Why is Social Theory So
‘Difficult’
Social
theory is a complex area. Many students will
already be aware that it contains strands
based on the work of different individual
thinkers, or organised around different
‘perspectives’, ‘approaches’, ‘paradigms’ or
‘schools’ (such as marxism, functionalism,
interactionism, the ‘Chicago School’ and so
on). At the risk of making things seem even
more complex, though, I want to begin my
discussions by suggesting there are
different ‘levels’ or ‘locations’ for social
theory too.
Other commentators have
identified different ‘levels’ for social
theory before – some people think of theory
as divided in to ‘classical’ and ‘recent’
types, for example (see Ritzer 1996). Waters
(1994) sees theory as split according to its
intentions into ‘formal’, ‘substantive’ and
‘positivistic’ types. Others have identified
an underlying evolution of theory, from
object-related to metatheory, or from
practice-dominated to reflection-dominated
types. However, it is by no means easy to
simply see the relations as evolutionary,
with smooth progressions over time. The
relation between classical and modern types
of theory, for example, can involve
selective interpretation, forgetting,
restatements, announcements of new
beginnings and so on – see Bourdieu on ‘How
to Read an Author’ (Bourdieu 2000). When we
discuss Lyotard,we might find the notion of
‘paralogy’ useful too (Lyotard 1984) (and
see file).
My
classification is different, though, based
on what might appear to be an immediate and
important social division for the student.
At
one level, social theory is performed and
disseminated by individual ‘great thinkers’
or specialist theorists, but at another,
social theory is an academic subject in a
definite location – the university. This
later level has its own structuring effects
on social theory, I shall be arguing.
To
illustrate the point about levels, the
classic tradition in sociology usually
includes the ‘founding fathers’ such as
Durkheim, or Marx, and one common device is
to see these thinkers as founding ‘schools’
or developing ‘perspectives’ as above. It is
common to structure courses and textbooks
around such perspectives. This helps
pedagogues (teachers and writers) organise
academic histories and debates, but one of
the many questions raised by such schemes
can be detected immediately, perhaps – did
each great thinker found a school or
‘perspective’, and if not, where do the
isolated individuals fit? (Often, for
example, Weber plays a series of walk-on
parts, as a kind of ‘action theorist’, as an
organisational theorist, or as a theorist of
social class and so on, rather than as a
founder of a distinct approach or school).
Another question arises quickly here too --
does everyone fit into a ‘perspective’ like
this (one controversy surrounded the
location of feminism, for example)? Where
should we place current writers, academics
and intellectuals such as Baudrillard,
Bourdieu, Eco, Featherstone, Giddens,
Grossberg, Habermas, Hall, Jameson or
Morris?
Current social theory at the most general
level goes on outside the neat divisions of
school syllabi, and sometimes outside of
actual universities for that matter, at
high-powered international and prestigious
conferences as well as via best-selling
publications or in journals. The titans of
social theory meet, discuss and publish
their work at an apparently ‘pure’ level,
where arguments are pursued for their own
sake, following internally-set agendas of
relevance and interest, with no apparent
ulterior motives, no particular anxieties to
justify their ‘quality’ to exterior bodies,
and no obvious desire to maintain
institutional, national or subject matter
boundaries. Given the current isolation of
social theorists from power, at least in the
UK, there are no obvious (conventional)
political implications either. Hints of this
sort of activity also appear in textbooks,
as arguments ebb and flow apparently in a
purely logical or theoretical way –
although, from my limited experience,
textbook writing also features other
important constraints as well.
However, social theory also has a much more
mundane and workaday existence, based in
universities and colleges, as a taught
element in broad courses in social science.
These courses are assessed and bear public
awards. Here, the mediators and
representatives of social theory are likely
to be paid academics and pedagogues, working
in institutions that, in Britain at least,
have increasingly strong constraints placed
upon their activities.
Social theory courses certainly are
constructed in definite institutional
contexts. They develop according to a number
of interwoven agendas, of which the pursuit
of theory ‘for its own sake’ is but one, and
where the freedom of the course designer is
limited by a number of institutional
factors, ranging from the nature of the
teaching system and its organization (as a
modular scheme, perhaps, with a volatile
student ‘market’, and with particular forms
of student assessment), to the type of
faculty structure and policies affecting the
distribution of work and the organisation of
collective course design and teaching (
single- or multi-disciplinary, for example.
There are also academic conventions to
consider, the need to make a course
‘balanced’, ‘up-to-date’, ‘rigorous’ and
assessable.
Social theory
courses are also received rather
differently in the two spheres I have
outlined. Social theory at the grand,
‘pure’, international level is pursued by
those with definite interests in theory,
either as fellow researchers and theorists
or, even these days, as more general
intellectuals who may not actually be
employed by universities but who have an
interest as journalists, writers or even
as artists of various kinds. As I have
implied, that constituency used to contain
politicians, even in Britain. Members of
such audiences are not, of course, tested
on their retention of the main concepts,
are not necessarily treated as
intellectual or social inferiors, and are
expected to impose their own agendas and
interests on the topics they have
discussed. The reverse applies at the
institutional level.
There is a strong
status distinction between the activity of
reading or hearing social theory in the
two settings, and this is perhaps one
reason why the institutional setting is so
little discussed as a problem for social
theory. In the professional ideologies of
academics, it is common to see the
practice of actually teaching social
theory as a lesser task, a low-status
necessity which funds the loftier activity
of doing social theory at conferences.
Some colleagues try and gloss the
differences between the two levels I have
outlined, so that for them teaching a
social theory course is (or ought to be)
the same as giving a paper at an
international conference, however restive
or distracted the actual audience becomes.
Such ideologies
are comforting, and I have certainly
indulged in these occupational fantasies
myself, but I want to argue that the
institutional level is important as a
factor in its own right. To put this in a
contentious way, one serious source of
difficulty with social theory is that it
has often become institutionalized,
dominated by the requirements of a
‘suitable education’ with its concepts of
‘proper standards’, its notions of
‘coverage’ or ‘depth’, and, above all, its
requirements to generate acceptable
distributions of student grades. ‘Pure’
social theory is difficult enough to
understand, but institutionalizing it can
compound the problems.
To be fair, and
to acknowledge the often heroic efforts of
my fellow teachers, institutionalized
social theory can offer students some
solutions to the problems of ‘pure’ theory
too. The whole structure of academic
courses assumes that newcomers need help
to grasp the principles, and that is why
we design special teaching sequences or
special materials to mediate between
students and the originals. I am no
exception here – my mediating materials
attached to this book take the form of the
‘reading guides’ on my website..
However, there is
always a price: any teaching system will
make life easier for some students and, at
the same time, more difficult for others.
With that paradox in mind, let us begin
our discussion with some thoughts about
the most likely form of encounter with
social theory for most people -- not as
participants in an international
conference but as students on social
theory courses in an educational
institution. Let us begin with a look
‘behind the scenes’, at the work of the
course designer.
Designing
Social
Theory Courses
If my experience
is anything to go by, social theory
courses are widely regarded as ‘difficult’
by both parties involved in the business
of teaching and learning. Staff or faculty
find the field notoriously difficult to
pin down and face an early question --
what is appropriate social theory? Of
course, this is a constant question in the
wider politics of sociology -- national
politicians, especially in Britain, have
continually asked about the relevance and
place of ‘theory’ in a modern education
system, often in a way which implies a
suspicion of political bias. Courses which
feature marxist theory will have obvious
problems here, but the whole area of
social theory is chronically likely to be
seen as subversive or frivolous:
‘...students... in such fringe subjects as
media studies and sociology, absorb
limited resources which could go to help
children with innate potential from lower
income and educational strata’ (Sherman
1996).
At the more local
institutional level too, theory courses
have to find a place amid competing
courses which look more ‘vocationally
relevant’ or ‘practical’, as colleges and
universities become more ‘market
orientated’ and as accountants and
managers increasingly affect policies.
Student ‘choice’ can have an impact too,
producing a drift towards courses which
just seem more familiar, and thus easier
and less demanding. There is also a
tendency for disciplines such as
geography, history or English to develop
versions of social theory within their own
frameworks. In all these cases, at the
institutional level, the self-sufficiency
of social theory, or its claims to be
embedded best within sociology, come to be
questioned, implicitly if not openly.
These
institutional matters are not easily
solved by an appeal to an authoritative
tradition or public consensus among
experts. Social theory has always been a
contested field, with powerful rival
approaches, and a good deal of reflexive
critical commentary about the rival merits
and limits of each approach. As everyone
must be aware, for example, there has been
a recent upsurge of radical debate with,
and criticism of, ‘postmodernism’. The
most popular versions of the
‘postmodernist crisis’ refer to serious
and detailed doubts about the fundamental
(or ‘foundational’) claims of social
theory, to deliver some organizing ‘grand
narrative’ and to offer some kind of
emancipation (in thought if not in
political practice), somehow on behalf of
‘humanity’ or ‘the people’, or in some
other universal interest. For the
radicals, this sort of searching critique
has led to a complete abandonment of the
usual kinds of social theory as an attempt
to make sense of the current social scene.
The notion of the
‘end of the social’ (see, for example,
Smart 1993) means, among other things, the
disappearance of the classic social
conditions which spawned sociology (and
marxism), and which shaped social life and
culture -- the controlling influence of
shared beliefs and institutional practices
which supported them, or the overwhelming
constraints of the ‘mode of production’,
or of some unstoppable grinding
rationalization of social life. In the
postmodern era, it is argued, we have new
forms of culture and identity, far less
constrained by these social conditions,
with their own dynamics and autonomous
impulses, and so the old classic
sociological (or Freudian, or semiotic, or
political) explanations and ‘grand
narratives’ no longer apply.
This specific and
internal sort of crisis can reveal how
designers of sociology courses have to
cope (enquiries from national politicians
about political bias can be handled
differently). The challenge of
postmodernism is by no means the first, of
course – similarly radical challenges have
come from marxism, various approaches in
linguistic philosophy, or feminism, which
have all announced the redundancy of all
earlier theory. Of course, redundancy is a
word with institutional and personal
implications too, and it is not surprising
to find teachers of social theory wanting
to carry on with the older work, whatever
the radicals argue. Crises like these
often have to be contained or (concealed
or otherwise ‘managed’), in other words,
in the practical business of teaching
social theory in sociology or other
courses. A number of options to structure
syllabuses can help here:
1. The
‘museum’
approach, where classical social theory,
the work of the ‘founding fathers’ is
displayed as a matter of necessary
historical interest. As with all the best
museums these days, any dry and dusty
material can be made more palatable with
modern ‘applications’. These can tend to
gloss the issue of the continued relevance
of classical approaches: Durkheim can be
profitably employed, no doubt, to discuss
modern forms of social solidarity, (see
Alexander 1988) or Weber to offer insights
into Japanese business practices (Ritzer 1994),
but it is never quite clear why they
should be so employed instead of anyone
else. Sometimes there can be an implicit
‘generationalism’ in this approach too,
whereby older approaches are simply
assumed to be less relevant, and where
‘recent’ means ‘good’ or ‘more powerful’.
Such generationalism can work in reverse
too, when old hands smilingly shake their
heads at new fashions such as
postmodernism.
2. The
‘filing
cabinet’ approach, to borrow a term from
Craib (1992), where options are simply
displayed in a kind of list, like files in
a directory. A syllabus often provides the
rationale for the sequences. With this
sort of list structure, there is often no
real attempt to offer any guidance about
how to choose between the options, merely
a succession of options, each one equally
plausible (officially at least -- in
practice it is often difficult to avoid
quietly privileging personal favourites).
This kind of indifference can be useful
critically, of course, to question the
more imperialist claims of some of the
approaches to have replaced alternatives.
This approach can also produce
difficulties for students in that the
sequences can look arbitrary – people’s
filing systems rarely make sense to anyone
else.
3. ‘Asset-stripping’,
where
social theory is apparently subordinated
to over-riding goals, including things we
have mentioned already (like ‘vocational
relevance’), but also to political
commitments of various kinds (in the
broadest sense). Thus if we expect
practitioners in a field like youth work
to be socially activist and critical, we
might find ourselves drawn into a working
sympathy with certain kinds of marxism or
feminism. Social theory is deeply
implicated with the most vocational or
practical courses, of course, even though
it might not be foregrounded as a topic
for discussion. Thus any critical debate
can rapidly head towards examining
implicit theoretical frameworks, concepts
and assumptions. There can be a tendency
to try and limit such debate, though, in
the name of ‘practicality’ or
‘professional relevance’, or to introduce
only those elements of theory that support
or justify a political position.
Of course, some
institutional limits are essential given
the competition for resources at the level
of course design, and there are good
pedagogical reasons for structure of some
kind too. Our job as theorists and
researchers might involve us in some
open-ended pursuit of knowledge, but as
pedagogues (and as textbook writers), we
have what might be seen as a ‘contract’
with students to deliver some structure,
some guidance, to limit uncertainty. In
the professional world of the pedagogue,
it is still common to talk of setting
definite and limited objectives that
students can achieve at the end of the
course, for example, or of offering
material at a suitable ‘level of
difficulty’.
More generally
and informally, the purpose of doing
social theory is rarely discussed among
teaching staff, in my experience at least,
in terms of producing first-rate
theorists. Instead, a certain limited
mastery is seen as a ‘good thing’,
sometimes in order to help students
understand more ‘relevant’ material (on
social inequality, say), and sometimes
more generally, as enhancing intellectual
capacities, or as introducing students to
the high-status ‘core’ of sociology. Staff
will also talk in terms of the need to
play an academic game or to demonstrate
certain desirable and high-status
qualities like managing abstract
knowledge, or delivering some kind of
participation in an elite activity
dominated by high-powered intellectuals.
At our most cynical, we are also aware of
the need to demonstrate our ‘commitment to
academic standards’, at least on those
occasions when we are inspected, and there
is nothing like a tough-looking social
theory course to do that. Equally
cynically, we know that students will
expect an easier ride in practice, that we
will have to attract suitable numbers for
our course by avoiding any suspicion that
it is ‘too difficult’, and that we will
have to deliver student gradings that are
both fair and acceptable.
Indeed the
grading of students is one of the most
important tasks affecting course design.
It could be argued that if we did not have
to grade students, we would simply not
have to structure and manage social theory
at all in the ways we do. Many of the
apparently independent design procedures I
mentioned briefly above (setting
objectives, getting the right ‘level’ and
so on) are driven to a large extent by the
need to grade students in a publicly
defensible way. Course design follows a
curious career, where academics set out
formal syllabuses and official student
teaching and assessment schemes, and then
treat these as external constraints,
problems to be dealt with when it comes to
‘getting students through’. At the most
obvious level, for example, a grading
system that rewards detailed but limited
knowledge of isolated topics (as most do)
is likely to produce some pressure towards
a ‘filing cabinet’ approach (and perhaps a
more detailed ‘bullet point’ technique for
individual topics). Yes
of course I am aware that I am using a
bullet-point approach here too!
There is often a
professional reluctance to give grading
its proper place as a key activity in our
practice as academics, but the importance
of grading comes through very clearly when
we turn to the problems students face with
social theory.
Coping
With
Social Theory Courses
Students find it
hard to get involved in what often seems
like an alien world of impenetrable jargon
and obscure argument, but although we can
sympathize, we need to be able to try and
diagnose the difficulties a little. A
common institutional response, for
example, is to suggest some sort of course
in ‘study skills’. We will discuss some of
the options in more detail below, but for
now it seems important to begin with an
examination of some typical concrete
difficulties which students experience. I
have no systematic research to offer her,
but my experience suggests that students
encounter a range of problems, not all of
which are endemic to social theory as
such.
For example, I
sometimes ask my student to read a short
piece of an article or a chapter and to
note exactly when they begin to have
difficulties. Some report difficulties
with words such as ‘vicissitudes’ or
‘bifurcation’, (to cite a recent example),
and tend to record their problems in terms
of ‘sociological jargon’. However, these
words are not particularly confined to
social theory, of course, but feature in a
particular style of writing found widely
in ‘educated English’. In my view, many
reported difficulties with the ‘style’ of
social theory are of a similar nature --
they are really difficulties with complex
English, with its structure of subordinate
clauses and parentheses, for example.
There are
problems with the style of ‘educated
English’, its habit of impersonal and
detached writing, the ways in which
different ‘voices’ sound in it, as when
Giddens summarizes Dahrendorf on Weber,
for example. Finally, there are
difficulties sometimes in grasping a sense
of context or in identifying an intended
audience. Students get disappointed and
annoyed if a writer fails to address them
and their interests directly and
immediately in the ways to which they have
become accustomed on other courses: they
sometimes seem to expect Marx or Weber to
have written in the manner of a modern
textbook or handout. Even deliberately
constructed teaching materials, such as
those devised by the UK Open University,
usually have in mind an audience of
academic colleagues as well as students,
though (see Harris 1987 for some
examples).
These sorts of
problems are interesting in that they
require more than the usual ‘study skills’
to make progress with them (we pursue this
in the next
Introductory file). They have also
attracted some sociological commentary in
their own right, of course, with strong
echoes of the classic work of Bernstein
(see Atkinson 1985), say, on the
‘elaborated codes’ of ‘school English’ and
the difficulties faced by British working
class speakers of ‘restricted codes’.
There are also several famous studies of
the problems faced by members of
‘non-mainstream’ linguistic communities
like native Americans (Dumont and Wax
1971) or African-Americans (Brice-Heath
1986) on entering school systems. At the level of
higher education, the work of Bourdieu
(1988) on the academic ‘habitus’ with its
‘high aesthetic’ and its unconscious
structure of judgement and
distinction-making seems promising, as we
shall see. These analyses not only help us
to appreciate the wider context of
‘difficulties with theory’ (the classic
location of high-status knowledge and
language, and an elitist activity, hence a
major site for academic distinctions), but
also provide some stimulating
possibilities about what might be done to
overcome some of these difficulties – see
next file.
At the
institutional level, context becomes
important again, as soon as concrete
difficulties are explored. Students will
frequently refer to pressures of time, for
example, preventing them from reading in
sufficient depth.. There are more
recognisable and concrete demands placed
upon students in their outside lives as
well, which can take an acute form with
female married mature students who are
expected to look after families before settling
down to the ‘private’ activity of reading
social theory (see Morgan 1993). Again, it
is convenient to partition these concrete
problems as ‘welfare’ matters quite
separate from ‘study skills’, but the two
are often inseparable for students who
find themselves quite unable to
concentrate on Weber’s critique of
functionalism if they are worried about
childcare or if they are exhausted from
having worked the night-shift at the local
fast food outlet. To cite a recent real
discussion again, the Student Union at my
College suggested that supplying
additional laundry facilities would
produce a higher return on investment than
employing more academic counsellors.
Sometimes,
complaints about ‘pressures’
should be read as a symptom of
something deeper. As Bourdieu seems aware,
‘pressures of time’ is a coded way of
referring to problems engendered by
clashes between a student’s
socially-located ‘dispositions’ and those
of academic life (see chapter 8 in
Bourdieu 1986). Another important area
indexed by complaints about ‘pressures of
time’ is student grading and assessment
again: to cite the findings from a study I
once undertook (with others), students who
had dropped out from the UK Open
University commonly referred to external
pressures as the reason for their
decision, but expressed no wish to
re-enter the system even if the pressures
were resolved. Sometimes, they seemed to
mean that the whole process was just
taking up far more time than they thought
it should for a ‘proper’ student, or that
the time they were spending still did not
deliver the grades they wanted.
The pressure
induced by student assessment has long
been recognized in classic studies of
student ‘instrumentalism’ (such as Becker
et al 1995). More recent studies of
student ‘approaches’ to their work have
also suggested that assessment tasks can
induce a superficial ‘surface approach’ to
knowledge, one which stresses ‘memorizing
details, with the emphasis on assimilation
of knowledge and information, and an
external emphasis on assessment tasks’
(Morgan 1993: 77). A dependence upon the
teacher and on the syllabus also follows
this approach – students have no other way
to gain access to the arguments, no ways
to structure material for themselves.
Assessment practices can completely
reverse the lofty emphases upon
independent thought in social theory
courses, yet it is not uncommon for
teachers to spend hours devising suitable
teaching strategies while thinking little
of student assessment and its unintended
effects.
Every participant
can surely see that an onerous assessment
system demanding fairly trivial operations
will rapidly drive students into demanding
nicely institutionalized, instantly
accessible social theory in the form of
quick fixes, bullet points or stylised
debates. Such a system can also produce a
definite compartmentalisation, as elements
of courses are omitted by coping
strategies of ‘selective neglect’ (Becker
et al 1995). Meeting student demands for
compartmentalised courses which help them
directly with their assessment
requirements completes the vicious circle.
This
compartmentalising tendency is found
throughout the famous textbooks that many
of us meet at schools or in introductory
sociology courses. Those texts feature a
management strategy that clearly (and very
successfully) bears in mind the main
assessment tasks to be faced by students
-- the need primarily to ‘get through’, to
produce just a few discrete examination
answers (as in the English sociology
A-level exam). Strange incoherencies can
result.
It is common, for
example, to see debates in sociology
structured around the old tension between
‘approaches’ like ‘structure’ and
‘action’, for example, which fits topics
like sociological methods, or discussions
of deviancy (especially of suicide), yet
when discussing stratification (say) it is
more common to structure debate quite
separately, around rival claims made by
Marx and Weber. However, it might be
interesting to ask whether the split
between Marx and Weber could also be read
as an example of the apparently universal
‘structure/action’ split, or, conversely,
why the ‘structure/action’ split does not
appear in discussions of stratification in
the same way as it seems to in discussions
of methodology, or, indeed, why Marx and
Weber do not appear to have a prominent
place in discussions of methodology -- did
Marx not have a methodology? Questions
like these would only distract the
instrumental student, of course.
There is indeed a
whole industry devoted to getting people
through examinations, involving writing
textbooks, editing journals, and providing
specimen answers, often by those who have
designed or examined the relevant syllabus
(see Selfe 1993 for a classic example).
Nothing illustrates better the ways in
which assessment practices can dominate
the apparently neutral, natural or ‘pure’
discussions of topics, as the very
opposite of what is normally thought of as
the real relationship.
Much pedagogic
practice at the level of higher education
reveals similar qualities, I have already
suggested. Distance education systems like
the UK’s Open University offer student
‘study guides’ and ‘revision materials’
which often contain frank advice about
what can be left out, or feature a series
of less obvious structuring principles for
the production of assessable course
materials. I have identified and discussed
some of these techniques myself (Harris
1987). In more conventional institutions,
the same procedures can be seen as
underpinning some of the proposals of some
recently active ‘pedagogy mongers’, like
those advocating ‘effective teaching’
(Harris in Evans and Murphy 1993). There
are also some interesting rumours that
lecturers are increasingly simply
‘teaching to the test’.
If staff are
already processing, packaging and managing
materials for students with both general
‘educational’ and specific
assessment-oriented goals in mind, perhaps
students need only to learn to reproduce
these packaging principles of their
teachers? A
‘surface approach’ could become
institutionalized, with an even tighter
form of dependence for students: even
their ‘deviant’ coping strategies could be
topped and incorporated!
Such a
development would be a marvellous
case-study for a much wider debate still
under way in cultural studies, in fact.
This debate turns on the possibility of
individual subjects’ resistance to the
increasing powers of various culture or
entertainment ‘industries' (see Harris
1992 for my own contribution). I must say
my pessimistic conclusion here has been
influenced by that debate. But until the
loop finally closes between instrumental
teaching and ‘surface’ learning, there
still might be a possibility to both cope
with the demands of a syllabus and its
assessment and still be able to learn
something for yourself, so to speak. The next file
explores some ideas for pursuing this
project.
The
production
of social theory
It is possible to
suggest the same sort of layering in
theory itself, in the material, for
example, which exists outside of the
specific teaching material you will
encounter. My thinking here follows a
different model, one actually based on
Althusser’s work
on the production of
formal ideas (‘ideologies’ on the
one hand, and ‘scientific theories’ on the
other). Benton (1984) has a clear
discussion, if you want to research this
for yourselves: we shall simply cheerfully
borrow the bits that seem best to fit our
introductory discussion here. Briefly,
what we see in front of us in colleges, in
the actual books and other materials we
examine is the result of a definite
production process. Ideas have to be
produced, from raw materials, using
productive practices, in definite ‘modes
of production’. We can pursue this notion
to gain further insights.
Some classic
social theory, especially marxism, for
example, was developed independently of
any participation in formal teaching,
since Marx and Engels were freelance
intellectuals not university academics.
Durkheim and Weber were more attached to
college bases, but still developed their
ideas with more than the practices of
teaching in mind, and the current leading
theorists can probably claim the same
intentions. In other words, there is level
of theory before (or behind if you prefer)
institutional theory: we can think of this
as the raw material for college-based
social theory. It is important to remember
this material – it might help us realise
some of the limits of theory courses.
In order to
explore this further, let us construct a
much simplified and rather stylised
history of social theories and how they
might develop. I am not suggesting that
social theories all must necessarily
‘really’ develop like this, of course. It
is possible to identify three phases:
Stage One –
social theory and life experiences
Social theory
arises from the definite life experiences
(including political struggles and social
agendas) of individual theorists, from
their personal biographies but also from
the intellectual, political and social
climate in which they find themselves. As
an example, Marx developed his ideas
against an experience of social change and
exile, as he moved from Germany to France
and then to England. Several accounts
(such as McLellan 1973) trace the effects
of this journey in his theoretical
thinking as he came to see the importance
of new issues (the role of economic change
and the politics of the workers’ movements
in England), and as he came to realise the
limits of the old ways of thinking (say in
his work on German thought). Similar
accounts exist for Durkheim and his
responses to the changing political
circumstances of France, or Weber and the
results of his personal family background
and his subsequent career, according to
Ritzer (1994). Just about everyone else
could be included here as examples too --
Habermas has mentioned in interviews the
effects of his early life and career (see
Dews 1992), Foucault (1980) hints at his
own struggles and engagements and their
effects on his subsequent views, Ritzer
(1994) supplies a personal background to
his work on McDonaldisation – and so on.
We know from the work of these writers
themselves that ideas do not spring
immediately from the mind of the
individual thinker, that the stock of
experiences available clearly have an
effect (not a totally determining effect,
of course) – clearly their own ideas
cannot be exempt.
Stage Two –
systematization
As theory gets systematized,
though, it develops its own dynamics (it
enters into a definite mode of production,
if you wish). This can be hard to grasp
until you actually do some theory
yourselves, but it is a common experience
to find that the arguments take on a force
of their own, as it were. For example,
published work gets read and criticized by
other specialists. As a result, new
implications arise, and new possibilities
for research or for further interventions
into some debate. Theorists develop their
own work too, of course. In the next file, I
have discussed the concrete implications
of the work of Bourdieu and Habermas for
study skills, but the implications flow
the other way too, so to speak: can we see
the work on study skills as some kind of
test for the more general theory,
something that might lead to some
additional development of Habermas, say on
whether there is a ‘good
side’ of strategic communication in
colleges, for example?
Something else
can take place too -- new theoretical
objects can emerge which may have no
immediate connections with existing
empirical social reality. Modern physics
provides good examples, perhaps, with
fashionable developments like chaos theory
with its theoretical objects (produced by
mathematical theory) like ‘strange
attractors’. There are equally well-known
earlier examples too -- quarks, black
holes and the like – which have captured
the imagination of the public. There are
fascinating stories throughout the history
of physics concerning the attempts to find
empirical ways of measuring or detecting
these theoretical objects, and these
reveal that there is certainly no easy
correspondence between theoretical objects
and the ‘real world’. Nor does physics
wait for the real world to reveal itself,
so to speak: the manipulation of concepts
in mathematical ways produces new
theoretical objects. In many ways, that is
the whole point of the exercise – there
are systematic possibilities of novelty in
abstract mathematical manipulations.
Social theory can
operate in a similar way, to construct
theoretical objects as a result of the
application or development of concepts
rather than as generalizations from
experience. Students can have difficulties
if they do not realise this at first –
that Weberian ‘ideal types’, say, are not
the same as statistical types based on
purely empirical generalizations, or that
the marxist concept of ‘mode of
production’ did not derive exclusively
from, and cannot simply be ‘applied’ to,
empirical data about the economy of modern
Britain. Similarly, Durkheim’s discussion
of the functions of religion clearly
operates with a conception of religion
that exists, as he tells us, implicitly in
the actual religious practices of the
social group. Social theory operates like
this in describing some ‘virtual’ level
‘behind’, or ‘beneath’ the actual specific
level of concrete organizations and
practices.
An insistence
that theory has its own domain, in
sociology or marxism as much as in
physics, is sometimes unpopular, and there
is a chronic likelihood of confusion where
theoretical terms and everyday terms are
similar. This is perhaps one reason why
special terms have been developed in
social theory, of course – not to confuse,
bluff or mystify the beginner, as is so
often suspected, but to signal a special
theoretical use of a word. Sometimes these
signals can be too subtle, perhaps, like
the use of a lower-case ‘m’ for ‘marxism’
which signals an interest in the body of
concepts associated with a tradition,
rather than the specific writings of the
individual Karl Marx (some of which are
marxist but by no means all, it has been
argued).
Theoretical
implications can lead to extensions of
original concepts, but also to substantial
revisions of whole systems of concepts.
Theorists are especially open to
theoretical challenges, in ways which
non-theorists can find hard to grasp.
Discussing the impact of ‘postmodernism’
on social theory, say, with some of my
students can be revealing here. Why has
marxism or feminism become so
unfashionable they sometimes want to know.
Why is everyone reading the much stranger
work of Baudrillard or Deleuze instead?
Whereas I tend initially to think of these
changes in terms of a theoretical crisis
in the very foundations of
marxism, freudianism or feminism,
my students tend to think more in terms of
academics wanting to keep up with fashion,
sell out their radical commitments, or
open up some elitist distance between
those who can read Deleuze and those who
cannot. It can seem inexplicable to
abandon whole approaches because of a mere
theoretical problem, yet those abstract
theoretical problems can be decisive for
theorists themselves (often in conjunction
with other problems too, of course).
One of the most
detailed and thorough discussion of what
we have been calling ‘systematization’ is
found in Foucault (1974|) (and see file).
Foucault has a most ambitious project to
explain the emergence of specific and
sometimes conflicting ‘discourses’ (we can
think, for now, of academic disciplines
instead of this rather specialist term).
The argument is dense and turns on the
role of various ‘pre-discursive
formations’ and practices. To take just
one little element, Foucault writes about
the ways in which discourses (disciplines)
develop specific forms in relation to
various themes, implications which get
pursued and problems which arise. These
emerge within disciplines themselves and
in other disciplines: much development
work is devoted to clarifying relations of
similarity and difference between the
discipline in which one works, and those
of other specialists (‘concomitant
fields’), which may include some general
field of ‘science’ which one approves of,
or a rival field which one wishes to build
upon, replace, negate, incorporate or
divide.
Foucault’s own
examples refer to his interests in
clinical medicine, political economy and
linguistics, but something like this task
(but with different concepts) informed my
own work (Harris 1992), on the development
of ‘gramscianism’ in British cultural
studies, as it attempted to preserve some
admired discourse (a variant of marxism)
and identify itself with it, while
tackling and dismissing or incorporating
rivals.
Stage Three –
institutionalisation
The third stage
brings us back to the earlier discussion
-- social theory, as a product of
theoretical labour, gets institutionalised
in various schools, colleges or
universities. I think this is important
enough as a stage to separate it out from
the more general Stage Two above, since
many of the more general processes of
development and systematisation take place
in special circumstances. We have already
mentioned the effects of conventions,
customs, and structures of judgement at
this stage. Theory has to be domesticated,
and applied to respectable and
specifically educational ends, sometimes
despite the intentions of the original
theorists. This almost inevitably involves
a reduction of scope. The domestication of
marxism so that it becomes a mere ‘topic’
on an undergraduate course, or a mere
‘perspective’ in a textbook is perhaps the
best example, although I imagine most
writers would be amused or appalled to see
themselves reduced to six bullet points in
an examination crammer. I even have a
little experience to relate here on seeing
my own extensive, subtle and beautifully
crafted critique of the UK Open University
appearing as part of a rather dull and
limited assignment -- on an Open
University course!
Reductions and transformation like
this take place under the influence of
some of the pressures of course design we
have outlined – the need to be ‘balanced’,
to take into account other courses, to
provide assessable material and so on –
and, of course, not all of these
transformations are ‘bad’. Sometimes,
pedagogy actually works, and arguments
genuinely are made more accessible by
these processes, although there are always
the paradoxes of ‘access at a price’ that
we have mentioned.
One result, which can be ‘good’ or
‘bad’, is the shock which can be felt when
students encounter undomesticated ‘raw’
theory, if they read the original texts or
if they stray beyond the limits of a
course. Out there are books which are
clearly written as ongoing projects or
emerging thoughts, still struggling with
ideas and straying across the apparently
fixed boundaries of the ‘perspectives’.
There are even books written deliberately
in a style designed to resist or actively
to oppose the tendency to package ideas
nicely in a summarised form – the works of
Adorno, Barthes or Foucault immediately
spring to mind. It is not surprising that
many students prefer to remain within the
safety of a limited syllabus, a favoured
textbook, the mechanical accumulation
techniques of conventional study skills,
or the semi-deviant world of the ‘hidden
curriculum’.
For the course
designer there is also a choice to be
made. Much social theory refuses to be
domesticated, and all sorts of untidy
residuals from the originals persist.
There are often clearly ‘political’
sections and interests, lengthy,
specialist and ‘difficult’ theoretical
interludes, sometimes substantial
empirical sections requiring some
additional expertise beyond the reach of a
short ‘theory’ course, clear signs of
theoretical changes (from ‘early’ to
‘later’ works, for example), and, these
days especially, ‘poetic’ writings where
eminent professors deliberately let
language ‘play’ in their work.
Teachers can feel
themselves torn between their ‘contract’
to students and to colleagues (to provide
a manageable course at ‘the right level’)
and their wider obligations to their
subject and their peers (to provide the
‘real thing’). In courses, and in the
textbooks they write, many strive to do
both, to provide a framework that will
help students cope and gain understanding,
while at the same time somehow alluding to
something deeper, more open, more general,
less dependent on the immediate context of
the syllabus and the specific work of the
college.
It is hardly
surprising to find these tensions at work
in the materials students receive,
although it is also common never to
mention them to those students: in
academic work specifically, as in cultural
work more generally, it is somehow
inappropriate to reveal the process of
construction to the consumer. Yet student
confusions can deepen as a result of this
convention. To take one example, one UKOU
course was produced by a group of teachers
who disagreed rather profoundly precisely
about the issues we have been discussing.
To those in the know, the twists and turns
in the actual contents of the course
clearly reflected the course of this
(micro)political struggle, as first one
faction then the other took turns to
introduce their material, sometimes with
little regard for sections that had gone
before. Students remained baffled,
however, failed to read the coded
references to the underlying disputes, and
sometimes even blamed themselves for not
grasping the purely conceptual links
between the different sections!
Concluding
Thoughts
The example of
institutionalization gets to the heart of
some important debates and issues in
social science more generally, in fact.
The processes involved are examples of the
ways in which social life becomes
‘external’, ‘thing-like’ (‘objectified’ or
‘reified’ to use some sociological terms).
The arrangements you will encounter in
universities – the organization of
timetables, course structures, syllabi,
teaching systems, programmes of work and
assessment – are in one important sense
socially constructed. They are not
natural, immediately obvious or logically
binding ways of proceeding – instead, they
arise out of various detectable social
practices, from ‘ideas’ which are
expressed, then negotiated
and occasionally struggled over.
This process of
emergence from ideas and recognizably
localized expressions to a material phase
of apparently objective constraint is at
the heart of social life itself, of
course, and has led to much theoretical
elaboration and debate (which we are going
to extend a little in subsequent
sections). These debates operate, as
always, at a more general level, and touch
upon issues such as how best to
explain the externality of social life –
as a matter effectively of material
constraints or as the result of social
constructs, or even as some kind of
judicious combination
For participants
in institutions, these debates are
differently oriented. Ideas can take on a
personal force once institutionalized –
they can appear as constraints, that is
they are supported with sanctions of
various kinds (from those involving social
disapproval to those involving the
criminal law). Any competent social actor in any
institution faces the problem of knowing
where the practices in which they are
engaging stand in this continuum of
subjectivity and objectivity – are
practices still negotiable or are they
effectively fixed? When are rules best
renegotiated and when are they best simply
obeyed?
This sort of
contextual issue returns us to the opening
argument of this section: in ‘pure’
theory, we are free to pursue arguments
wherever they might lead, but practice
(especially the practices in educational
institutions) offers another dimension to
theoretical exploration: we have to do it
in institutionally approved ways, in
accordance with practices that we are
likely to experience as constraints.
Yet it is
necessary to end by stressing that the
constraints might not be as they appear at
first. University syllabi and teaching
systems are expected to be ‘open’ to a
certain degree, to permit some negotiation
and interaction within fairly loose
constraints. I have suggested that the
constraints might tighten as one moves
from teaching to assessment, but even here
the problem is complicated:
·
assessment requires you to show a
level of challenge, critique, debate and
questioning (‘optimal challenge’ it is
sometimes called), to answer questions but
also to do more, to show you are aware of
other possibilities or contexts
·
formal assessment is one aspect of
a more informal series of judgements being
made about you, which seem to include
matters like how you respond in seminars
or classes, how ‘involved’ you seem, how
enthusiastic you appear about the sorts of
debates and dilemmas that excite the
professionals (for example)
·
following the rules and constraints
of others entirely or completely makes for
a very dull experience of university life,
and it could well adversely affect your
motivation and your understanding.
In
the next file,
we can consider some implications of the
processes of institutionalisation more
generally.
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