of signs - but a brief and concentrated kind of knowledge: the contraction of a long sequence of judgements into the rapidly assimilated form of the sign. And it will also be seen how, by a reversal of direction, knowledge, having enclosed the signs within its own space, is now able to accommodate probability: between one impression and another the relation will be that of sign to signified, in other words, a relation which, like that of succession, will progress from the weakest probability towards the greatest certainty.

The connection of ideas does not imply the relation of cause and effect, but only of a mark or sign with the thing signified. The fire which I sec is not the cause of the pain I suffer upon my approaching it, but the mark that forewarns me of it.

The knowledge that divined, at random, signs that were absolute and older than itself has been replaced by a network of signs built up step by step in accordance with a knowledge of what is probable. Hume has become possible.--Michel Foucault The Order of Things (1970) {1994, Vintage Books Edition} Translated by Alan Sheridan* (original Les Mots et les Choses, 1966), 59-60 [Emphases in original]

When confronted by Foucault's argument here it is natural to scrutinize each of the steps and try to figure out how they correspond to, say, the underlying material in Malebranche and Berkeley. But here I wan't ask a different question: why does Foucault want to emphasize that [the philosophy of] a certain definite individual has become possible? This is peculiar because the strength of Foucault's general argument does not rest in the analysis of individual philosophers, but rather in showing a kind of higher order similarity, a style of thought, or a set of structural and conceptual constraints on an era's production of knowledge in, and that only becomes visible by the study of, different fields (including a kind of linguistics and a kind of political economy and so on) alongside each other. And these constraints make all the folk in an era possible (in Foucault's sense). This is why, for example, in context, he uses the language of a "single network of necessities" and gives us a string of individuals "Hobbes, Berkeley, Hume, or Condillac." (63; see also, p. 117, where this list returns, and p. 65, where Condillac seems to be key figure in the network, and p. 70, where Hume has equal billing with Condillac. Foucault uses a different list to represent the "Classical age" -- "Locke and Linnaeus, Buffon and Hume" -- at p. 162.)

So, why single out Hume on p. 60? Now part of the answer is clear from one of my posts earlier in the week (here). Hume becomes exemplary, for Foucault, to show that while similitude/resemblance loses its central significance in its characterization of the nature of a sign, resemblance does not disappear but resides, as Foucault puts it in Humean terms, mutely 'below knowledge' acting as a natural relation behind the scenes as it were constraining our mind (see p. 68). In that post, I argued that Foucault ends up misreading Hume (and suggested that Foucault ends up misrepresenting what he calls the classical age.) I don't mean to relitigate that claim. Rather, to restate my question: why is Hume exemplary for this argument (since it is by no means obvious Foucault went back to Hume to analyze him carefully, yet simultaenously offers numerous examples that draw on Hume)? 

Part of the answer is that Hume plays a role in the self-understanding of the philosophical status quo, (Husserlian) phenomenology, that Foucault is reacting to. In this self-understanding Hume's critique is the source of the "transcendental motif" of Kant. In this self-understanding this transcendental motif gets merged with "the Cartesian theme of the cogito," and so produces Husserl's revival of "the deepest vocation of the Western ratio." (325) So, in this narrative Hume is a kind of steppingstone. Familiarity with this narrative and this Hume is often presupposed in Foucault's narrative in The Order of Things (see especially, the role of Hume in representing "radical doubt" (162)).*

It is worth noting that Foucault contests the self-understanding of phenomenology and also how it fits in the West.+  He reinterprets phenomenology as exhibiting the very "great hiatus" that Foucault has diagnosed (in the book) in the "modern episteme at the turn of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries." (325) As it happens Foucault's analysis of Hume's friend, Adam Smith, is central to understanding the nature of that hiatus (see pp. 224-225). In Foucault's account Smith articulates a principle of order that is not reducible to the analysis of representation that Foucault thinks characteristic of the classical era. (225) How to make sense of this is a topic of interest to me, but about that some other time more. 

So, let me sum up. Hume plays a triple role in The Order of Things. First, alongside a number of other familiar philosophers his works are treated as illustrations for Foucault's claims about the nature of representation and knowledge in the classical episteme. In such cases Foucault assumes considerable knowledge about Hume (and these other thinkers) among his implied audience. That Foucault can do so is explained by the second role Hume has, that is, of being a familiar steppingstone in a narrative that undergirds the self-understanding of phenomenology (which is treated as the ruling philosophical status quo by Foucault). This narrative is Foucault's target.

The main argument against this self-understanding of the past does not turn on a single philosopher -- although Adam Smith is central to the argument but on a more general reconfiguration of what the human sciences (and philosophy) were (recall this post that tries to illuminate by comparing Kuhn and Foucault).

However, and this is the third role, in characterizing the distinctive nature of the classical age, Foucault does single out Hume. And this is so because he can both assume familiarity with Hume (given the familiarity of Foucault's audience with Hume as a steppingstone in their standard narrative) as well as render Hume unfamiliar in virtue of his retelling of the story of early modern philosophy. As my post earlier in the week suggests, Foucault's analysis of Hume cannot withstand close scrutiny. This problem, if I am right, raises serious concerns about the status of his whole project [since the leading representative of the classical age by Foucault's lights does not conform to his template), although it goes beyond my remit (even pay-grade) to adjudicate the significance of this to his debate with phenomenology. But as should be clear, when Foucault revisits Hume in his lecture of  28 March 1979 in The Birth of Biopolitics his understanding of Hume is (recall here); and here) much more text-sensitive than it was in the earlier book. 

Foucault on Humean Criticism and Habit, and Beccaria

    Where was I wanting to go? I wanted to analyze a certain system of power: disciplinary power. It seemed to me, in fact, that we live in a society of disciplinary power, that is to say a society equipped with apparatuses whose form is sequestration, whose purpose is the formation of a labor force, and whose instrument is the acquisition of disciplines or habits. It seems to me that since the eighteenth century there has been a constant multiplication, refinement, and specification of apparatuses for manufacturing disciplines, for imposing coercions, and for instilling habits. This year I wanted to do the very first history of the power of habits, the archeology of those apparatuses of power that serve as the base for the acquisition of habits as social norms.

Let’s consider this notion of habit. If we look at it in eighteenth century political philosophy, habit has a primarily critical use. This notion makes it possible to analyze law, institutions, and authority. The notion of habit is used for knowing the extent to which something that appears as an institution or authority can be founded. To everything appearing thus founded, the following question is put: You claim to be founded by the divine word or by the sovereign’s authority, but are you not [quite simply] a habit? This is how Humean criticism works, using the notion of habit as a critical, reductive instrument, because habit, on the one hand, is only ever a result and not an original datum—there is something irreducibly artificial in it—and, on the other hand, while unable to lay claim to originality, it is not founded by something like a transcendence: habit always comes from nature, since in human nature there is the habit of contracting habits. Habit is both nature and artifice. And if this notion was used in the political and moral philosophy of the eighteenth century, it was in order to get away from anything of the order of traditional obligations founded on a transcendence, and to replace these obligations with the pure and simple obligation of the contract; in order to replace these traditional obligations, which are shown to be only the effects of habit, with a game of obligations in which the will of each will be voluntarily bound and actualized in the contract. To criticize tradition through habit in order to contractualize social bonds, such is the essence of this use of the notion of habit.
   Now it seems to me that the use of the term habit in the nineteenth century is different. In political literature, it ceases being regularly used in a critical way. On the other hand, it is used prescriptively: habit is what people must submit to. There is a whole ethics founded on habit. Far from habit limiting the sphere of morality, of ethics, a whole politics of habit is formed that is transmitted by very different sorts of writing—writings of popular moralization or tracts of social economy.--Michel Foucault The Punitive Society: Lectures at the College de France 1972-1973, translated by Graham Burchell, 28 March 1973, pp. 237-238. [Emphasis in original.]

The first quoted paragraph above is about as lucid a description of the political significance of Foucault's projects throughout the 1970s.  We can describe Foucault's project as the exploration of the social mechanisms that make us unselfconscious rule followers not the least that make us productive agents. (Notice that he is not interested in individual habits; just the habits that instantiate or effectuate social norms.)

But in the next paragraph he inscribes this project, which could easily have been the start of an ethnographic or sociological project (with social psychology mixed in), into what we might call a 'natural history' of the development of the conceptualization of habit. It could  be instructive to try to connect this natural history of habit with Foucault's more famous natural history of homo economicus in his Birth of Biopolitics lectures. And the ground-zero of this project is Hume's philosophy which generates "Humean criticism" in political philosophy.

In their footnotes, the editors of The Punitive Society usefully refer to some key passages in Hume's philosophy to explain what Foucault may have in mind. But they don't venture any suggestions on who these Humean critics in political philosophy might be. This is a shame. Because Foucault explicitly mentions the analysis of "law, institutions, and authority," I suspect Foucault is thinking of Beccaria, who is a Humean in several ways (albeit not only Humean): for example, "the power of habit," Beccaria writes, "is universal over every sensible being. As it is by that we learn to speak, to walk, and to satisfy our necessities, so the ideas of morality are stamped on our minds by repeated impressions." (Crimes and Punisments, Chapter 28) Since Beccaria plays a very prominent role in The Punitive Society, this would be my best guess. However, I have been unable to find any other use of 'Humean criticism' in Foucault's thought so this is quite speculative.

However, it is not purely speculative because thinking of Humean criticism in terms of Beccaria can explain something otherwise deeply puzzling, interconnected features about Foucault's claim. As is well known Hume was a critic of the social contract. And, in fact, many have read Hume's philosophy and (especially) history as friendly to the conservative principles of the Tories and critical of the Whig and Lockean social contract theory. Something accentuated by Hume's argument in his (1752) essay "Of the Original Contract." So, it is odd to see Foucault attribute to the Humean a desire "to get away from anything of the order of traditional obligations founded on a transcendence, and to replace these obligations with the pure and simple obligation of the contract; in order to replace these traditional obligations, which are shown to be only the effects of habit, with a game of obligations in which the will of each will be voluntarily bound and actualized in the contract. To criticize tradition through habit in order to contractualize social bonds, such is the essence of this use of the notion of habit."

To be sure, one can read Hume as undermining the grounds of many (if not all) "traditional obligations founded on a transcendence" (and certainly the suspicion he does so cost him the Chair at Edinburgh). But there is no reason to attribute to Hume (the stereotypical liberal view) of ascribing to "a game of obligations in which the will of each will be voluntarily bound and actualized in the contract." It's also not obvious Hume is really criticizing tradition through habit (as opposed to diagnosing habit as the source of tradition).

But Beccaria does combine a Humean moral psychology and social theory with a social contract theory! Beccaria introduces it in chapter 3 as follows:

The laws only can determine the punishment of crimes; and the authority of making penal laws can only reside with the legislator, who represents the whole society united by the social compact...If every individual be bound to society, society is equally bound to him by a contract, which, from its nature, equally binds both parties. This obligation, which descends from the throne to the cottage, and equally binds the highest and lowest of mankind, signifies nothing more, than that it is the interest of all, that conventions, which are useful to the greatest number, should be punctually observed. The violation of this compact by any individual, is an introduction to anarchy.

What's interesting about Beccaria's social contract theory is not just its incipient utilitarianism, which alongside the social compact is not really analyzed in any great depth (and probably is in tension with the Humean elements in his social theory), but rather that the contract itself is between the individual and society. (Beccaria has moved quite a bit a way from Locke's account of society and is anticipating a more Smithian/Fergusonian approach.) And as the final sentence of the quoted passage already reveals, the purpose of law, then, is, as Beccaria makes explicit in chapter 35, "only intended to maintain the social compact, and not to punish the intrinsic malignity of actions." (This feature Foucault comes to admire in Bentham and in Becker and Stigler.)

And, indeed, as Foucault has noticed, the obligation that is generated by the (implied) social contract is to follow social norms, especially those social that serve the majority. And, as Beccaria argues at much greater length in Crimes and Punishments, if the institutions of society are properly designed, or function well (and, as he notes in chapter 40, the laws don't incentivize norm violation), than citizens can be counted on doing so from habit. 

 

 

Foucault, Similitude, and Hume & Newton

As for similitude, it is now a spent force, outside the realm of knowledge. It is merely empiricism in its most unrefined form; like Hobbes, one can no longer 'regard it as being a part of philosophy', unless it has first been erased in its inexact form of resemblance and transformed by knowledge into a relationship of equality or order. And yet similitude is still an indispensable border of knowledge. For [in classical period] no equality or relation of order can be established between two things unless their resemblance has at least occasioned their comparison. Hume placed the relation of identity among those 'philosophical' relations that presuppose reflection; whereas, for him, resemblance belonged to natural relations, to those that constrain our minds by means of an inevitable but 'calm force'.

Let the philosopher pride himself on his precision as much as he will... I nevertheless dare defy him to make a single step in his progress without the aid of resemblance. Throw but one glance upon the metaphysical aspect of the sciences, even the least abstract of them, and then tell me whether the general inductions that are derived from particular facts, or rather the kinds themselves, the species and all abstract notions, can be formed otherwise than by means of resemblance. [20]

At the border of knowledge, similitude is that barely sketched form, that rudimentary relation which knowledge must overlay to its full extent, but which continues, indefinitely, to reside below knowledge in the manner of a mute and ineffaceable necessity.--Michel Foucault The Order of Things (1970) {1994, Vintage Books Edition} Translated by Alan Sheridan* (original Les Mots et les Choses, 1966), pp. 67-68

The position attributed to Hume by Foucault in the first paragraph above recalls Hume's claim (in the first Enquiry) that "it seems evident, that, if all the scenes of nature were continually shifted in such a manner, that no two events bore any resemblance to each other, but every object was entirely new, without any similitude to whatever had been seen before, we should never, in that case, have attained the least idea of necessity, or of a connexion among these objects." (EHU 5.8) Even so the view being attributed to Hume is also a bit awkward as an interpretation of Hume's accounts of natural and philosophical relations (a distinction articulated in the Treatise), and the role of resemblance and identity among them. I want to highlight three problems.

First, in his own voice, Foucault distinguishes natural and philosophical relations as follows: philosophical relations presuppose reflection. Now, in Hume reflection is a mechanism of the mind that turns ideas into new impressions. That is, "impressions of reflexion are only antecedent to their correspondent ideas; but posterior to those of sensation, and deriv'd from them." (Treatise 1.1.2.1.) The paradigmatic examples of impressions of reflexion are "desire and aversion, hope and fear." (Treatise 1.1.2.1.) That is to say, the passions and emotions. I mention this explicitly because on Foucault's interpretation, the elements or relata or building blocks of philosophical relations are impressions of reflection or the ideas derived from them. (And it would be surprising if the passions played a role in them.)

For, Hume does not explicitly claim that reflection is presupposed in any philosophical relation including identity (which is the one singled out by Foucault). After all he claims, "we extend it to mean any particular subject of comparison, without a connecting principle." (Treatise 1.1.5.1) So, it is strictly speaking false to suggest that in Hume philosophical relations require the operation of reflection.

But one may well think this is not the end of the matter. After all, Hume lists seven sources of comparison that can be "considered the sources of all philosophical relations. (Treatise 1.1.5.1, emphasis added.) These turn out to be viz. "resemblance, identity, relations of time and place, proportion in quantity or number, degrees in any quality, contrariety, and causation." (Treatise 1.3.1.1,) If reflexion is crucial to these (especially identity) than the spirit of Foucault's account can be saved. But none of them presuppose reflexion. In addition, Hume divides this list "into two classes; [first] into such as depend entirely on the ideas, which we compare together, and [second] such as may be chang'd without any change in the ideas." Crucially, again, reflexion is irrelevant to this. So, Foucault misrepresents Hume here on philosophical relations.*

To be sure, I don't mean to deny Foucault's claim that "no equality or relation of order can be established between two things unless their resemblance has at least occasioned their comparison." This is Hume's position, too: 

The first [philosophical relation] is resemblance: And this is a relation, without which no philosophical relation can exist; since no objects will admit of comparison, but what have some degree of resemblance.  (Treatise 1.1.5.3; emphasis in original)

But while it is true that for Hume identity is only a philosophical relation this is not true for resemblance in Hume. For, second, Hume recognizes two kinds or sites of resemblance, one is a philosophical relation and when it functions in a philosophical relation, although resemblance "be necessary to all philosophical relation, it does not follow, that it always produces a connexion or association of ideas." (Treatise 1.1.5.3) Only natural relations generate an association of ideas. And for Hume there are three such natural relations of which resemblance is one. (Treatise 1.1.4.1.) Which he does treat, as Foucault suggests, as a "gentle force." (Treatise 1.1.4.1)  [As an aside, Foucault's 'calm' force is almost certainly the effect of translation either from Hume's English to Foucault's French Hume or from Foucault's text to my translation, etc. For this reason, I am treating resemblance and similitude as synonyms here even though Hume does not really use 'similitude' in the Treatise.]

This, matters because, third, thus, in Hume's Treatise similitude/resemblance doesn't just reside mutely 'below knowledge' acting as a natural relation behind the scenes as it were constraining our mind, but it is also the content of knowledge (and so made explicit). So, here, too, Foucault is misrepresenting Hume's position.

Now, so far, I have skipped the material Foucault quotes and references with endnote [20] in the material I have quoted above. It's natural to read Foucault here as quoting Hume as evidence for his position. But Hume scholars may well wonder what the source of the quoted passage is. (It's not Hume after all.) In fact, the passage quoted by Foucault that starts with "Let the philosopher pride..." is not, first impressions notwithstanding by Hume, but rather is as endnote [20] indicates, a quote from Merian's (1767) Reflexions philosophiques sur la ressemblance, a book I had never looked at before.

Merian is a translator of Hume's first Enquiry and an important critic of Hume, which gave the world the term 'phenomenalism' in order to describe Hume (in 1793). See this (1997) paper by Laursen and Popkin for details (here). Sadly, their paper does not mention the Reflexions philosophiques. With help from Profs. Sophie Roux and Charles T. Wolfe, I located an online copy of the work, which is not very long. Merian does not seem to mention Hume or natural & philosophical relations in his Reflexions! So, Foucault's reading of Hume is not indebted to this work by Merian! (In fact, Merian merely seems here to be capturing Hume's insight of the first Enquiry 5.8 -- a work he had translated just a few years before -- that I quoted above.)

We can conclude then that here on Hume, Merian is not a source for Foucault, but that Merian is used by Foucault to articulate Hume's position (that Foucault recognizes in Merian's 1767 text). At this point one may well wonder if in the quoted passage above, Foucault is relying primary on the first Enquiry, but that would be curious here because he does directly refer to the Treatise (1.3.3 & 1.4.4--the latter a bit odd because it is Hume's account of the modern philosophy) in a endnote in a later chapter on the relationship between Hume's account of causation and its relationship to similarity.

To be sure I don't mean to suggest that you need to follow my interpretation of Hume's account of natural and philosophical relations. That's notoriously contested terrain. But rather that Foucault gets rather basic features of Hume's position wrong. Given that all the other references to Hume in The Order of Things are actually rather formulaic (and the kind of shorthand one may find in post-Kantian philosophy) one may well wonder how carefully Foucault read his Hume. (Oddly he never cites Merian again in the book.)

You may think that this is just scholarly book-keeping. That would be fine actually. However, the significance of this is that it undercuts Foucault's larger claim (which concludes the section) that "from the seventeenth century, resemblance was pushed out of the boundaries of knowledge, toward the humblest and basest of its frontiers." (71) This is, as we have seen, not true for Hume. I also would deny this is true of, say, of Newton's natural philosophy. If anything, one of the key issues in Newton's account of space and time is that Newton cane give a clear account of what Newton calls the 'species and magnitude' of the measure of space, but that he has a difficulty to do so for the measure of time. (See the postscript to my seventh chapter in my Newton's Metaphysics: Essays.) So the resemblance of spaces is much easier secured by Newton (and can do all kinds of work for him through geometric reasoning) than the putative resemblance of time. (This is no trivial matter if we look ahead to Einstein.) 

I actually suspect that in the background early modern empiricism (here meaning Locke, Newton, and Hume) in all their variety are tacitly assimilated by Foucault to 20th century (Carnapian) empiricism where resemblance is indeed foundational (although problematized by Goodman and Quine). But that's just a hunch.

 

 

Parfit, Long Termism and Existential Risk: and Nietzsche's Fearless ones.

Some people believe that there cannot be progress in Ethics, since everything has been already said. Like Rawls and Nagel, I believe the opposite. How many people have made Non-Religious Ethics their life’s work? Before the recent past, very few. In most civilizations, most people have believed in the existence of a God, or of several gods. A large minority were in fact atheists, whatever they pretended. But, before the recent past, few atheists made Ethics their life’s work. Buddha may be among this few, as may be Confucius, and a few Ancient Greeks and Romans. After more than a thousand years, there were a few more between the Sixteenth and Twentieth Centuries. Hume was an atheist who made Ethics part of his life’s work. Sidgwick was another. After Sidgwick, there were several atheists who were professional moral philosophers. But most of these did not do Ethics. They did Meta-Ethics. They did not ask which outcomes would be good or bad, or which acts would be right or wrong. They asked, and wrote about, only the meaning of moral language, and the question of objectivity. Non-Religious Ethics has been systematically studied, by many people, only since the 1960s. Compared with the other sciences, Non-Religious Ethics is the youngest and the least advanced.

I believe that if we destroy mankind, as we now can, this outcome will be much worse than most people think. Compare three outcomes:

(1) Peace.
(2) A nuclear war that kills 99% of the world’s existing population.
(3) A nuclear war that kills 100%.

(2) would be worse than (1), and (3) would be worse than (2). Which is the greater of these two differences? Most people believe that the greater difference is between (1) and (2). I believe that the difference between (2) and (3) is very much greater.
My view is held by two very different groups of people. Both groups would appeal to the same fact. The Earth will remain inhabitable for at least another billion years. Civilization began only a few thousand years ago. If we do not destroy mankind, these few thousand years may be only a tiny fraction of the whole of civilized human history. The difference between (2) and (3) may thus be the difference between this tiny fraction and all of the rest of this history. If we compare this possible history to a day, what has occurred so far is only a fraction of a second.
One of the groups who hold my view are Classical Utilitarians. They would claim, as Sidgwick did, that the destruction of mankind would be by far the greatest of all conceivable crimes. The badness of this crime would lie in the vast reduction of the possible sum of happiness.
Another group would agree, but for very different reasons. These people believe that there is little value in the mere sum of happiness. For these people, what matters are what Sidgwick called the ‘ideal goods’—the Sciences, the Arts, and moral progress, or the continued advance towards a wholly just world-wide community. The destruction of mankind would prevent further achievements of these three kinds. This would be extremely bad because what matters most would be the highest achievements of these kinds, and these highest achievements would come in future centuries.
There could clearly be higher achievements in the struggle for a wholly just world-wide community. And there could be higher achievements in all of the Arts and Sciences. But the progress could be greatest in what is now the least advanced of these Arts or Sciences. This, I have claimed, is Non-Religious Ethics. Belief in God, or in many gods, prevented the free development of moral reasoning. Disbelief in God, openly admitted by a majority, is a recent event, not yet completed. Because this event is so recent, Non-Religious Ethics is at a very early stage. We cannot yet predict whether, as in Mathematics, we will all reach agreement. Since we cannot know how Ethics will develop, it is not irrational to have high hopes.--Parfit (1984) Reasons and Persons, Section, 154. "HOW BOTH HUMAN HISTORY, AND THE HISTORY OF ETHICS, MAY BE JUST BEGINNING"

After my rant went viral this past weekend, Richard Pettigrew reminded me that if I really want to understand the intellectual roots of contemporary long-termism I can't ignore the last two pages of Reasons and Persons, quoted in full above. (Strictly speaking these are not the last two because the appendices are not wholly irrelevant, especially the material on social discounting.) And my hypothesis was that it would help explain, perhaps, something of the evident sectarianism that longtermism generates in its adherents. And when I returned to this material, I was, of course, immediately struck by the choice between 99% vs 100% extinction. And I started to think of objections.

But I hope you will forgive me if I step back first. For, I noticed that the hypothetical extinction scenarios are introduced with, and framed by, an implied contrast between [A] "Non-Religious Ethics" and Religious Ethics. The first oddity here is that the contrast is not drawn in the linguistically more accurate contrast between atheist ethics and theistic ethics (which in turn comes in monotheistic and polytheistic versions). Embedded in this contrast [A] is another explicit contrast (non-trivially indebted to Kant's "What is Enlightenment?") between [B] the "free development of moral reasoning" and the unfree development of moral reasoning (found in so-called 'Religious Ethics). And this, in turn, is connected to the contrast between [C] young ("recent past") and old ("more than a thousand years" etc.), which turns out to track [D] a contrast between the possibility of "greatest progress" and proven failure. And, again, this is connected to the contrast between [E] the "very few" and the very many. In addition, there is an implied contrast between [F] (a pacific) "a world-wide community" and the state of nature among nation-states. This, in turn is linked to the fact, [G] there is a to be hoped for possible consensus which contrasts with our existing cacophony. There are, finally, two further connected contrasts: (i) there is a contrast (again echoing Kant) between [H] irrational hopes (characteristic of superstition) with rational (or at least not irrational) hopes, and (ii) [I] the contrast between knowledge (of the past) and uncertainty (of the future).

As a two-fold aside, first, Parfit explicitly leaves open -- one need not be Straussian about this -- that this last contrast [D] may involve the practice of esoteric speech or dissembling: "A large minority were in fact atheists, whatever they pretended." One wonders what grounds this 'in fact.' And second, it is interesting that Parfit treats Buddha and Confucius as possible exemplars of this practice of pretending. To the best of my knowledge (and I know slightly more about the case of Confucius) this idea was popular in the wake of Bayle's linking of Spinoza to both Confucius and Buddha. (I have no idea if Parfit gets it directly or indirectly from Bayle, but in Bayle, too, we find the linking of these matters to esotericism.) And my guess is that Bayle shaped some of the orientalist tropes that helped found the study of comparative civilizations in the late nineteenth century.

I don't mean to suggests that nine-fold contrast [A-I] is exhaustive. Nearly all of these contrasts are not argued for in Parfit's book. (Please feel free  to correct me!) Such a list of contrasts is characteristic of what I call 'philosophic prophecy' by which I mean the structured ways in which concept formation by philosophers is aided by rhetorical or literary imagery that shapes the reception of (more rational) arguments and thereby can shape possible futures. And I would have given you a more detailed explanation of this claim in light of the typical nature of philosophic prophecy.

But then I noticed something remarkable. In the quoted paragraphs, Parfit is treating the 'death of God' as a world-historical thesis which gives ground to the greatest possible (non-irrational) hopes. This is a feature and not a bug because it also informs the very plausibility of Parfit's rather dramatic claim that the gulf between (2) and (3) is larger than the gulf between (1) and (2). (For a certain kind of theist this would be question begging.)

That the death of God is a world historical event -- in part for its effect on morality -- is a thesis associated with Nietzsche. And one of its canonical formulations is in Nietzsche's Gay Science, Book V, section/aphorism 343. So, it is no surprise -- although it shocked me -- that this very aphorism supplies Parfit with the epigraph to his book:

At last the horizon appears free to us again, even granted that it is not bright; at last our ships may venture out again, venture out to face any danger; all the daring of the lover of knowledge is permitted again; the sea, our sea, lies open again; perhaps there has never yet been such an ‘Open sea.

Parfit's epigraph also evokes the end of Book I of Hume Treatise as well as a famous passage of Socrates in Phaedo 99c–d, and all three cases (just like in Parfit) the very nature of philosophy, and its future, can be said to be at stake. Parfit himself reminds of his affinity with them in a passage in the book, "I would far prefer to have lived through the previous two and a half centuries, having had among my friends Hume, Byron, Chekhov, Nietzsche, and Sidgwick." As it happens Gay Science, Book V, section/aphorism 343 also is one of the texts that gave me idea of the existence of philosophical prophecy (since in it Nietzsche describes two kinds of such prophecy).

Crucially for present purpose is Nietzsche's attitude toward the rather grim immediate future: "This lengthy, vast and uninterrupted process of crumbling, destruction, ruin and overthrow which is now imminent: who has realised it sufficiently today to have to stand up as the teacher and herald of such a tremendous logic of terror, as the prophet of a period of gloom and eclipse, the like of which has probably never taken place on earth before?" Nietzsche feels not "sympathy" with the victims of history, "but rather like a new and indescribable variety of light, happiness, relief, enlivenment, encouragement, and dawning day? ... In fact, we philosophers and "free spirits" feel ourselves irradiated as by a new dawn by the report that the "old God is dead"; our hearts overflow with gratitude, astonishment, presentiment and expectation." (If you are shocked by this God is not dead for you.) In Nietzsche the price of progress is destruction of the old order so that we can breed (either culturally or genetically, i leave that aside) higher kind of men.

Now, notice that Parfit gives a classical utilitarian and elitist (that is, Nietzschean) argument for why 3 is worse than 2.* But that's not sufficient for his argument. He also needs to offer an argument for why 3 being worse than 2 is itself worse than 2 being worse than 1. But no such argument against "most people" is given. (I have some sympathy for the idea that philosophy is not a democracy.) We only receive an explanation for why total extinction (3) is worse than (2). And I do not think Parfit has an argument that is non-question begging because it presupposes the unfolding (as of yet "uncompleted") Death of God, that is, a kind of rational faith or hope that once completed will become self-evident. Among the fruits of this hope are the captains of longtermism.+

 

Mill's Elitism and Progressivism, The Art of Government, Tocqueville (and Foucault), Part I

The mode of conducting the practical business of government, which is best under a free constitution, would generally be best also in an absolute monarchy: only, an absolute monarchy is not so likely to practise it. The laws of property, for example; the principles of evidence and judicial procedure; the system of taxation and of financial administration, need not necessarily be different in different forms of government. Each of these matters has principles and rules of its own, which are a subject of separate study. General jurisprudence, civil and penal legislation, financial and commercial policy, are sciences in themselves, or rather, separate members of the comprehensive science or art of government: and the most enlightened doctrines on all these subjects, though not equally likely to be understood or acted on under all forms of government, yet, if understood and acted on, would in general be equally beneficial under them all. It is true that these doctrines could not be applied without some modifications to all states of society and of the human mind: nevertheless, by far the greater number of them would require modifications solely of detail, to adapt them to any state of society sufficiently advanced to possess rulers capable of understanding them. A government to which they would be wholly unsuitable, must be one so bad in itself, or so opposed to public feeling, as to be unable to maintain itself in existence by honest means.--J.S.Mill (1861) Considerations on Representative Government, Chapter 2 ("The Criterion of a Good Form of Government.)

One can find passages in Mill's writings that suggest he was a skeptic about the very possibility of an art of government. But some of the works that endured endorse the art, and even suggest it, as above, that it is a "comprehensive science." In Mill, this tends to mean, amongst other things, that it is a body of rules (see System of Logic). But in the quoted passage he also emphasizes that these involve certain "doctrines."

In virtue of the fact that these rules are context insensitive, Mill is willing to call these rules a 'science.' Presumably the rules, which are built on a body of empirical generalizations (in the indicative), have the character of (what he and his followers) would call 'imperative statements' (recall this post). These have the task of providing one the means for given ends, that is, a kind of instrumental or conditional rationality. This is actually something meta, because government itself has this kind of instrumental rationality baked into its purpose according to Mill; it exists (no surprise here given his utilitarianism) to promote "the interests of any given society." 

Interestingly enough, and this anticipates Foucault's observation (recall here) on the liberal art of government as such in the first few sentences of the Birth of Biopolitics, for Mill there is a version of the art 'which is best under a free government.' Now undoubtedly he does not mean to say, in the first instance, that this is the optimal art of government, but in the second instance he notes that is best sans phrase. It turns out that there is a normative art of government that would be context invariant.

Obviously, I overstate Mill's explicit position. As the ancients teach there are more modes of tyrannical government, where, as he notes, the normative art of government is impossible by definition because it would be self-underming ("A government...so bad in itself, or so opposed to public feeling, as to be unable to maintain itself in existence by honest means").* But what Mill calls a 'free constitution' and an 'absolute monarchy' do not exhaust the non-tyrannical options. (By a 'free constitution' Mill means something like what we call a 'liberal democracy' to considerable degree.) I return to this issue below. But Mill allows (and there are echoes of Hume here), that good government is, in principle, possible in an absolute monarchy even if it is rare in practice.

I take it that the 'art of government' just is, for Mill, well grounded skill at what he calls 'the practical business of government.' And this happens to be subdivided into a whole number of practical disciplines commonly taught we might surmise in law schools ("General jurisprudence, civil and penal legislation") and public policy or and/or economics departments ("financial and commercial policy.") The point is not just that within the art of government there is a cognitive division of labor, specialization, but also that these disciplines are ultimately subordinate to a larger purpose.

Some of you may be eager to remind me that strictly speaking the art of government is not really context insensitive. Mill quite clearly presupposes something like a distinction between advanced civilization, and those cultures that still require some tutelage. As he puts it at the start of the chapter that I have been quoting, "the proper functions of a government are not a fixed thing, but different in different states of society; much more extensive in a backward than in an advanced state." This stadial idea of cultural development is deeply woven into Mill's social theory (and, obviously, is a part of his support for a certain kind of reformed imperialism.) Strictly speaking, and this is a further strain of elitism in Mill, only those that would have to apply the art of government need to 'advance' to the level familiar from civilized culture. 

As an aside, every time I confront these features of Mill's thought I always despair a little bit for the liberal tradition. But I also find in it a salutary lesson that great moral sensitivity is compatible with great obtuseness, and this should make us skeptical in our dispositions about our own certitudes. (No, I won't preach more of my skepticism today.)

Be that as it may, somewhat paradoxically, where the art of government is most needed (the underdeveloped state), according to Mill, because there government must have many functions, it is unavailable because (to put in modern slightly more neutral terms, well only slightly) of a lack of human capital to develop and implement it. Mill himself uses puts it as follows: "the most important point of excellence which any form of government can possess is to promote the virtue and intelligence of the people themselves." So, lurking here is the idea that real development presupposes considerable state capacity and expertise that rests on considerable human capital. And as a people develop government functions disappear or wither away. (I put it like that because there is something analogous in Marxism.) A nation of super-intelligent spinozist sages would not need any government. But the tragedy of human life (and development) is, on Mill's view, that (knowledgeable) investment in human capital only really gets going after decent enough government has been achieved.

For Mill, "one criterion of the goodness of a government, the degree in which it tends to increase the sum of good qualities in the governed, collectively and individually, since, besides that their well-being is the sole object of government, their good qualities supply the moving force which works the machinery [of government]." When I started this post, I wanted to say something about how we can discern here in Mill a response to Tocqueville but about that some time more. I do note that we can see here some non-trivial kinship between Becker and Stigler and Mill. So, when discussing the programming of human capital by Chicago, Foucault's tendency to treat Becker and Stigler as the natural culmination and intensification of the utilitarian-philosophical-radical traditon (in context Mill is clear that his views on this point have an affinity with Bentham's) is actually well grounded. (I have a suspicion that Halevy and Lepage have something to do with this. But again, some other time more.)

One element of the art of government is guided by the following doctrine (which looks back to Hume and Spinoza and Madison): "The ideally perfect constitution of a public office is that in which the interest of the functionary is entirely coincident with his duty." And this, for Mill, scales up to what Rawls calls the 'basic institutions:' "What we have said of the arrangements for the detailed administration of the government is still more evidently true of its general constitution. All government which aims at being good is an organization of some part of the good qualities existing in the individual members of the community for the conduct of its collective affairs." 

That is, we may say then, that Mill divides what we can call political theory/philosophy in two. One is engaged with  the basic structure or as he puts it, the "fundamental constitution of the government." This is institutional design. (Recall this post.) And the other, is the art of government, that is, the understanding of the mode of conducting the practical business of government, Obviously, there is an important connection between the two because there are going to be many interaction effects between them. While it is tempting to see the designing of the 'fundamental constitution' as the more important institution (since it molds the rest), as the argument above has revealed, without the proper clay it won't get off the ground. And so that means that, in practice, the constitution, and even the most general principles that enter into the art of government must respect context. (The rest of the chapter articulates this very point.) In this chapter, Mill treats the art of government as part of political philosophy.** 

Here I want to close with an observation. One may well think in light of the significance of professional schools above, that fundamentally the art of government is something technocratic for Mill. But I don't think that's quite right. Not only because of the ways in which empirical and normative elements blend in it. For the aim of the art is something programmatic: the capacity to articulate and implement modes of government that "favor and promote, not some one improvement, but all forms and degrees of it." And while that  presupposes an ideal constitution, which is to be developed theoretically, it also presupposes a program of open-ended intellectual, moral, and social progress in our capacities for (and this is the significance of my Spinozist joke above), self-government. 

 

 

 

Foucault on Hume on Interest and (Adaptive) Preference

What English empiricism introduces...and doubtless for the first time in Western philosophy, is a subject...who appears in the form of a subject of individual choices which are both irreducible and non-transferable....

Second, this type of choice is non-transferable. I do not mean that it is non-transferable in the sense that one choice could not be replaced by another. You could perfectly well say that if you prefer health to illness, you may also prefer illness to health, and then choose illness. It is also clear that you may perfectly well say: I prefer to be ill and that someone else is not. But, in any case, on what basis will this substitution of one choice for another be made? It will be made on the basis of my own preference and on the basis of the fact that I would find someone else being ill more painful, for example, than being ill myself. In the end the principle of my choice really will be my own feeling of painful or not painful, of pain and pleasure. There is Hume’s famous aphorism which says: If I am given the choice between cutting my little finger and the death of someone else, even if I am forced to cut my little finger, nothing can force me to think that cutting my little finger is preferable to the death of someone else.
So, these are irreducible choices which are non-transferable in relation to the subject. This principle of an irreducible, non-transferable, atomistic individual choice which is unconditionally referred to the subject himself is what is called interest.--Michel Foucault, 28 March 1979, The Birth of Biopolitics, pp. 271-272. 

This is the third of my recent posts on Foucault's reading of Hume in The Birth of Biopolitics (recall here; and here). In the first paragraph of the quoted passage I have removed Foucault's reference to Locke as the world-historical origin of English empiricism as the fount of Utilitarianism. Foucault is almost certainly inspired by Élie Halévy's classic (1901-1904) The Growth of Philosophic Radicalism, which I now know Foucault studied. (We have some of Foucault's note-taking on volume 2 [see here].) I have also removed Foucault's taxonomy of different kinds of approaches to identify a subject in 'Western philosophy.' Here I am also skipping Foucault's treatment of Appendix 1, “Concerning Moral Sentiment” to Hume's (1751) An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals, which illustrates  what it is for a choice to be irreducible in empiricism, according to Foucault. I do so not because these topics are uninteresting (on the contrary, they are too interesting), but because I want to focus on Foucault's analysis of Hume's account of the non-transferability of choices. (I am unfamiliar with other work on this topic so feel free to share your suggestions.)

In the paragraph I skipped Foucault had shown that for an empiricist (like Locke and Hume) "The painful or non-painful nature of the thing is in itself a reason for the choice beyond which you cannot go." (p. 272. This is irreducibility of choice, or what Foucault calls "the regressive end point in the analysis.") While a lot can be said about this, let's stipulate it's true for the sake of argument. But for what follows, you need to keep in mind that at bottom the agency of an empiricist subject consists in choices that are ground in (the desire for) pleasure or the aversion to pain. And according to Foucault this is what creates a subject with an interest (as a kind of characterization of agency.) That's a big claim, but I am interested here in the details. 

The non-transferability principle is cashed out by Foucault in terms of the fact that preferences are one’s own and that another has no fundamentally no access to them. Foucault really uses the modern (somewhat technical) language of ‘preference’ on p. 272. (It's also there in the French: "À partir de ma préférence à moi et à partir du fait que je trouverai plus pénible, par exemple, de savoir qu'un autre est malade que de l'être moi-même." Naissance de la biopolitique, p. 276.) While Hume certainly has ‘preference’ in his vocabulary, in Hume it generally means something like ‘favoring’ a particular outcome or state of affairs (which is also the use one can find in Ricardo). In Hume 'preference' is not used a technical term to track what is motivationally foundational. In my view it is only in Bentham that the use of 'preference' starts to obtain it's technical, familiar sense. (Something one might pick up from Halévy, who emphasizes Bentham's self-preference principle in various contexts but not in Hume i think.)

I mention this not to castigate Foucault's anachronism. But to remind ourselves that the treatment of Hume in the eleventh lecture follows on Foucault's better known analysis of Becker and Stigler (1977) for who (famously/infamously) hold "the hypothesis of stable and uniform preferences." While I have  no evidence that Foucault read Becker & Stigler (1977, although we know he read papers/works by both), it figures prominently in a fascinating book by Henri Lepage Tomorrow, Capitalism: The Economics of Economic Freedom [first published in French as Demain le Capitalisme in 1978.) As the editors of Birth of Biopolitics note several times (but not in context), Foucault almost certainly read Lepage ahead of his lectures (sadly I have been unable to find any annotations by Foucault on Lepage). I mention this because the stability of preferences in Becker & Stigler (1977) is highlighted by Lepage in his account of human capital more generally (see p. 165 of the English translation). And human capital had been central to the previous lecture of Birth of Biopolitics.

In fact, and as a kind of aside, the 11th lecture is used to tie two major narrative threads in Birth of Biopolitics together: first, Foucault provides a historical eighteenth century framework for his own account of the development of utilitarianism from Bentham to Stigler/Becker. This framework has the shape of a donut in whose hole one can discern the shadow of Halévy's classic The Growth of Philosophic Radicalism. (Basically Foucault skips the heart of Halévy's narrative, and only changes the origin and terminus ad quem of philosophical radicalism/Utilitarianism.) Second, Foucault had claimed that this radical tradition is one of two traditions within liberalism that has an account of liberty. Strikingly, in the material I ommitted, Foucault alludes to this. (I return to that another time, too.)  Now, Foucault does not claim that for Hume preferences are stable. But Foucault's anachronism here alerts us to Hume's role in these two threads. This is exactly made explicit by a passage shortly after the one quoted above:

What I think is fundamental in English empiricist philosophy— which I am treating completely superficially—is that it reveals something
which absolutely did not exist before. This is the idea of a subject of interest, by which I mean a subject as the source of interest, the starting point of an interest, or the site of a mechanism of interests. For sure, there is a series of discussions on the mechanism of interest itself and what may activate it: is it self-preservation, is it the body or the soul, or is it sympathy? But this is not what is important. What is important is the appearance of interest for the first time as a form of both immediately and absolutely subjective will.
I think the problem and that which gets the problematic of homo oeconomicus underway is whether this subject of interest or form of will called interest can be considered as the same type of will as the juridical will or as capable of being connected to the juridical will. (273)

Be that as it may, in the present context 'non-transferable,' thus, refers to the brute fact that we cannot fundamentally feel another's pain or let them feel ours. Even sympathy's role is, as Foucault stipulates, a mechanism "to activate" or shape what we feel and thereby our interests not a means to share or trade one's feelings. Pleasures and pains are not portable from one subject to another. Even Adam Smith, who has a much more capacious understanding of the power of sympathy will grant this point. (For him mutual sympathy requires mutial modulation of our original feelings.) Now, as I mentioned above the point of the analysis is to connect Hume to the development of the formal features of homo oeconomicus as found in the radical tradition. Somewhat peculiarly, in Birth of Biopolitics Foucault shows no interest in Hume's economic writings (including a highly salient essay called "Of Interest.")

Now, the textual support that Foucault offers for all of this is rather fascinating (and that's what I'll end on today). As the editors of Birth of Biopolitics, who recognize in Hume's "famous aphorism" a reference to Treatise 2.3.3.6, and then (as I noted before) quote Hume: “Where a passion is neither founded on false supposition, nor chuses means insufficient for the end, the understanding can neither justify nor condemn it. ’Tis not contrary to reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching of my finger.” This is indeed a famous aphorism (one that clearly exercised Hume's friend Smith at The Theory of Moral Sentiments, 3.3.4, 136–7.)

But while Foucault gets the spirit of Hume's remarks at Treatise 2.3.3.6 right, he is not slavishly following the text of Hume. In Hume the famous aphorism, is introduced to argue that feelings are, in a certain sense, beyond rational scrutiny. However, I use in a 'certain sence' because they are not wholly beyond scrutiny as Hume explicitly notes. For they are often accompanied by judgments and these may well be scrutinized and found wanting. And, more interesting for present purposes, as the quote eveals, when the feeling itself is triggered by "false suppositions" say in cases of adaptive preferences or wishful thinking (or simply bad epistemic luck), or, when it is action guiding and it "chuses means insufficient for the end" and so leads to failures of instrumental rationality. 

Because in the context of 2.3.3.6, Hume is talking about passions more generally and not just about the bedrocks of pain and pleasure, I don't think Foucault really is misunderstanding Hume's general point. But it is a shame that he does not dwell on the specifics because, as I note, 2.3.3.6 is rather important for Hume's ideas on thinking on the contexts in which even a picture that takes preferences as irreducible and non-transferable, one need not treat them as merely given, nor beyond all critical scrutiny. That is to say, Foucault comes incredibly close, but somehow misses, that were the radical tradition and Utilitarianism more Humaen from the start some enduring problems internal to it could at least be diagnosed.

On the Modernity and Popularity of Public Philosophy by Academic Philosophers, and some Foucault on Kant

I sometimes suspect that advocates of public philosophy by academic philosophers [sometimes: PPAP] are (tacitly) are committed to at least two of the following three following propositions.

1. PPAP is a relatively recent invention.
2. Public philosophy is not new at all, it just is (the extension or renewal of) Dewey-ian style pragmatism.
3. Socrates, or the public gadfly, is a good model for PPAP.
4. Public philosophy is the dissemination or making accessible of existing (but otherwise esoteric to the public) philosophical knowledge.

Obviously, this does not exhaust all the possibilities. I want to make two comments about this list. First, those committed to (1.), tend to be analytic philosophers (of the sort that do not tend to understand themselves as intellectual descendants of Dewey--so that can include all kinds of pragmatists). My suspicion for thinking this is that this tribe (my own) has been going through a process of interest and valorization of public philosophy during the last (say) decade. I could point to a lot of blog posts or social media commentary to suggest this (including my own). But this thought also fits with the popularity of the 'icy slopes of logic' thesis (articulated by Reisch) that suggests that analytic philosophy retreated into the ivory tower due to the cold war.

Of course, if the icy slopes of logic thesis were true (which I have been known to doubt), then it follows, almost by definition, that 1 is not true. For, the left wing of Vienna was committed to PPAP. Let's grant that Neurath and Carnap were committed to PPAP before their forced exile. It does not follow that one couldn't say something in the spirit of 1.

One might argue, for example, that as an aspiration PPAP is not recent. But one might say, while reflecting on the fate of the Vienna Circle, that the social conditions to do it right, without danger to oneself (or society, were one takes inductive risk of philosophical praxis seriously) are relatively rare and recent. It's only when what we might call a Mill-ian ethos takes hold of elite/juridical/political institutions (even if grudgingly) and has sufficient popular acceptance then (1.) holds. And we, oh moderns, are blessed with times in which we may think what we like, and say it. Let's call this self-congratulatory stance the Millian Ethos Thesis.

For those who recognize their Spinoza or Hume (or Tacitus) in the previous paragraph, neither were professional academics. Hume famously did not get the job at Edinburgh, Spinoza prudently declined a position at Heidelberg. This failure is especially notable in the case of Hume who starts his Treatise with the express aim to 'to try the taste of the public.'

That such an ethos relatively recent achievement may be illustrated by the fate of (the otherwise well connected) Bertrand Russell, who was sacked from his position at Trinity for his public pacifism during WWI and later was denied a position at City University (for his views on sexual morality and his atheism).* I use Russell here not to argue for the suggestion that PPAP only exists when there is no limitation on what can be said in public, but rather to remind the reader the range of topical constraints that existed until quite recently on the very possibility of PPAP. (There is a real contrast between the way, say, Noam Chomsky has been treated and Russell.)

Second, Socrates is a terrible example of PPAP for mass societies like ours. By this, I don't just mean that he was not an academic and his life ended badly, but also we don't reach anything like 'the public' if we go around a popular spot in town and have elenctic conversations with the folk. (I don't diss the activity, by the way.)  Implicitly this is understood because usually when people talk about public philosophy for our kind, they talk about editorials, TV, podcasts, You Tube channels, etc. These have in common that, with luck, they reach a very wide audience. They also tend to presuppose commitment to (4.) more than (3.), and are often nudged along by grant agencies and administrators.

Of course, when people mention Socrates or Diogenes the Cynic, they really mean something like 'being a gadfly of society.' The problem with a gadfly model is that it often presupposes a kind of persistent challenge to the social and political status quo. Almost no academic has time for that alongside our teaching, publishing, and service obligations. And I know of no modern example that fits the case when one ignores PR machines and looks at the facts dispassionately. (Feel free to offer your examplars.)

These impressions were triggered by reading the following passage in a lecture by Foucault, who was, of course, a significant public philosopher in his own right, to a French group of professional philosophers:

In this definition of the Aufklärung, there will be something which no doubt it may be a little ridiculous to call a sermon, and yet it is very much a call for courage that he sounds in this description of the Aufklärung. One should not forget that it was a newspaper article. There is much work to be done on the relationship between philosophy and journalism from the end of the 18th century on, a study ... Unless it has already been done, but I am not sure of that ... It is very interesting to see from what point on philosophers intervene in newspapers in order to say something that is for them philosophically interesting and which, nevertheless, is inscribed in a certain relationship to the public which they intend to mobilize. And finally, it is characteristic that, in this text on the Aufklärung, Kant precisely gives religion, law and knowledge as examples of maintaining humanity in the minority condition and consequently as examples of points where the Aufklärung, must lift this minority condition and in some way majoritize men. What Kant was describing as the Aufklärung is very much what I was trying before to describe as critique, this critical attitude which appears as a specific attitude in the Western world starting with what was historically, I believe, the great process of society's governmentalization. Michel Foucault (1978) "What is Critique" translated by Lysa Hotroch, reprinted in The Politics of Truth, edited by Sylvere Lotringer, p48. (Ellipses in original)

In the works collected in The Politics of Truth, Foucault expresses similar views, so this is something he clearly reflected on in the last decade of his life. What's neat for our present purposes is that Foucault calls attention to the fact that in "What Is Enlightenment?" Kant engaged in public philosophy, in the sense we tend to use the term today (and as assumed in this post), while also reflecting on the manner of it (and its limits).  Famously, Kant thought that in one's functional role (as professor, cleric, civil servant, etc.) one must be (passively) obedient to authority, while one simultanously one had a duty or at least the freedom to educate the public, including criticism of the authorities without adverse consequences (if one does so in a way that does not undermine now quoting Kant) "the stability of the community."

To what degree such stability really can be reconciled with the mobilizing function Foucault ascribes to Kant's conception of the public use of reason is no easy matter to settle. But it is worth noting that even a hardnosed thinker like Machiavelli (carefully read by both Foucault and Kant) praises the epistemic and social features of Rome's willingness to endure quite a bit of social rowdiness and mobilization as a means toward stabilizing the community (and the evolution of social practices.)+ As an aside, Kant here is at odds with our modern conception of academic freedom, which precisely creates some zone to be critical of one's authorities (and the authorities, and their dogma's) in one's teaching.

What's important to my present purposes is the violation of (4.) in Foucault's treatment of Kant as an exemplar. For while Kant's own view of the free use of public reason, as presented by Foucault (in non-controversial way) sounds something like (4.), the manner in which Kant defends the view is (to quote Foucault) "philosophically interesting." In fact, in a different essay, "What is Enlightenment?" Foucault starts with a contrast between Kant's age of Enlightenment and ours, favorably to the past, in which he describes the present attitude toward in which in public speech/utterances, "there is not much likelihood of learning anything new." This makes our public intellectual life rather boring, as Foucault suggests. (Of course, I am not discussing YOUR contributions to public intellectual life, my dear sophisticated readers.) Even if one suspects that Foucault may be romanticizing the past here, he is right in noticing that commitment to (4.) tends to part and parcel of what we may call the repetitionof the known. Of course, that may still be an important public service (and I am a friend of philosophy as service of the sort Dotson engages in), but the philosophy part is underserviced by it. 

I could stop here because I think it's pretty clear now why I think 1-4 are all false, or undesirable. But I want to close with two final (related) observations on the triggering passage I quoted from Foucault. First, what he says about  governmentalization is undoubtedly obscure if you don't read the wider lecture, and/or lack familiararity with the lectures he gave in that period at College de France. To simplify, it's a species of statecraft (including the art of governing without states or their apparatus). But for present purposes, we can leave it a bit obscure. But I do want to note the connection to Kant, Foucault asserts just before (in discussing developments since the 16th century in "Western Europe) the following:

And if we accord this movement of governmentalization of both society and individuals the historic dimension and breadth which I believe it has had, it seems that one could approximately locate therein what we could call the critical attitude. Facing them head on and as compensation, or rather, as both partner and adversary to the arts of governing, as an act of defiance, as a challenge, a way of limiting these arts of governing and sizing them up, transforming them, of finding a way to escape from them or, in any case, a way to displace them, with a basic distrust, but also and by the same token, as a line of development of the arts of governing, there would have been something born in Europe at that time, a kind of general cultural form, both a political and moral attitude, a way of thinking, etc. and which I would very simply call the art of not being governed or better, the art of not being governed like that and at that cost. I would therefore propose, as a very first definition of critique, this general characterization: the art of not being governed quite so much. (44-45)

Kantian critique then is, on this view, not some esoteric philosophical doctrine, but the outgrowth of a much wider European ethos that itself has a considerable development. And while there is in philosophy, perhaps, a lot more to critique then the idea that one 'not be governed like that' -- the rejection of permanent immaturity -- this is its central idea. It is to be sure, no anarchism. But it is an embrace of a kind of limitation on being governed. I think it is no surprise then that in the following year, Foucault explored at great length the liberal art of government (and Kant's role in developing it) because it just is the tradition that, warts and at all, embraces the art of not being governed quite so much.

My second remark is-- and this is based not just on the quoted passages like these alone (but a more wider reading in Foucault) - that Foucault embraces the Millian Ethos thesis in its Eurocentric fashion; a version that actually embraces European/Western (cultural) exceptionalism.** But let me stop here.