Text, however, that we now call "scientific" dealing with cosmology and the heavens, medicine or illness, the natural sciences or geography were only considered truthful during the Middle Ages if the name of the author was indicated. Statements on the order of "Hippocrates said In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, a totally new conception was developed when scientific texts were accepted on their own merits and positioned within an anonymous and coherent conceptual system of established truths and methods of verification. Authentication no longer required reference to the individual who had produced them; the role of the author disappeared as an index of truthfulness and, where it remained as an inventor's name, it was merely to denote a specific theorem or proposition, a strange effect, a property, a body, a group of elements, or a pathological syndrome.
At the same time, however, "literary" discourse was acceptable only if it carried an author's name; every text of poetry or fiction was obliged to state its author and the date, place, and circumstance of its writing. The meaning and value attributed to the text depended upon this information. If by accident or design a text was presented anonymously, every effort was made to locate its author. Literary anonymity was of interest only as a puzzle to be solved as, in our day, literary works are totally dominated by the sovereignty of the author.
Undoubtedly, these remarks are far too categorical. Criticism has been concerned for some time now with aspects of a text not fully dependent upon the notion of an individual creator; studies of genre or the analysis of recurring textual motifs and their variations from a norm ther than author.
Furthermore, where in mathematics the author has become little more than a handy reference for a particular theorem or group of propositions, the reference to an author in biology or medicine, or to the date of his research has a substantially different bearing. This latter reference, more than simply indicating the source of information, attests to the "reliability" of the evidence, since it entails an appreciation of the techniques and experimental materials available at a given time and in a particular laboratory.
The third point concerning this "author-function" is that it is not formed spontaneously through the simple attribution of a discourse to an individual. It results from a complex operation whose purpose is to construct the rational entity we call an author. Undoubtedly, this construction is assigned a "realistic" dimension as we speak of an individual's "profundity" or "creative" power, his intentions or the original inspiration manifested in writing.
Nevertheless, these aspect of an individual, which we designate as an author or which comprise an individual as an author , are projections, in terms always more or less psychological, of our way of handling texts: in the comparisons we make, the traits we extract as pertinent, the continuities we assign, or the exclusions we practice. In addition, all these operations vary according to the period and the form of discourse concerned. A "philosopher" and a "poet" are not constructed in the same manner; and the author of an eighteenth-century novel was formed differently from the modern novelist.
Souhaitez-vous qu'on vous nomme historien? Doit-on vous appeler philosophe? Pas non plus. Ce que je fais n'est aucunement une philosophie. Je suis un artificier. Je ne suis pas pour la destruction, mais je suis pour qu'on puisse passer, pour qu'on puisse avancer, pour qu'on puisse faire tomber les murs. Il regarde les couches de terrain, les plis, les failles. Il scrute les reliefs qu'on peut utiliser pour se cacher ou pour lancer un assaut. On envoie des reconnaissances, on poste des guetteurs, on se fait faire des rapports.
Est-ce la sape? Est-ce le trou de mine, ou bien l'assaut direct? Depuis quand? Au nom de quoi? Il y en a d'autres? Mais je n'ai pas envie de faire mon autobiographie. Je crois qu'on devrait lancer une question comme on lance une bille au flipper : elle fait tilt ou elle ne fait pas tilt, et puis on la relance, et de nouveau on voit Ce sont des Anglais un peu mystiques qui ont fait ce travail. Un communiste, en , ne pouvait pas dire qu'un homosexuel n'est pas un malade. En fait, ce fut un silence total.
Alors, ce fut la solitude, et aussi les injures J'en reviens aux histoires biographiques! Heureusement, elles touchent un peu plus que ma biographie. Vous dites cela en riant Il faut bien y mettre un peu d'ironie Ce qui est ennuyeux, dans les interviews, c'est que le rire ne passe pas! Rien n'interdit de l'indiquer!
Cela vaut aussi pour vos autres livres. Je crois qu'il faut avoir une conscience artisanale dans ce domaine. Elle doit servir au livre. Vous me dites que j'emploie souvent un certain nombre de contorsions stylistiques qui semblent prouver que j'aime bien le beau style. C'est ma morale du livre. Ce n'est pas ainsi que je vois mon travail. Le texte existe, on en sait beaucoup plus qu'avant. A quelle famille appartiens-tu? Comment est-ce qu'on peut te classer? Qu'est-ce qui t'abrite? Qu'est-ce qui te justifie? Mais il produit effectivement. Ce craquement, on l'entendait brusquement dans le discours du philosophe.
A partir de quoi sont-elles possibles? Ou qui en est capable Il y a eu des centaines d'arrestations. Comment expliquer cette coupure? A quoi correspond-elle? Absolument pas! L'exclusion du fou, par exemple, est un des innombrables effets de pouvoir du discours rationnel. Comment deviennent-ils possibles? C'est une question qui a du sens ou qui n'en a pas? Hegel, Marx ou Nietzsche, ou Heidegger dans un autre sens, nous ont promis le lendemain, l'aube, l'aurore, le jour qui pointe, le soir, la nuit, etc.
C'est une phrase qui m'enchante! J'en fais un usage rigoureusement instrumental. C'est une guerre permanente? Je pense, oui. Dans cette guerre, quels sont vos ennemis? Ou encore un sac de poudre, ou un cocktail Molotov. Vous voyez, cette histoire d'artificier, on y revient Roger-Pol Droit. Et elle crie contre qui? Elle punit? Elle amende?
Certainement pas. Knobelspiess l'a dit, nous l'avons dit et il fallait que ce soit connu. Les faits, autant que nous pouvons le savoir, risquent de le confirmer. Les dangers sont dans les abus de pouvoir. Et ils sont dans la spirale qui les lie entre eux. Michel Foucault. It was while I was studying the origins of clinical medicine. I had been planning a study of hospital architecture in the second half of the eighteenth century, when the great movement for the reform of medical institutions was getting under way.
I wanted to find out how the medical gaze was institutionalised, how it was effectively inscribed in social space, how the new form of the hospital was at once the effect and the support of a new type of gaze. In examining the series of different architectural projects which followed the second fire at the Hotel-Dieu in , I noticed how the whole problem of visibility of bodies, individuals and things, under a system of centralised observation, was one of their most constant directing principles.
In the case of the hospitals this general problem involves a further difficulty: it was necessary to avoid undue contact, contagion, physical proximity and overcrowding, while at the same time ensuring ventilation and circulation of air, at once dividing space up and keeping it open, ensuring a surveillance which would be both global and individualising while at the same time carefully separating the individuals under observation. For some time I thought all these problems were specific to eighteenth-century medicine and its beliefs. Then while studying the problems of the penal system, I noticed that all the great projects for re-organising the prisons which date, incidently, from a slightly later period, the first half of the nineteenth century take up this same theme, but accompanied this time by the almost invariable reference to Bentham.
There was scarcely a text or a proposal about the prisons which didn't mention Bentham's 'device' - the 'Panopticon' The principle was this. A perimeter building in the form of a ring. At the center of this, a tower, pierced by large windows opening on to the inner face of the ring. The outer building is divided into cells each of which traverses the whole thickness of the building. These cells have two windows, one opening on to the inside, facing the windows of the central tower, the other, outer one allowing daylight to pass through the whole cell.
All that is then needed is to put an overseer in the tower and place in each of the cells a lunatic, a patient, a convict, or a schoolboy. The back lighting enables one to pick out from the central tower the little captive silhouettes in the ring of cells. In short, the principle of the dungeon is reversed; daylight and the overseer's gaze capture the inmate more effectively than darkness, which afforded after all a sort of protection. We are talking about two things here: the gaze and interiorisation. And isn't it basically the problem of the cost of power? In reality power is only exercised at a cost.
Obviously, there is an economic cost, and Bentham talks about this. How many overseers will the Panopticon need? How much will the machine then cost to run? But there is also a specifically political cost. If you are too violent, you risk provoking revolts In contrast to that you have the system of surveillance, which on the contrary involves very little expense. There is no need for arms, physical violence, material constraints.
foucault_texts by Lauren Mason - Issuu
Just a gaze. An inspecting gaze, a gaze which each individual under its weight will end by interiorisation to the point that he is his own overseer, each individual thus exercizing this surveillance over, and against, himself. A superb formula: power exercised continuously and for what turns out to be minimal cost. First, to bring out a certain number of historical facts which are often glossed over when posing this problem of writing, we must look into the famous question of the hypomnemata. Current interpreters see in the critique of the hypomnemata in the Phaedrus a critique of writing as a material support for memory.
Now, in fact, hypomnemata has a very precise meaning. It is a copybook, a notebook. Precisely this type of notebook was coming into vogue in Plato's time for personal and administrative use. This new technology was as disrupting as the introduction of the computer into private life today.
It seems to me the question of writing and the self must be posed in terms of the technical and material framework in which it arose. So, if you will, the point at which the question of the hypomnemata and the culture of the self comes together in a remarkable fashion is the point at which the culture of the self takes as its goal the perfect government of the self -- a sort of permanent political relationship between self and self. The ancients carried on this politics of themselves with these notebooks just as governments and those who manage enterprises administered by keeping registers.
This is how writing seems to me to be linked to the problem of the culture of the self. Their use as books of life, guides for conduct, seems to have become a current thing among a whole cultivated public. Into them one entered quotations, fragments of works, examples, and actions to which one had been witness or of which one had read the account, reflections or reasonings which one had heard or which had come to mind.
They constituted a material memory of things read, heard, or thought, thus offering these as an accumulated treasure for rereading and later meditation. They also formed a raw material for the writing of more systematic treatises in which were given arguments and means by which to struggle against some defect such as anger, envy, gossip, flattery or to overcome some difficult circumstance a mourning, an exile, downfall, disgrace.
They do not constitute an "account of oneself"; their objective is not to bring the arcana conscientiae to light, the confession of which -- be it oral or written -- has a purifying value. The movement that they seek to effect is the inverse of this last one.
The point is not to pursue the indescribable, not to reveal the hidden, not to say the nonsaid, but, on the contrary, to collect the already-said, to reassemble that which one could hear or read, and this to an end which is nothing less than the constitution of oneself. The hypomnemata are to be resituated in the context of a very sensitive tension of that period. Whithin a culture very affected by traditionality, by the recognized value of the already-said, by the recurrence of discourse, by the 'citational" practice under the seal of age and authority, an ethic was developing which was very explicitly oriented to the care of oneself, toward definite objectives such as retiring into oneself, reaching oneself, living with oneself, being sufficient to oneself, profiting by and enjoying oneself.
Such is the objective of the hypomnemata: to make of the recollection of the fragmentary logos transmitted by teaching, listening, or reading a means to establish as adequate and as perfect a relationship of oneself to oneself as possible. I The title sounds pretentious, I know. But the reason for that is precisely its own excuse. Since the nineteenth century, Western thought has never stopped labouring at the task of criticising the role of reason - or the lack of reason - in political structures. However, so many previous attempts are a warrant that every new venture will be just about as successful as the former ones - and in any case, probably just as fortunate.
Under such a banner, mine is the embarrassment of one who has only sketches and uncompletable drafts to propose. Philosophy gave up trying to offset the impotence of scientific reason long ago; it no longer tries to complete its edifice. They began to worry about a relationship they confusedly suspected between a rationalisation-prone society and certain threats to the individual and his liberties, to the species and its survival.
In other words, since Kant, the role of philosophy has been to prevent reason going beyond the limits of what is given in experience; but from the same moment- that is, from the development of modern states and political management of society - the role of philosophy has also been to keep watch over the excessive powers of political rationality - which is rather a promising life expectancy.
Everybody is aware of such banal facts. What we have to do with banal facts is to discover - or try to discover - which specific and perhaps original problems are connected with them. The relationship between rationalisation and the excesses of political power is evident. And we should not need to wait for bureaucracy or concentration camps to recognize the existence of such relations. But the problem is: what to do with such an evident fact? To my mind, nothing would be more sterile. First, because the field has nothing to do with guilt or innocence. Last, because such a trial would trap us into playing the arbitrary and boring part of either the rationalist or the irrationalist.
Shall we investigate this kind of rationalism which seems to be specific to our modern culture and which originates in Enlightenment? I think that that was the way of some of the members of the Frankfurter Schule. My purpose is not to begin a discussion of their works - they are most important and valuable. I would suggest another way of investigating the links between rationalisation and power: 1. It may be wise not to take as a whole the rationalisation of society or of culture, but to analyse this process in several fields, each of them grounded in a fundamental experience: madness, illness, death, crime, sexuality, etc.
The main problem when people try to rationalise something is not to investigate whether or not they conform to principles of rationality, but to discover which kind of rationality they are using. Even if the Enlightenment has been a very important phase in our history, and in the development of political technology, I think we have to refer to much more remote processes if we want to understand how we have been trapped in our own history. Everyone knows that in European societies political power has evolved towards more and more centralised forms. Historians have been studying this organisation of the state, with its administration and bureaucracy, for dozens of years.
This transformation is, perhaps, less celebrated. But I think that it is also important, mainly for modern societies. Apparently this evolution seems antagonistic to the evolution towards a centralised state. What I mean in fact is the development of power techniques oriented towards individuals and intended to rule them in a continuous and permanent way.
If the state is the political form of a centralised and centralising power, let us call pastorship the individualising power. My purpose this evening is to outline the origin of this pastoral modality of power, or at least some aspects of its ancient history. There were exceptions, I know - early ones in Homeric literature, later ones in certain texts of the Lower Empire. This is not the case in ancient Oriental societies: Egypt, Assyria, Judaea. Pharaoh was an Egyptian shepherd.
But God was also a shepherd leading men to their grazing ground and ensuring them food. An Egyptian hymn invoked Ra this way: "O Ra that keepest watch when all men sleep, Thou who seekest what is good for thy cattle. With just one positive exception: David, as the founder of the monarchy, is the only one to be referred to as a shepherd. God gave him the task of assembling a flock. Jahweh is the one and only true shepherd.
He guides his own people in person, aided only by his prophets. I just want to show a few themes typical of pastoral power. The shepherd wields power over a flock rather than over a land. Their gods owned the land, and this primary possession determined the relationship between men and gods. God gives, or promises, his flock a land. The shepherd gathers together, guides, and leads his flock. The idea that the political leader was to quiet any hostilities within the city and make unity reign over conflict is undoubtedly present in Greek thought. But what the shepherd gathers together is dispersed individuals.
Once the good Greek lawgiver, like Solon, has resolved any conflicts, what he leaves behind him is a strong city with laws enabling it to endure without him. The Greeks said also that the deity saved the city; they never stopped declaring that the competent leader is a helmsman warding his ship away from the rocks. But the way the shepherd saves his flock is quite different. The Greek god was asked to provide a fruitful land and abundant crops. And individualised kindness, too, for the shepherd sees that all the sheep, each and every one of them, is fed and saved.
Later Hebrew literature, especially, laid the emphasis on such individually kindly power: a rabbinical commentary on Exodus explains why Jahweh chose Moses to shepherd his people: he had left his flock to go and search for one lost sheep. The shepherd has a target for his flock. It must either be led to good grazing ground or brought back to the fold. The Greek leader had naturally to make decisions in the interest of all; he would have been a bad leader had he preferred his personal interest.
But his duty was a glorious one: even if in war he had to give up his life, such a sacrifice was offset by something extremely precious: immortality. He never lost.
Everything the shepherd does is geared to the good of his flock. When they sleep, he keeps watch. The theme of keeping watch is important. First, he acts, he works, he puts himself out, for those he nourishes and who are asleep. Second, he watches over them. He pays attention to them all and scans each one of them. These are just themes that Hebraic texts associate with the metaphors of the Shepherd-God and his flock of people.
In no way do I claim that that is effectively how political power was wielded in Hebrew society before the fall of Jerusalem. I do not even claim that such a conception of political power is in any way coherent. Paradoxical, even contradictory, ones. Christianity was to give them considerable importance, both in the Middle Ages and in modern times. Among all the societies in history, ours - I mean, those that came into being at the end of Antiquity on the Western side of the European continent - have perhaps been the most aggressive and the most conquering; they have been capable of the most stupefying violence, against themselves as well as against others.
They invented a great many different political forms. They profoundly altered their legal structures several times. It must be kept in mind that they alone evolved a strange technology of power treating the vast majority of men as a flock with a few as shepherds. They thus established between them a series of complex, continuous, and paradoxical relationships. This is undoubtedly something singular in the course of history. I can see the objections liable to be made. One is that the Homeric poems use the shepherd metaphor to refer to the kings.
It qualifies the leaders, highlighting the grandeur of their power. In Beowulf, the king is still regarded as a shepherd. But there is nothing really surprising in the fact that the same title, as in the Assyrian texts, is to be found in archaic epic poems. The problem arises rather as to Greek thought: There is at least one category of texts where references to shepherd models are made: the Pythagorean ones. The metaphor of the herdsman appears in the Fragments of Archytas, quoted by Stobeus. He must be full of zeal and solicitude, like a shepherd. Other commentators, such as Delatte, say that the comparison between gods, magistrates, and shepherds was common in Greece.
It is therefore not to be dwelt upon. I shall restrict myself to political literature. The results of the enquiry are clear: the political metaphor of the shepherd occurs neither in Isocrates, nor in Demosthenes, nor in Aristotle. Yet not a word as to any shepherd. By contrast, Plato often speaks of the shepherd-magistrate.
He mentions the idea in Critias, The Republic, and Laws. He thrashes it out in The Statesman. In the former, the shepherd theme is rather subordinate. But in The Statesman pastoral power is the central problem and it is treated at length. To solve this question he uses the division method. A distinction is drawn between the man who conveys orders to inanimate things e. And there we have the political leader: a shepherd of men. But this first division remains unsatisfactory.
It has to be pushed further. And so the dialogue starts all over again. And the dialogue wanders astray with these never-ending subdivisions. So, what do the initial development of the dialogue and its subsequent failure show? It also shows that the idea of analysing political power as the relationship between a shepherd and his animals was probably rather a controversial one at the time.
Was it a commonplace at the time? Or was Plato rather discussing one of the Pythagorean themes? The absence of the shepherd metaphor in other contemporary political texts seems to tip the scale towards the second hypothesis. But we can probably leave the discussion open. My personal enquiry bears upon how Plato impugns the theme in the rest of the dialogue. He does so first by means of methodological arguments and then by means of the celebrated myth of the world revolving round its spindle.
The methodological arguments are extremely interesting. Whether the king is a sort of shepherd or not can be told, not by deciding which different species can form a flock, but by analysing what the shepherd does. What is characteristic of his task? First, the shepherd is alone at the head of his flock.
Second, his job is to supply his cattle with food; to care for them when they are sick; to play them music to get them together, and guide them; to arrange their intercourse with a view to the finest offspring. So we do find the typical shepherd-metaphor themes of Oriental texts. Like the shepherd, he is alone at the head of the city. But, for the rest, who provides mankind with food? The king? The farmer, the baker do. Who looks after men when they are sick? The physician. And who guides them with music? The gymnast — not the king. Plato therefore resorts to the myth of the world revolving round its axis in two successive and contrary motions.
In a first phase, each animal species belonged to a flock led by a Genius-Shepherd. The human flock was led by the deity itself. It could lavishly avail itself of the fruits of the earth; it needed no abode; and after Death, men came back to life. For they had been given fire. Not at all. His job was to weave a strong fabric for the city. Not impugned entirely, however.
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Plato did admit that the physician, the farmer, the gymnast, and the pedagogue acted as shepherds. He said so explicitly: how would the politician ever find the time to come and sit by each person, feed him, give him concerts, and care for him when sick? Only a god in a Golden Age could ever act like that; or again, like a physician or pedagogue, be responsible for the lives and development of a few individuals. But, situated between the two — the gods and the swains — the men who hold political power are not to be shepherds.
In short, the political problem is that of the relation between the one and the many in the framework of the city and its citizens. The pastoral problem concerns the lives of individuals. All this seems very remote, perhaps. The reason for my insisting on these ancient texts is that they show us how early this problem — or rather, this series of problems — arose. They span the entirety of Western history. They are still highly important for contemporary society.
It must be recognised for what it is: one of the extremely numerous reappearances of the tricky adjustment between political power wielded over legal subjects and pastoral power wielded over live individuals. I have obviously no intention whatsoever of recounting the evolution of pastoral power throughout Christianity.
The immense problems this would raise can easily be imagined: from doctrinal problems, such as Christ's denomination as 'the good shepherd', right up to institutional ones, such as parochial organisation, or the way pastoral responsibilities were shared between priests and bishops. All I want to do is bring to light two or three aspects I regard as important for the evolution of pastorship, i.
First of all, let us examine the theoretical elaboration of the theme in ancient Christian literature: Chrysostom, Cyprian, Ambrose, Jerome, and, for monastic life, Cassian or Benedict. The Hebrew themes are considerably altered in at least four ways: 1. First, with regard to responsibility. We saw that the shepherd was to assume responsibility for the destiny of the whole flock and of each and every sheep.
In the Christian conception, the shepherd must render an account — not only of each sheep, but of all their actions, all the good or evil they are liable to do, all that happens to them. Moreover, between each sheep and its shepherd Christianity conceives a complex exchange and circulation of sins and merits. The sheep's sin is also imputable to the shepherd. He'll have to render an account of it at the Last Judgement.
Conversely, by helping his flock to find salvation, the shepherd will also find his own. But by saving his sheep, he lays himself open to getting lost; so if he wants to save himself, he must needs run the risk of losing himself for others. If he does get lost, it is the flock that will incur the greatest danger. But let's leave all these paradoxes aside. My aim was just to underline the force and complexity of the moral ties binding the shepherd to each member of his flock.
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And what I especially wanted to underline was that such ties not only concerned individuals' lives, but the details of their actions as well. The second important alteration concerns the problem of obedience. In the Hebrew conception, God being a shepherd, the flock following him complies to his will, to his law.
Christianity, on the other hand, conceived the shepherd-sheep relationship as one of individual and complete dependence. This is undoubtedly one of the points at which Christian pastorship radically diverged from Greek thought. If a Greek had to obey, he did so because it was the law, or the will of the city.
If he did happen to follow the will of someone in particular a physician, an orator, a pedagogue , then that person had rationally persuaded him to do so. And it had to be for a strictly determined aim: to be cured, to acquire a skill, to make the best choice. In Christianity, the tie with the shepherd is an individual one. It is personal submission to him.
His will is done, not because it is consistent with the law, and not just as far as it is consistent with it, but, principally, because it is his will. Obedience is a virtue. This means that it is not, as for the Greeks, a provisional means to an end, but rather an end in itself. It is a permanent state; the sheep must permanently submit to their pastors: subditi. Christian pastorship implies a peculiar type of knowledge between the pastor and each of his sheep.
This knowledge is particular. It individualizes. That of each sheep must also be known. The theme existed long before there was Christian pastorship, but it was considerably amplified in three different ways: the shepherd must be informed as to the material needs of each member of the flock and provide for them when necessary. He must know what is going on, what each of them does — his public sins. Last and not least, he must know what goes on in the soul of each one, that is, his secret sins, his progress on the road to sainthood.
In order to ensure this individual knowledge, Christianity appropriated two essential instruments at work in the Hellenistic world: selfexamination and the guidance of conscience. It took them over, but not without altering them considerably. The guidance of conscience was also predominant in certain cultured circles, but as advice given — and sometimes paid for — in particularly difficult circumstances: in mourning, or when one was suffering a setback.
Christian pastorship closely associated these two practices. Being guided was a state and you were fatally lost if you tried to escape it. The ever-quoted phrase runs like this: he who suffers not guidance withers away like a dead leaf. As for self-examination, its aim was not to close self-awareness in upon itself, but to enable it to open up entirely to its director — to unveil to him the depths of the soul. There are a great many first-century ascetic and monastic texts concerning the link between guidance and self-examination that show how crucial these techniques were for Christianity and how complex they had already become.
What I would like to emphasise is that they delineate the emergence of a very strange phenomenon in Greco-Roman civilisation, that is, the organisation of a link between total obedience, knowledge of oneself, and confession to someone else. There is another transformation — maybe the most important. Mortification is not death, of course, but it is a renunciation of this world and of oneself: a kind of everyday death. A death which is supposed to provide life in another world.
This is not the first time we see the shepherd theme associated with death; but here it is other than in the Greek idea of political power. It is not a sacrifice for the city; Christian mortification is a kind of relation from oneself to oneself. It is a part, a constitutive part of the Christian self-identity.
We can say that Christian pastorship has introduced a game that neither the Greeks nor the Hebrews imagined. A strange game whose elements are life, death, truth, obedience, individuals, self-identity; a game which seems to have nothing to do with the game of the city surviving through the sacrifice of the citizens.
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Our societies proved to be really demonic since they happened to combine those two. As you may notice, what I have been trying to do this evening is not to solve a problem but to suggest a way to approach a problem. This problem is similar to those I have been working on since my first book about insanity and mental illness. As I told you previously, this problem deals with the relations between experiences like madness, illness, transgression of laws, sexuality, self-identity knowledge like psychiatry, medicine, criminology, sexology, psychology , and power such as the power which is wielded in psychiatric and penal institutions, and in all other institutions which deal with individual control.
Our civilisation has developed the most complex system of knowledge, the most sophisticated structures of power: what has this kind of knowledge, this type of power made of us? In what way are those fundamental experiences of madness, suffering, death, crime, desire, individuality connected, even if we are not aware of it, with knowledge and power?
II I have tried to show how primitive Christianity shaped the idea of a pastoral influence continuously exerting itself on individuals and through the demonstration of their particular truth. And I have tried to show how this idea of pastoral power was foreign to Greek thought despite a certain number of borrowings such as practical selfexamination and the guidance of conscience.
I would like at this time, leaping across many centuries, to describe another episode which has been in itself particularly important in the history of this government of individuals by their own verity. This instance concerns the formation of the state in the modern sense of the word.
If I make this historical connection it is obviously not in order to suggest that the aspect of pastoral power disappeared during the ten great centuries of Christian Europe, Catholic and Roman, but it seems to me that this period, contrary to what one might expect, has not been that of the triumphant pastorate. And that is true for several reasons: some are of an economic nature - the pastorate of souls is an especially urban experience, difficult to reconcile with the poor and extensive rural economy at the beginning of the Middle Ages. The other reasons are of a cultural nature: the pastorate is a complicated technique which demands a certain level of culture, not only on the part of the pastor but also among his flock.
Other reasons relate to the sociopolitical structure. Feudality developed between individuals a tissue of personal bonds of an altogether different type than the pastorate. I do not wish to say that the idea of a pastoral government of men disappeared entirely in the medieval church. It has, indeed, remained and one can even say that it has shown great vitality. Two series of facts tend to prove this.
First, the reforms which had been made in the Church itself, especially in the monastic orders — the different reforms operating successively inside existing monasteries — had the goal of restoring the rigor of pastoral order among the monks themselves. As for the newly created orders — Dominican and Franciscan — essentially they proposed to perform pastoral work among the faithful. The Church tried ceaselessly during successive crises to regain its pastoral functions.
But there is more. In the population itself one sees all during the Middle Ages the development of a long series of struggles whose object was pastoral power. Critics of the Church which fails in its obligations reject its hierarchical structure, look for the more or less spontaneous forms of community in which the flock could find the shepherd it needed. This search for pastoral expression took on numerous aspects, at times extremely violent struggles as was the case for the Vaudois, sometimes peaceful quests as among the Freres de la Vie community.
It happened that these movements were close to heresy, as among the Beghards, at times stirring orthodox movements which dwelt within the bosom of the Church like that of the Italian Oratorians in the fifteenth century. I raise all of this in a very allusive manner in order to emphasise that if the pastorate was not instituted as an effective, practical government of men during the Middle Ages, it has been a permanent concern and a stake in constant struggles. There was across the entire period of the Middle Ages a yearning to arrange pastoral relations among men and this aspiration affected both the mystical tide and the great millenarian dreams.
Nor do I intend to go into the different economic, social, and political processes from which they stem. Neither do I want to analyse the different institutions or mechanisms with which states equipped themselves in order to ensure their survival. I mentioned this in my first lecture. Rather than wonder whether aberrant state power is due to excessive rationalism or irrationalism, I think it would be more appropriate to pin down the specific type of political rationality the state produced. The striking thing is that the rationality of state power was reflective and perfectly aware of its specificity.
It was not tucked away in spontaneous, blind practices. It was not brought to light by some retrospective analysis. It was formulated especially in two sets of doctrine: the reason of state and the theory of police. These two phrases soon acquired narrow and pejorative meanings, I know. But for the or years during which modern states were formed, their meaning was much broader than now.
The doctrine of reason of state attempted to define how the principles and methods of state government differed, say, from the way God governed the world, the father his family, or a superior his community. These rules do not simply pertain to customs or traditions, but to knowledge - rational knowledge. But at the time, what people had in mind was a rationality specific to the art of governing states. From where does this specific art of government draw its rationale? The answer to this question provokes the scandal of nascent political thought.
Now, to state such a platitude is to break with a simultaneously Christian and judiciary tradition, a tradition which claimed that government was essentially just. It respected a whole system of laws: human laws; the law of nature; divine law.
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There is a quite significant text by St. Thomas on these points. The king must found cities just as God created the world; just as the soul gives form to the body. The king must also lead men towards their finality, just as God does for natural beings, or as the soul does, when directing the body. No; a steward would suffice. Not even that; for only a teacher would be needed. Man needs someone capable of opening up the way to heavenly bliss through his conformity, here on earth, to what is honesturn. As we can see, the model for the art of government is that of God imposing his laws upon his creatures.
And so we can understand the religious scandal aroused by such a type of research. It explains why reason of state was assimilated to atheism. Reason of state is also opposed to another tradition. The aim of such an art of governing is precisely not to reinforce the power a prince can wield over his domain. Its aim is to reinforce the state itself. This is one of the most characteristic features of all the definitions that the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries put forward. Rational government is this, so to speak: given the nature of the state, it can hold down its enemies for an indeterminate length of time.
It can only do so if it increases its own strength. And its enemies do likewise. The state whose only concern would be to. This idea is a very important one. It is bound up with a new historical outlook. Indeed, it implies that states are realities which must needs hold out for an indefinite length of historical time — and in a disputed geographical area.
Government is only possible if the strength of the state is known; it can thus be sustained. The strength and capacities of the other states must also be known. There's a problem loading this menu right now. Learn more about Amazon Prime. Get fast, free delivery with Amazon Prime. Back to top. Get to Know Us. Amazon Payment Products. English Choose a language for shopping. Length: 19 pages. Enhanced Typesetting: Enabled. Page Flip: Enabled. Language: German. Amazon Music Stream millions of songs. Amazon Advertising Find, attract, and engage customers. Amazon Drive Cloud storage from Amazon.
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