From Agamben To Zizek - Jon Simons

From Agamben to Žižek
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From Agamben To Žižek
Contemporary Critical Theorists
Edited by Jon Simons
Edinburgh University Press
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© in this edition Edinburgh University Press, 2010
© in the individual contributions is retained by the authors
Edinburgh University Press Ltd

22 George Square, Edinburgh
www.euppublishing.com
Typeset in ITC New Baskerville

by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Stockport, Cheshire, and
printed and bound in Great Britain by
CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham and Eastbourne
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 0 7486 3973 1 (hardback)

ISBN 978 0 7486 3974 8 (paperback)
The right of Jon Simons

to be identified as editor of this work
has been asserted in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Contents
Acknowledgements vii
Notes on Contributors viii
Introduction 1
Jon Simons
1 Giorgio Agamben (1942–) 14

Paul Hegarty
2 Alain Badiou (1937–) 29
Benjamin Robinson
3 Zygmunt Bauman (1925–) 45
Peter Beilharz
4 Homi K. Bhabha (1949–) 60
David Huddart
5 Judith Butler (1956–) 77
Moya Lloyd
6 Cornelius Castoriadis (1922–97) 93
Caroline Williams
7 Green Critical Theorists 110
David Kidner
8 Donna J. Haraway (1944–) 127
Joan Faber McAlister
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Contents
9 Ernesto Laclau (1935–) and Chantal Mouffe (1943–) 144

Simon Tormey
10 Bruno Latour (1947–) 161
Ilana Gershon
11 Antonio Negri (1933–) 177
Arianna Bove
12 Jacques Rancière (1940–) 194
Samuel A. Chambers
13 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (1942–) 210
Stephen Morton
14 Paul Virilio (1932–) 227
John Armitage
15 Slavoj Žižek (1949–) 243
Matthew Sharpe
Names index 259

Subject index 263
vi
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Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the members of the Critical Theory team at the
University of Nottingham, as well as the contributors to the previ-
ous volumes in this series, From Kant to Lévi-Strauss: The Background
to Contemporary Critical Theory (Edinburgh University Press, 2002)
and Contemporary Critical Theorists: From Lacan to Said (Edinburgh
University Press, 2004) for their sage advice about which theorists
to include in this volume. I take responsibility, of course, for all the
shortcomings of the final selection. I would also like to thank the
contributors to this volume for the effort and care that they put into
writing their chapters and for their comments on my introduction.
Peter Andrews has prepared an excellent index for this volume, as he
did for the previous volumes. Jackie Jones of Edinburgh University
Press has been a wonderfully supportive editor; her insight and
encouragement turned one book proposal into a series of three
volumes. James Dale (for the first two volumes) and Eliza Wright
(for this volume) served as accomplished desk editors for the series.
I am grateful to the College of Arts and Sciences at Indiana
University, Bloomington, for a generous summer fellowship that
gave me time to complete most of the editing of this volume.
I am also indebted to all those who, by enraging me, remind
me on a daily basis of the absolute need to think critically about
the world. The list is too long to include here, but a special
mention must go to all the denizens of the American ‘conservative
echo-chamber’.
Jon Simons
February 2010
vii
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Notes on Contributors
John Armitage is Head of the Department of Media at Northumbria

University, UK. He is the founder and co-editor, with Ryan Bishop
and Douglas Kellner, of the Berg journal Cultural Politics and the
editor of Paul Virilio: From Modernism to Hypermodernism and Beyond
(Sage, 2001), Virilio Live: Selected Interviews (Sage, 2001) and, with
Joanne Roberts, the co-editor of Living With Cyberspace: Technology &
Society in the 21st Century (Continuum, 2002).
Peter Beilharz is Professor of Sociology and Director of the Thesis

Eleven Centre for Cultural Sociology at La Trobe University,
Australia. He has written or edited six books on Bauman, including
Zygmunt Bauman – Masters of Social Thought, 4 vols (Sage, 2002), The
Bauman Reader (Blackwell, 2001) and Zygmunt Bauman – Dialectic of
Modernity (Sage, 2000), and is collecting his essays on Bauman for a
separate volume.
Arianna Bove currently teaches at Queen Mary College, University

of London. She is a developer of <www.generation-online.org>
where her research, articles and translations can be found. She has
translated many works from Italian and French into English, includ-
ing texts by Agamben, Althusser, Foucault, Negri, Berardi, Virno
and others.
Samuel A. Chambers teaches political theory at Johns Hopkins

University. He writes broadly in political theory, including work
on language, culture and the politics of gender and sexuality.
viii
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He is the author of Untimely Politics (Edinburgh University Press,

2003), The Queer Politics of Television (IB Tauris, 2009) and co-
author, with Terrell Carver, of Judith Butler and Political Theory
(Routledge, 2008). He is also co-editor, with Terrell Carver, of
William Connolly: Democracy, Pluralism and Political Theory (2007),
Judith Butler’s Precarious Politics (2008) and Carole Pateman: Feminism,
Democracy, Welfare (2009).
Ilana Gershon received her PhD in cultural anthropology from

the University of Chicago in 2001. An assistant professor in the
Department of Communication and Culture at Indiana University,
she writes and teaches about disconnections using new media,
the anthropology of democracy, indigenous self-representation
(specifically Maori politicians and Samoan migrants), diaspora,
US ethnic formations, migration, kinship and the anthropol-
ogy of knowledge. Her research has been published in American
Anthropologist, Current Anthropologist, Anthropological Theory, Social
Analysis and other journals. Her book, The Breakup 2.0: Disconnecting
over New Media (Cornell, 2010), deploys her long-standing inter-
est in Actor-Network Theory to explore ethnographically how
people use different communicative technologies to end romantic
relationships.
Paul Hegarty teaches philosophy and cultural studies in the

Department of French, University College Cork, Ireland. He has
published books on Georges Bataille, Jean Baudrillard, noise and
music, Dennis Cooper, and contributed to Andrew Norris (ed.),
Politics, Metaphysics and Death: Essays on Giorgio Agamben’s Homo
Sacer (Duke University Press, 2005).
David Huddart is Associate Professor in the Department of English

at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, where he teaches lit-
erary theory and World Englishes. He is the author of Homi K.
Bhabha (Routledge, 2006) and Postcolonial Theory and Autobiography
(Routledge, 2008).
David Kidner worked as a process design engineer in the petroleum

industry before turning to social science with a PhD in psychology
from London University. For the past three decades he has taught
critical social science and environmental philosophy in Britain and
the USA, and is currently at Nottingham Trent University. He is the
ix
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author of Nature and Psyche: Radical Environmentalism and the Politics

of Subjectivity (SUNY Press, 2001).
Moya Lloyd is Professor of Political Theory at Loughborough

University. She has published widely in the areas of contemporary
political theory and feminist theory, focusing in particular on the
work of Judith Butler. Her most recent books include Beyond Identity
Politics: Feminism, Power and Politics (Sage, 2005), Judith Butler: From
Norms to Politics (Polity, 2007); and (with Adrian Little) The Politics
of Radical Democracy (Edinburgh University Press, 2009). She is cur-
rently working on two projects: a text on gender and sexuality and a
research monograph entitled ‘Who Counts?’
Joan Faber McAlister is an assistant professor of Rhetoric and

Communication Studies in the Department for the Study of Culture
and Society at Drake University and holds a PhD in Rhetorical
Studies from the University of Iowa. Her research interests include
aesthetics, materiality, subjectivity, cultural geography, domestic
space and queer, feminist and critical theory. Her work has been
published in Liminalities, Women’s Studies in Communication, and
edited volumes in the field of rhetorical studies.
Stephen Morton is a senior lecturer in English at the University of

Southampton. His fields of research include post-colonial literature,
critical theory and visual culture. His publications include Foucault
in an Age of Terror (Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), co-edited with
Stephen Bygrave, Salman Rushdie: Fictions of Postcolonial Modernity
(Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), Gayatri Spivak: Ethics, Subalternity and the
Critique of Postcolonial Reason (Polity, 2006) and Gayatri Chakravorty
Spivak (Routledge, 2003); as well as articles in Textual Practice, Public
Culture, New Formations, The Year’s Work in Critical and Cultural Theory
and Interventions: An International Journal of Postcolonial Studies.
Benjamin Robinson received his PhD in Modern Thought from

Stanford University and has been Assistant Professor of German
at Indiana University since 2004. He teaches and studies how key
works of modernism reformulate earlier understandings of realism.
His book, The Skin of the System: On Germany’s Socialist Modernity
(Stanford University Press, 2009), rethinks historical socialism via
the paradoxes of radical transformation. His current monograph
project, Out of All Scale, examines the centrality of a particular
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semiotic sign, the index, for an era when cultural themes became
dramatically disproportionate to the scale of daily life. For the
last several years, Robinson has been actively engaged with Alain
Badiou’s philosophy, organising several multi-day conferences on
his work, one attended by Professor Badiou.
Matthew Sharpe is a lecturer in the School of International and

Political Studies, Deakin University. He is the author of Slavoj Žižek:
A Little Piece of the Real (Ashgate, 2004), and coauthor of Žižek and
Politics (Edinburgh, 2010), Understanding Psychoanalysis (Acumen,
2007) and The Times Will Suit Them: Postmodern Conservatism in
Australia (Allen & Unwin, 2007). He has also authored numerous
articles on political philosophy, critical theory and psychoanaly-
sis. Presently, he is working on a new book, Jacques Lacan and Leo
Strauss: The Ancient and the Modern.
Jon Simons is an associate professor in the Department of

Communication and Culture at Indiana University. He has a broad
expertise in contemporary critical theory, having directed the
MA in Critical Theory at the University of Nottingham from 1995
to 2005. He is the author of Foucault and the Political (Routledge,
1995) as well as many journal articles and book chapters on politi-
cal and cultural theory. He is the editor of and contributor to From
Kant to Lévi-Strauss: The Background to Contemporary Critical Theory
and Contemporary Critical Theorists: From Lacan to Said (Edinburgh
University Press, 2002 and 2004 respectively).
Simon Tormey is Professor and Head of the School of Social

and Political Sciences, University of Sydney. He is the author of
Making Sense of Tyranny: Interpretations of Totalitarianism (Manchester
University Press, 1995), Politics at the Edge (co-edited with C. Pierson
[Macmillan, 1999]), Autonomy, Contingency and the Postmodern: The
Political Thought of Agnes Heller (Manchester University Press, 2000),
Anti-Capitalism (Oneworld, 2004), and Key Thinkers from Critical
Theory to Post-Marxism (with Jules Townshend [Sage, 2006]), as well
as numerous articles and chapters about radical political theory.
Caroline Williams is Lecturer in Politics, Queen Mary College,

University of London. She is the author of Contemporary French
Philosophy: Modernity and the Persistence of the Subject (Continuum,
2001), as well as journal articles and essays on Spinoza, Althusser,
xi
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and post-structuralism more generally. She is currently working on

a book project, Spinoza and Political Critique: Thinking the Political in
the Wake of Althusser, to be published by University of Wales Press (in
the series Political Philosophy Now, edited by Howard Williams).
xii
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Introduction
Jon Simons
This volume offers fifteen introductory essays about key contempo-

rary critical theorists. The type and range of ‘critical theory’ covered
in this volume refers to the broad sense of that term as it is used in
Anglophone academia as a catch-all phrase for a divergent set of
theories that distinguish themselves from conventional or traditional
theories. ‘Critical theory’ designates a range of ‘isms’ including
Marxism and post-Marxism, semiotics and discourse analysis, struc-
turalism and post-structuralism, ideology critique of all varieties,
deconstruction, feminism, queer theory, psychoanalysis, postcoloni-
alism, postmodernism, as well as the successors to Frankfurt School
Critical Theory. ‘Critical theory’ in the broader sense is an effect of
the appropriation and integration of both Frankfurt School Critical
Theory and the various streams of ‘French’ and other thought
into Anglophone academies since the mid-1960s, when a range of
theoretical approaches to different branches of the humanities and
social sciences began to be adopted on the margins of established
disciplinary methodologies. The labels of postmodernism and post-
structuralism became the most common, though reductive if not
downright inaccurate, handles with which this range of theory was
grasped in the heady days of ‘high theory’.
The range of critical theorists covered by this book provides an
overview of the general field without privileging one particular area
of critical theory. These theorists travel across disciplinary bounda-
ries, their work being useful within a wide variety of disciplines
as well as in the interdisciplinary work of say, African-American
Studies and visual culture studies.
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Jon Simons
This book is intended to provide an introduction to the thought

of the critical theorists selected, such that readers have an under-
standing of their main ideas that is good enough as a basis for
further study. For each thinker or pair of thinkers, a chapter offers
some biographical and intellectual contextualisation, presents and
explains key concepts, outlines some major angles of criticism,
indicates areas and ways in which the theories have been applied,
and offers suggestions for further reading. On completing each
chapter, readers should feel confident that they can make an
informed decision about whether to learn more and subsequently
to put theories to work. It should go without saying that each of
the thinkers is more complex and their work more extensive than
can be presented in a chapter. The aim of the chapters is also to
present the work of the thinkers in a fair and accurate way, which
has left the authors of the chapters with little or no space to present
their own interpretations. There has also not been much scope to
present criticisms of the theorists, so more information about the
standard criticisms of the thinkers in the volume can be found in
the suggested further reading. If this book succeeds in its aims, it
will have whetted its readers’ appetites to read more of the critical
theorists it introduces.
The intended readers of the volume are advanced undergradu-
ate and beginning (post)graduate students who are taking classes
that are dedicated significantly to contemporary ‘theory’, whether
that be political theory, social theory, cultural theory, literary theory,
continental philosophy, or some other variation. The book will also
be useful for students who find that across a variety of classes they
are reading work by theorists included in the volume. The chapters
provide simplified but not reductive accounts of the theorists, so
they are also intended to be instructive for scholars not yet familiar
with thinkers whose work they come across in their research. The
following sections of the introduction discuss the scope of the book,
and the pertinence of the volume in an allegedly ‘post-theoretical’
intellectual environment.
The Scope of this Volume

The range of theorists included in this volume has been shaped to a
very large extent by the two volumes about critical theory that have
preceded it. The prior volume, From Lacan to Said, covered contem-
porary theorists who had established significant trans-disciplinary

Introduction
reputations in the Anglophone world by 1990, most of whom were

born before the Second World War, namely, Lacan, Althusser,
Barthes, Kristeva, Derrida, Levinas, Lyotard, Irigaray, Cixous,
Deleuze and Guattari, Foucault, Baudrillard, Bourdieu, Habermas,
Jameson and Said.1 As I wrote in the introduction to that volume,
the thinkers included there constituted what had by the end of
the 1980s become a ‘critical canon’ established by the first genera-
tions of Anglophone academics to disseminate the mostly imported
ideas of critical theory. I also argued that the explosion of critical
theories by the 1980s had both its significant precursors and suc-
cessors. The first volume in this trilogy, From Kant to Lévi-Strauss,
was dedicated to the former, including chapters on Kant, Hegel,
Marx, Nietzsche, Weber, Freud, Lukács, Adorno and Horkheimer,
Husserl, Heidegger, Gadamer, Wittgenstein, Arendt and Lévi-
Strauss.2 In the introduction to that volume I suggested that the
more recent wave of critical theorists had swelled on the deeper
waters of a modern ‘critical tradition’. By beginning with Kant, but
omitting ancient and medieval thinkers from whom contempo-
rary theorists draw inspiration, that volume conceived of a largely
Germanophone tradition of critique that laid the way for the sub-
sequent Francophone predominance in critical theory. As the new
theorists build on and replenish the work of their predecessors, an
understanding of the theoretical canon is necessary when dealing
with the most contemporary theory. The thinkers covered in this
volume are those who had established significant trans-disciplinary
reputations in the Anglophone world since about 1990, though
they are likely to have been well known in some circles before then.
There is no clear dividing line between this volume and its pred-
ecessor. Table 1.1 lists the thinkers in the preceding volumes who
are precursors (though not necessarily direct and positive influ-
ences) on the theorists in this volume. Table 1.2 indicates roughly
when and with which work the theorists in this volume established
reputations in Anglophone academia. The most honest explana-
tion for the omission of some of the theorists from the preceding
volume but inclusion here is lack of space, along with an estima-
tion that those who had to wait until this volume had made less of
a trans-disciplinary impact than others. That is especially the case
for Castoriadis (who belongs in the generation of Lyotard, Deleuze
and Foucault, and is the only author included here who has died)
and Virilio, whose significance has, however, grown notably since
their first ‘breakthrough’. Others appear to be the ‘followers’ of

Jon Simons
Table 1.1 Contemporary critical theorists and the main
influences on them from the critical tradition
Contemporary theorist Significant precursors covered in the preceding
volumes of this series
Agamben Derrida, Foucault, Hegel, Heidegger, Kant
Badiou Hegel, Marx
Bauman Marx, Weber
Bhabha Derrida, Foucault, Freud, Lacan, Said
Butler Althusser, Foucault, Freud, Hegel, Irigaray,
Kristeva, Lacan, Nietzsche
Castoriadis Althusser, Arendt, Freud, Lacan, Marx
Green critical theorists Heidegger
Haraway Foucault, Heidegger, Marx
Laclau and Mouffe Althusser, Arendt (for Mouffe), Derrida,
Foucault, Lacan, Marx
Latour Foucault
Negri Deleuze and Guattari, Foucault, Marx
Rancière Althusser, Marx
Spivak Deleuze and Guattari, Derrida, Foucault, Hegel,
Kant, Marx
Virilio Heidegger, Husserl, Marx
Žižek Freud, Hegel, Lacan, Marx
Table 1.2 The Anglophone emergence of theorists included

in this volume
Theorist(s) ‘Breakthrough’ date in ‘Breakthrough’ work
Anglophone circles
Agamben 1998 Homo Sacer
Badiou 2001 Ethics
Bauman 1987 Legislators and Interpreters
Bhabha 1994 Location of Culture
Butler 1990 Gender Trouble
Castoriadis 1987 Imaginary Institution of Society
Green theorists 1970s
Haraway 1985 ‘Manifesto for Cyborgs’
Laclau and Mouffe 1985 Hegemony and Socialist
Strategy
Latour 1993 We Have Never Been Modern
Negri 2000 Empire
Rancière 1998 Disagreement
Spivak 1988 ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’
Virilio 2002 Desert Screen
Žižek 1989 The Sublime Object of Ideology

Introduction
previous theorists. While the innovation of Laclau’s and Mouffe’s

post-Marxism was immediately felt in political and cultural theory,
their debt to more groundbreaking post-structuralist theorists such
as Derrida and Foucault is also clear. Similarly, as Žižek burst on to
the scene as the decade closed, he was taken very clearly as a fol-
lower of Lacan. Other theorists, namely, Haraway and Spivak, estab-
lished themselves more fully with more substantive publications
over the 1990s. Latour’s transdisciplinary stature also grew over
the decade as his writing became known beyond science studies,
while Bauman’s post-retirement shift to a less academic style might
explain his more widespread influence by the 1990s. Green theory,
which cannot sensibly be reduced to a ‘star’ theorist, drew more
attention as awareness about global environmental crises grew,
yet had already developed its key insights. There are also theorists
included in this volume, most notably Agamben, Badiou, Negri
and Rancière, who had published significant work before 1990 but
which either was not translated until later or the importance of
which was only established in the Anglophone critical humanities
retrospectively.
Some of the theorists in this volume can be seen as developers
and synthesisers of the work of theorists covered in the previous
volumes (as well as others), and hence part of a distinctive ‘criti-
cal tradition’. As ‘replenishers’ of this critical tradition, many of
the theorists discussed in this volume have also taken the tradition
in novel and needed directions. Laclau and Mouffe combined
Gramscian neo-Marxism with Derridean and Foucauldian post-
structuralism to conceptualise a radical democratic politics for
the New Left. Negri’s Spinozist autonomist Marxism mingled with
Foucault’s biopolitics and Deleuze’s notion of desire provides a
framework for understanding global capitalism and anti-capitalist
movements. Bhabha and Spivak engaged critically and variously
with deconstruction, psychoanalysis and Marxism in their ground-
breaking work in postcolonial theory. Butler built on a blend of
‘French feminism’, psychoanalysis, Foucault and deconstruction
to forge a bold direction for queer theory. By contrast, Žižek’s
Lacanian Marxist analysis of late modern capitalism, nationalism
and racism is a deliberate departure from what was a prevailing
post-structuralist trend in critical theory.
Yet, taken as a whole, the critical theorists written about in
this volume cannot be considered as some sort of ‘Theory 2.0’ in
relation to those who were already well established by 1990. One

Jon Simons
tendency among this collection of thinkers is to draw consciously

on the precursors to the wave of theorists who were to be labelled
as post-structuralists and postmodernists. Such a tendency is indi-
cated by Žižek’s Hegelian direction through Marx and Lacan on
his way back to Lenin. While Agamben’s work on language, the
law and sovereignty appears to owe much to Derrida and Foucault,
his declared debts are to Kant, Hegel, Heidegger, Benjamin and
Aristotle. Badiou’s truth-directed Marxism harkens back to Plato
in a conscious distancing from Nietzschean postmodernism, while
Bauman works above all to renew the ethos of Marxist critique,
remodelled to fit ‘liquid modernity’ rather than ‘postmodernity’.
Castoriadis had no truck with his more fashionable contempo-
raries, finding his inspiration for a Marxist politics in Freudian
rather than Lacanian psychoanalysis as well as Aristotle, Kant and
Merleau-Ponty. Green theorists tend to consider themselves at odds
with the whole post-Kantian critical tradition’s vacillation between
technological optimism and anti-Enlightenment scepticism, though
Naess, like Deleuze and Negri, refers back to Spinoza. Haraway
engages critically with Marx, Derrida and Foucault in her feminist,
post-colonial, anti-racist, anti-anthropocentric analysis of the con-
temporary capitalist and technologised world. She is also critical
of her fellow-traveller in science studies, Latour, who shares with
her and post-structuralism a penchant for deconstructing binaries,
as well as a background in empirical research. Rancière forges his
path in political and aesthetic criticism by working with historical
archives and pitting himself against Althusser’s scientific Marxism
and Plato’s hierarchical order, also engaging critically with Arendt,
Foucault and Marx. Virilio is indebted to Husserl and Heidegger
for his departure from Marxism in his critique of the accelerated,
technologised and militaristic world.
Another notable line of departure from most of the already
canonised critical theorists is an interest in science and, in a some-
what different vein, an embodied materialism and ‘new empiri-
cism’. Most obviously, the inclusion of Haraway and Latour from
the field of science studies implies a somewhat different focus
for critical analysis as well as requiring different theoretical tools.
Badiou relies on mathematical set theory in his quest for axiomatic
and universal philosophical truth. Green theorists adopt a critical
realist position about the environment in contrast to the seeming
anthropocentrism of social constructionism. Castoriadis finds his
way back to the radical agency of the human subject through a

Introduction
scientific understanding of the creativity of nature, as well as by cri-

tiquing the pseudo-scientific nature of structuralism. Negri’s refer-
ence to Spinoza’s ontology similarly posits a world of lively matter.
This empiricist and even scientific tendency among these critical
theorists indicates something of a waning of the ‘linguistic turn’,
as Richard Rorty put it,3 that informed the work of many of the
‘canonical’ theorists, according to which the human world, society,
culture, media and the arts, can best be understood and critiqued
in the mode of reading a text. The critical theorists in this volume
attend as much to ‘things’ or ‘events’ as to ‘words’ or even ‘discur-
sively constructed things’. As Latour puts it, what matters to such
theory is the complexity of matter.4
There is also less of a Francophone emphasis in more recent
critical theory, although the presence in this volume of Badiou,
Castoriadis, Rancière and Virilio shows that Paris still holds a sig-
nificant place in contemporary theory, and one might argue that
Agamben comes through the same Franco-Germanic intellectual
formation. Latour, Actor-Network Theory and science studies do
not belong to that formation and Mouffe, who was born in Belgium,
has flourished in an Anglophone setting. Agamben, Negri, Bauman
and Žižek demonstrate a diversification of influence in Europe.
Butler, Haraway and some Green theorists are not the extent of
the North American part in contemporary theory, as the Indian-
born postcolonial theorists Bhabha and Spivak have both found
intellectual homes in American universities. The dynamic whereby
American and other Anglophone academia relied on European
(and mostly Francophone) imports in order to generate the
intellectual phenomenon that is contemporary critical theory has
declined as the wealth of American institutions has created centres
for the replenishment of theory.
It is inevitable that there are significant omissions in a volume
of only fifteen chapters, even taking into account the preceding
volumes. Edouard Glissant and the theme of creolisation could
have represented the continuing Francophone anti- and postcolo-
nial tradition, begun most notably by Frantz Fanon. Eve Kosofosky
Sedgwick’s inclusion would extend the range of queer theory,
while either or both of bell hooks and Cornel West would have
represented African-American critical theory. Paul Gilroy’s omis-
sion repeats From Lacan to Said’s neglect of key figures in Cultural
Studies. Similarly, film and media theorists are not included in their
own right, thereby leading aside figures ranging from the feminist

Jon Simons
and queer film theory of Teresa de Lauretis, to the critical sociologi-

cal analysis of the information age and network society by Manuel
Castells, to Régis Debray’s ‘mediology’, to the embodied media
theory of Brian Massumi. The coverage of science and technology
studies would have benefited from a chapter on Isabelle Stengers,
just as that of post-colonial theory would have with a chapter on
Trin T. Minh-ha, and contemporary feminism with a chapter on
Rosi Braidotti. The decision to include a chapter on Rancière was
made consciously in comparison to other French political thinkers
such as Jean-Luc Nancy, partly on the grounds of Rancière’s great
trans-disciplinary impact. Without chapters on figures such as Axel
Honneth or Seyla Benhabib, it might seem mistakenly as if the post-
Frankfurt School work of Habermas has run its course. And perhaps
it is only a matter of time before the trans-disciplinary influence
of other contemporary political theorists such as Iris Young and
William Connolly are felt. No single volume could encapsulate all
of the tendencies, let alone the figures, of contemporary critical
theory.
Critical Theory and ‘Post-theory’

The proliferation of omitted candidates for inclusion in this volume
might point not so much to the flowering and diversification of crit-
ical theory than to its frequently noted decline, if the difficulty is in
identifying outstandingly original figures. Terry Eagleton, who did a
great deal to promote critical literary theory, has declared that ‘The
Golden Age of cultural theory is long past’, referring to the period
of theory dominated by the thinkers included in From Lacan to Said.
‘Not much that has been written since has matched the ambitious-
ness and originality of these founding mothers and fathers’, he
says.5 Paul Bové, writing mostly with critical literary theory in mind
as does Eagleton, also remarks that the ‘oppositional possibilities’
of the critical theory movements from roughly 1964 to 1984 ‘have
been exhausted’.6 Bruno Latour argues that the critique of social
theory has run out of steam.7 Yet, critical theory has also succeeded
in certain ways at the same time as excitement about it has waned,
at least for the generation for whom it was a novel discovery rather
than the syllabus studied for a ‘Theory 101’ class.
Ernesto Laclau indicates another reason why theory may seem
to have declined, which is that it is no longer a ‘distinctive object’,
remarkable in its own right, but that the ‘post-theoretical age’

Introduction
is characterised as ‘a process of mutual contamination between

“theory” and “empiria”’. The range and quality of theoretically-
informed research across the ‘critical humanities’, characterised
by ‘a new sophistication in the analysis of the concrete’, commands
attention now, not ‘theory’ itself.8 Seen in this light, Latour pro-
vides less a diagnosis than a prescription for social theory, namely,
a ‘renewal of empiricism’ that replaces the emphasis on ideological
critique of ‘prematurely naturalized objectified facts’.9 As indicated
above, the theorists included in this volume are less marked by the
linguistic turn, one consequence of which may be that the latest
wave of theory may have had less of an impact on literary and other
textual studies than on the social sciences.
Ian Hunter correctly advises that any effort to consider the fate
of theory historically must consider its trans-disciplinary nature,
which means that it cannot be identified by any ‘common object or
shared language’.10 Critical theory is often deployed as a critique
of traditional disciplines, whether literary study in the humanistic
tradition for which, as Eagleton quips, ‘it was enough to pronounce
Keats delectable or Milton a doughty spirit’,11 or the behaviourist,
positivist, quantitative social sciences. Moreover, the traditional
disciplines had different manifestations in different national aca-
demic contexts and thus so does critical theory. At the same time,
while critical theory is an intellectual pursuit largely practised
within academia, it is not as Bové remarks, limited to struggles over
revising the canon but is also, as Eagleton says, ‘the taxing business
of trying to grasp what is actually going on’, whether in a text or
global capitalism.12 Martin McQuillan and his colleagues assert that
‘Theory wants more than anything to be thought of as “Radical”’,
not only in relation to academic disciplines within which they are
embattled but also in the world, as praxis. And while ‘the radicality
of political praxis and the radicality of Theory might not be of the
same order’, at least two contexts need to be borne in mind simul-
taneously, the immediate institutional academic one and the more
general political, social context in which universities exist.13 The
radicality of critical theory, which is one measure of its decline or
success, varies, perhaps inversely, according to these contexts.
As Eagleton explains, when critical theory exploded into its
Golden Age, it did so against the background of the 1960s, the Civil
Rights Movement, anti-colonial struggles for independence, the
student revolts, the women’s movements and the anti-war move-
ment. At that point, universities, or at least certain sectors of them,

Jon Simons
were no longer ‘citadels of disinterested inquiry’ but ‘cockpits of

culture as political struggle’. Theory is the resultant ‘critical self-
reflection’ of the humanities which had broken with their complic-
ity with social authority. But the political radicality of the 1960s met
with only partial success, whereas in academia, ‘Theory overshot
reality, in a kind of intellectual backwash to a tumultuous political
era’, providing ideas with ‘a last, brilliant efflorescence when the
conditions which produced them were already disappearing’.14
Bové similarly suggests that the radical political atmosphere of the
1960s granted radical intellectuals and theory ‘a certain real but
limited place in the academy’, one which has consistently been
under attack since the rise in the 1980s of neo-liberalism and its
‘institutional cultural equivalents’.15 Eagleton and Bové are not
defending precisely the same sort of theoretical radicalism, as for
Eagleton the theory that Bové advocates betrayed its debt to its dia-
logue with Western Marxism by becoming not so much post-Marxist
as post-political. Yet they both ascribe critical theory’s decline to the
waning of a general political radicality, the decline of the left (old
and new).
The political conditions of radical decline, though, can also
be thought of as the conditions for theoretical radicality within
academia. ‘The rise of Theory as an institutional practice is con-
temporaneous with the “decline” of the political left’, and yet
‘the radical effects of Theory are greatly undervalued’, notably in
the ways in which academic disciplines have been refashioned by
theory.16 But the institutional success of theory has come at a price
too, precisely as it is institutionalised, turned into reductive doxa
that can be taught to undergraduates. This volume, and the two
volumes preceding it, is surely part of the phenomena whereby
complex theory is packaged in a form amenable to instruction and
marketed as a (not very profitable) commodity. Critical theory has
found a way to survive and even prosper in universities during the
times of neo-liberal educational reforms. In part, critical theorists
have participated in the ‘dominant practice and ideology’ of profes-
sionalism, as part of their effort to ‘legitimate theory’ within ‘the
university system’, even as critical theory has thrived because of its
‘distance from capital’.17 But critical reflection has itself become
a ‘transferable skill’ required by the entrepreneurial denizens
of liquid modernity. Critical theory, as Eagleton notes, is in an
ambiguous position, both inside and outside the academic institu-
tion, a position he says was inherited from the origins, genders and
10

Introduction
sexualities of many ‘French’ theorists, but can in turn be considered

the continuity of the pariah status of German Jewish intellectu-
als who made up much of the wave of theory that preceded the
‘Golden Age’, as I remarked in the introduction to From Kant to
Lévi-Strauss. As a pariah, critical theory both inhabits the academy
and critiques the state of contemporary higher education, as a local
manifestation of the broader social, cultural and political processes
that are the main target of contemporary critical theorists.
Critical theory, with or without a capital ‘T’, will continue to
replenish itself as it challenges different academic, cultural and
political establishments (including its own orthodoxies). It will
carry on playing a central role in innovative research in the humani-
ties and qualitative social sciences. Eagleton is clear that there can
be no return to ‘the pre-theoretical innocence’ of literary studies,
and Laclau also insists that the ‘post-theoretical’ universe is not
‘a-theoretical’.18 In another volume whose title appears to herald
a post-theoretical turn in film studies, the editors clarify that they
mean only the end of ‘Grand Theory’, demanding that the theorists
of From Lacan to Said should give way to a fresher wave of ‘theories
and the activity of theorizing’. Perhaps their alternative of ‘middle-
range inquiry’ that moves from ‘bodies of evidence to more general
argument’ is not critical in the way that ‘Grand Theory’ is.19 Yet,
their proposed direction is consistent with the empirical and
material turn in critical theory discussed above.
Certainly, the world is no less in need of critical theory at the
beginning of the twenty-first century than it was in the middle of
the twentieth. The world needs Agamben to theorise the on-going
‘states of exception’ in which sovereign states kill those they con-
sider outside the law; Badiou to theorise those events to which a
militant fidelity might lead humanity closer to universal freedom;
Bauman to theorise the plight of ‘surplus populations’ such as refu-
gees in global, ‘liquid modernity’; Bhabha to theorise the extension
of the colonial past in the hybrid identities and migrant experiences
of the post-colonial present; Butler to theorise the oppression of
the ‘heterosexual matrix’ and the resistance to it in queer perfor-
mativity; Castoriadis to theorise the role of radical imagination in
instituting a society that enables autonomy for all; green thinkers
to theorise our existence as embodied creatures within our environ-
ment; Haraway to theorise the relation between techno-scientific
knowledge and the violence of warmaking, global capitalism and
environmental destruction; Laclau and Mouffe to theorise the
11

Jon Simons
radical democratic alternative to the prevailing liberal capitalist

hegemony; Latour to theorise the actor-networks through which
agency is attributed to some actants but not to others; Negri to
theorise the domination of global capitalism and the autonomy of
‘living labour’ that struggles to transform it; Rancière to theorise the
radical democratic politics of attending to those who do not count
in the ‘police’ ordering of who can be heard and seen; Spivak to
theorise the subaltern histories and languages of those post-colonial
subjects, especially women, who are excluded in the complex inter-
play between local, national and global hierarchies and capitalist
inequalities; Virilio to theorise the arts of technology that condemn
us to catastrophic, militarised, industrialised, mediated terror; Žižek
to theorise the fantasies because of which we persistently engage in
consumerism, nationalism and racism. From Agamben to Žižek, we
need these theorists because we live in a world that still needs to be
theorised critically. We could only afford to be ‘post-theoretical’
when the world is no longer characterised by globalised oppression,
injustice, inequality and environmental destruction.
Notes
1. Jon Simons (ed.), Contemporary Critical Theorists: From Lacan to Said
(Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004).
2. Jon Simons (ed.), From Kant to Lévi-Strauss: The Background to
Contemporary Critical Theory (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press,
2002).
3. Richard Rorty, Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1979), p. 263.
4. Bruno Latour, ‘Why Has Critique Run out of Steam? From Matters of
Fact to Matters of Concern’, Critical Inquiry, 30, 2004, pp. 225–48.
5. Terry Eagleton, After Theory (New York: Basic Books, 2003), p. 1.
6. Paul Bové, In the Wake of Theory (Hanover: Wesleyan University Press,
1992), p. xii.
7. Latour, ‘Why Has Critique Run out of Steam?’.
8. Ernesto Laclau, ‘Preface’, in Martin McQuillan, Graeme Macdonald,
Robin Purves and Stephen Thomson (eds), Post-Theory: New Directions
in Criticism (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999), p. vii.
9. Latour, ‘Why Has Critique Run out of Steam?’, pp. 231, 227.
10. Ian Hunter, ‘The History of Theory’, Critical Inquiry, 33, 2006, pp.
78–112 (80).
11. Eagleton, After Theory, p. 1.
12. Ibid. p. 223.
12

Introduction
13. Martin McQuillan, Graeme Macdonald, Robin Purves and Stephen

Thomson, ‘The Joy of Theory’, in Post-Theory, p. x.
14. Eagleton, After Theory, pp. 25–9.
15. Bové, Wake of Theory, pp. 3, ix.
16. McQuillan et al., ‘Joy of Theory’, p. xi.
17. Bové, Wake of Theory, p. 3; and Fredric Jameson, ‘How Not to Historicize
Theory’, Critical Inquiry, 34, 2008, pp. 571–2.
18. Eagleton, After Theory, p. 1; Laclau, ‘Preface’, p. vii.
19. David Bordwell and Noël Carroll, ‘Introduction’, in David Bordwell
and Noël Carroll (eds), Post-Theory: Reconstructing Film Studies (Madison:
University of Wisconsin Press, 1996), pp. xiii–xvii.
13

1
Giorgio Agamben (1942–)

Paul Hegarty
Agamben is now regarded as a key theorist or, more accurately,

political philosopher. His reception has tied him to the wave of
‘French’ theory in 1960s, but whilst he acknowledges Derrida and
uses some parts of Foucault’s theories, he associated himself more
closely with ‘continental philosophy’, and primarily those who
can be said to have preceded ‘French’ theory – Martin Heidegger,
Walter Benjamin, Kant and Hegel.1 He maintains a constant inter-
est in Aristotle as a defining figure in Western metaphysics, and
has in recent years devoted considerable attention to Carl Schmitt,
as part of his ever-expanding and influential work on sovereignty
and the limits of the political. Despite his protestations, Agamben
belongs in the fold of contemporary critical theory, because his
work continually meditates on how it is being produced; it is nearly
always deconstructive (without explicitly following Derrida); it is
persistently critical at categorical and political levels; it envisages
and presents itself as an avant-gardist approach, always seeking to
‘move beyond’, even if this turns out to be difficult or impossible.
In the belief that the best philosophical understanding of
humanity can be attained through a study of language, Agamben’s
early writings focus directly on language and its limits – where it
begins, ends, fails, becomes nothing. Throughout his oeuvre, he
has also considered the form and function of aesthetic production,
the role of the artist and so on.2 Above these two areas of interest,
though, towers his thought on the limits of what it is to be human
– investigated in nearly all of his work since the mid 1990s, but
culminating (philosophically) in Homo Sacer, The State of Exception
14

and Remnants of Auschwitz. In these books, he looks at what happens

when all the rules that govern human conduct are seemingly
stripped away. The last of these has been enormously important
in rethinking the Shoah (Agamben rejects the term Holocaust,
arguing it is a massive category mistake, implying a holiness of sac-
rifice rather than murder on a colossal scale).3 Beyond those works,
he has honed his ideas of ethics, sovereignty and limit situations,
where the question of what it is to be human is at stake. His popu-
larity cannot be credited to the accessibility of his writing but to his
concern for the larger questions of human life that many theorists
seemed to have left behind (at least in Agamben’s view).
Coming to Language
In his early books, Agamben probes the meaning of language and
its place in the history of metaphysics, as a way of understanding
being. The starting point is the absolute role of negativity in cre-
ating the human. Hegel systematically conceived of humanity in
relation to negativity, in the early nineteenth century. Negativity
in this sense is not ‘bad’, but the idea of being defined by what you
are not (that is, I am me because I understand I am not you, or
anyone else).4 This is the only means through which humans come
to self-perception. The profound implication of this, as teased out
by twentieth-century phenomenology and expanded on by Derrida,
notably, is that the self is not present to itself, but only exists as a
by-product of something else (or of everything else). Agamben
reworks this idea of ‘negativity’ to render it as an internal part of
the things we understand to be present (beings, objects, the world),
which becomes internal in and as language.
According to Agamben, the history of metaphysics (he does not
specify Western, but that seems to be his sole reference) under-
stands language as the means of attaining or approaching the tran-
scendental. This transcendental (as seen notably in Kant, Hegel,
Husserl and Heidegger) is that which is beyond our mundane
existence and knowledge, and yet is the profound truth of human-
ity. Agamben claims in Infancy and History that the transcendental
is located not beyond, but in, language. To back up this point, he
returns to the question of speech as a human phenomenon. The
history of philosophy supposes animals to be without speech and
humans the speaking animal. Not so, writes Agamben, as animals
are in language, whilst humans come to it gradually, acquiring it as
15

Paul Hegarty
something external to them. This discovery of language is what he

calls ‘infancy’. At first, this refers to human children’s acquisition
of language, their move from the simple inhabiting of speech of
animals, to language and discourse. In so doing, language becomes
a way of knowing the world that is other to the subject, and then
the means of self-consciousness: ‘if language were immediately the
voice of man [as it is for animals] . . . he could never experience the
taking place of language or the disclosure of being’.5 The key point,
though, is that ‘infancy’ never goes away: the point of transition is
an origin that is permanently maintained and simultaneously this
space between speech/vocalising and language is the location of
the transcendent. Furthermore, humanity as a whole has this expe-
rience, in the shape of history, where cultural origins never go away,
even if hidden, rejected or ignored.
This point about history indicates a contradiction in Agamben,
for on the one hand, he attempts a version of history inspired by
Hegel (where consciousness develops in the form of the history of
philosophy), whilst for the most part in his early books on language
he makes extravagant claims about ‘the human’, ‘the animal’,
‘language’, ‘science’ – as if these were timeless phenomena, always
and everywhere the same (the unthinking use of ‘the animal’
is a widespread problem in critical theory of the last few years).
Elsewhere, he states explicitly that modernity has privileged access
to the thought of language, and thereby completes a journey into
language6 but, ultimately, the biopolitics of modernity make of it a
time where the humanity of humans is more lost than ever.
The thought of ‘the space of language’ as both negative and
truly transcendental is more satisfyingly developed in Language
and Death, which also contains, in germ, ideas that inform the later
texts on sovereignty and limit conditions. This time, Agamben
works more explicitly with Heidegger, using the model of ‘being-
for-death’ to be found in the latter’s Being and Time. Heidegger’s
argument is that authentic existence occurs only in awareness of
death, of death as something that will come, and yet, ‘I’ will not be
there when it happens to me. So, the most authentic human expe-
rience possible is one of absence. Both Heidegger and Agamben
emphasise how the animal cannot have this negative experience.
Instead of dying, animals merely cease living. After a long discus-
sion on the specificity of the human voice, Agamben returns to this
dying animal, stating that the animal voice ‘contains the death of
the animal’.7 This is notable because it acknowledges that history
16

has to include the animal, as surpassed other. The word evolution,

with which Heidegger does not concern himself, is never men-
tioned but is strongly implied. Nonetheless, it still seems arbitrary
that voice is what is lost when an animal dies, as opposed to fur,
hearing or the capacity to excrete, until we notice that Agamben is
now thinking much more deconstructively, and that it is from the
human perspective that we identify this as significant, as if it always
already was so.
Because of the connectedness of animal and human, Agamben’s
insight is that the human voice is the loss of animal voice (a loss
which only occurs for the animal at death). The idea announced in
Infancy and History is developed here to add in the notion of human
language always containing a meaning it cannot say. This meaning
is simply but essentially ‘I speak’ or ‘I mean’. Language cannot
convey the most essential truth about it, which is that it must be
distant not only from its object and the speaking subject, but also
from the truth of language, which is its capacity to exist as language
(as opposed to animal sounds). All of language, whether names, or
differentiating parts of language, is there to display that language
takes place. This is not ‘phatic’ in the sense of words whose meaning
is irrelevant, rather, it is ‘the opening of the ontological dimension’.8
In other words, language’s workings, in communicating specific
meanings, act to cover up the true meaning, which is nothing, but a
nothing which holds the rest together, and continually brings it into
being, as an origin that never disappears.
This working through of negativity, deriving from death, and
the acquisition of language as the means of being-for-death, comes
together in what Agamben calls Voice. In the first prefiguring of
his later theories, the animal voice becomes ‘the voice of a mere
sound’.9 Voice is not the human discursive voice, but the voice that
lies between animal voice and discourse; it is ‘no longer the experi-
ence of sound, and not yet the experience of meaning’. Agamben
is continually fascinated by this ‘thought of the voice alone’.10
Having started with Heidegger, Agamben now thinks himself
beyond, and what Heidegger calls thrownness (roughly speaking,
alienation) of being can be identified as coming from this perpet-
ual borderline language/voice which is where the impossibility of
being there for death ‘lives’. In other words, human awareness of
death is always lost, always deposited in the voice without meaning,
and in turn, this voice without meaning is the indicator that Being
is bordered and defined by death. In this way, Agamben claims to
17

Paul Hegarty
have brought Heidegger’s ‘beyond’ back into the centre of human

existence.
In a way that is logically consistent, yet somehow detached, the
closing few pages of Language and Death announce his future inter-
ests directly. In a way that recalls Levinas, Agamben suggests that
this core of nothingness that lets everything else human exist is the
basis of ethics, as it makes otherness and the awareness of otherness
the core human attribute. At the same time, human culture is a
turning away from brute, simple death. He makes this paradoxical
situation the core of humanity, and moves on to ask what it would
be like to remove the contradiction, what it would mean to prevent
Voice from happening: ‘perhaps man – the animal who seems not
to be encumbered by any specific nature or any specific identity [i.e.
the situation animals find themselves in] – must experience this
poverty more radically’.11
Agamben’s recent works maintain his obsession with language,
and the argument that language has an other – whether in the polit-
ical world, the animal world, the human, or even within language
itself, where he continues to mine the distinction between significa-
tion and processes around it (the performance of signification, and
also the performance of voice as simply human voice) that inform
sign production and reception. In The Open, he further explores
‘the animal’, and is keen, as always, to explore a clear-cut divide by
making the borderline a more messy, paradoxical space. Philosophy
and religion have persistently identified the split between animal
and human as a defining feature of what makes people human,
but, says Agamben, this split occurs first within humanity. Only
once humans are separate does the split occur and can be identi-
fied as always already having occurred. The human itself is divided,
with part of itself identified as animal. The supposition of separation
brings us into human culture, in the form of biopolitics, as well as
ideologies of human value.
Humanity is defined by the possibility of not having language.
Following Hegel, Agamben writes that ‘the definitive annihilation
of man in the proper sense, however, must also entail the disap-
pearance of human language, and its substitution by mimetic or
sonic signals comparable to the language of bees’.12 For Hegel this
substitution is a form of apotheosis, whereas for Agamben it is both
a signal for the beginning and end of the humanity of individual
humans. The absence or loss of language is also the necessary pos-
sibility that underlies the existence of language. The human is the
18

only animal with discursive language, echoing the self-reflexivity or

awareness that only it has, and the essence of that is the transition
where language is nothing, where the threat of death is all: ‘perhaps
not only theology and philosophy but also politics, ethics and juris-
prudence are drawn and suspended in the difference between man
and animal’.13
Agamben’s take on ‘the animal’ is problematic. He acknowl-
edges that in differentiating human and animal through use of lan-
guage we are only retrospectively justifying a difference based on a
presumption, one that requires tricky judgements on ‘pre-humans’,
‘excluding as not (yet) human an already human being from itself,
that is by animalizing the human, by isolating the nonhuman within
the human’.14 So far so good, but what is this ‘animal’ beyond the
ape-man? How can we talk of ‘the’ animal? Agamben does not seem
to be bothered by this problem, caught as he is within Heidegger’s
thoughtworld (in this book). So when he refers to animal cognition
and ethology, it is to Jakob von Uexküll, in whom Heidegger was
interested. Uexküll argued that animals are unable to get beyond
their habitats to understand either habitat or themselves as selves.
Agamben also looks at eighteenth- century taxonomies of nature,
but his philosophising about ‘the animal’ does not match the level
of eighteenth-century writers like Buffon, or of the early evolution-
ists, let alone attempt a contemporary assessment of the question.
Despite this, he makes virtually timeless claims about the human/
animal divide (timeless insofar as it applies to all human history).
This is where we arrive at ‘the open’, with Agamben resolutely
tracking Heidegger. Animals are in the open, are open, even, to
the openness of nature, but only humans ‘can see the open which
names the unconcealedness of beings’.15 Humans are human by
virtue of alienation from all that is other to them. They are dis-
tanced from themselves as present beings, and therefore capable
of understanding that ‘I’ am a ‘self’. The idea of the open is a good
one, particularly when thought of in terms where ‘the animal is at
once open and not open – or, better, it is neither one nor the other:
it is open in a non-disconcealment’.16 The end of The Open returns to
the idea of the contemporary world being increasingly dominated
by biopolitics, bare existence and so on, with the complaint that
today’s world is vacuous, lost in noise and superficiality (a position
Agamben has held since his early writings). The conclusion is that
to think the human/animal border through language is a way into
a resuscitated politics.
19

Paul Hegarty
Those Who Can be Killed

For Agamben, the problematic of death as other and death as the
ultimate truth of humanity (as evidenced in the existence of lan-
guage) plays out in the world of politics, law and social control.
The figure of homo sacer appears – he who can be killed, the one
outside of society and deprived of humanity. Homo Sacer opens up
Agamben’s long investigation into sovereignty as a limit condition
of law, humanity, politics and the subject. The focus is on the idea of
‘bare life’, of a humanity stripped of nearly all of its defining char-
acteristics, which is at its most denuded in the Nazi concentration
camps. Bare life is at its height in the ‘biopolitics’ of modernity, but,
according to Agamben, it can and must be traced back throughout
Western culture, to classical Greek and Roman law. Foucault writes
of the biopoliticisation of life, notably in the first volume of his
History of Sexuality.17 He argues that Western society moves from a
regimen where the ruler controls the right over life and death (that
is, to wield the power of death), to one where life itself becomes
subject to control. Biopolitics governs in bureaucratic, scientific,
rule-based ways, ostensibly to improve the health and well-being of
citizens. Agamben’s gloss on this is that where the ancient Greek
polity removed ‘bare’ (biological) life as irrelevant, Western moder-
nity makes life the subject of control. The exclusion performed in
Western societies prior to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries
was not a complete exclusion, but the purposeful exclusion of the
biological in order to found the political, juridical or, even, the
human. In fact, society is based not on separation from nature but
on its exclusion of biology. Sovereignty, then, must be based on
biopolitics, while the concentration camp is almost a return to the
essence of human society, to its less-than-contractual origin.
The idea of ‘bare life’ is an extension of Agamben’s ruminations
on language: ‘there is politics because man is the living being who,
in language, separates and opposes himself to his own bare life
and, at the same time, maintains himself in relation to that bare
life in an inclusive exclusion’.18 Bare life is empty humanity that is
neither quite human nor animal, an intermediate state that, even
as it appears, is shoved into the background to be made part of a
society based on law. Similarly, the ‘state of nature’, identified by
Hobbes as a terrain of total war, is not pure nature, but man emerg-
ing from nature, the condition that must be controlled by political
society, and therefore always already inside that society. Political
20

life is based on the possibility of punishment, argues Agamben, and

specifically the possibility of being killed: ‘the first foundation of
political life is a life that may be killed, which is politicized through
its very capacity to be killed’.19 Sovereignty is the possibility of doing
what is generally excluded – killing – to what is normally excluded
– humans as animals. Both the ones who can be killed and the sov-
ereign are outside the Law just as they are at its very core. The sover-
eign, in the form of a king, for example, is outside and beyond the
Law as he is its guarantor. At the same time, he is the concentration
of Law. Agamben identifies this situation as the ‘exception’ – and
from which the ‘state of exception’ can emerge – that is, the suspen-
sion of Law. The exception, the suspension of Law, is the moment
Law is founded, which is itself neither legitimate nor illegitimate,
but violent. The violence of nature is held back to be restructured
as the exception that guarantees all else. According to Agamben,
this is not merely the mystical beginning of authority but a potential
that cannot go away, the perpetual absent part of existing systems.
At the other end of the scale, but just as politically and primor-
dially, lies homo sacer, ‘a person [who] is simply set outside human
jurisidiction without being brought into the realm of divine law’.20
This person can be killed because their personhood is effectively
removed by being placed outside the Law – they can be killed but
are not eligible for sacrifice. They have become nothing – but, for
all that, they maintain a residue of humanity – they are the ones
that can be killed. We can see how this plays out in the killing of the
Nazi camps, but inclusion of the word ‘sacred’ alerts us that it is not
only at its most explicit that this form of power occurs. It is at least
as likely that one’s biology is subject to control through the notion
of life being sacred – that is, wherever and whenever attention is
primarily to bodily, bare existence.21
Agamben adamantly sets himself against ambiguous notions of
the sacred that emerged in late nineteenth-century anthropology.
Oddly, the only notion of ‘sacred’ he considers is from Roman law,
where the sacred/sacer is the one who can be killed, who is outside
the Law. We have to imagine that he means to refer to Western
society, as it has developed from Judaic, Greek and Roman tradi-
tions, even if his view is flawed. On the basis of his text, Agamben dis-
misses other conceptions of sacrifical sacreds, where evil and good,
taboo and transgression play out deconstructively. Leaving aside the
questionable basis of his argument,22 it follows, for Agamben, that
‘the sacredness of life’ reveals life at its smallest, almost in the same
21

Paul Hegarty
way as mass slaughter. In general, human life has not been throught
of as sacred, but medical and legal developments have brought
about such a thought. Agamben’s point is that to think life as sacred
means treating the people involved as only life – as life that must be
saved, rather than in their political/judicial contexts. Even ‘human-
itarian organizations . . . can only grasp human life in the figure of
bare or sacred life, and therefore, despite themselves, maintain a
secret solidarity with the very powers they ought to fight’.23
For Agamben, all of modern life tends toward biopolitics and
the reduction to ‘bare life’ – whether through mass killings, rights
and ‘saving’ people, or medical technology – ‘all life becomes
sacred and all politics becomes the exception’.24 The implication
is that, increasingly, humans become totally subject to rules and
regulations, subject to exclusion, and less and less subject as subjects
within the realm of law. It is not that law is done away with, rather it
becomes the empty form it came from: Law identifying itself as Law,
identifying people as bare life, as material for Law.
While this ‘pure’ state of Law is neither necessarily good nor
bad, the place where it is heightened is the concentration camp,
where exception becomes the rule, where all become bare life.
Agamben turns to this topic in depth in his powerful and best-
known work, Remnants of Auschwitz.25 His purpose is to rethink
the Nazi concentration camps in a way that refuses the mysticism
of the ‘unsayable’ he sees at work in other theoretical writings:
‘[W]hy unsayable? Why confer on extermination the prestige of
the mystical?’26 As is often the case, Agamben does not do justice
to the position he criticises, adopting a position much like one he
earlier misread.27 The book is also surprisingly insubstantial unless
read as part of his homo sacer theory, but it does adopt a convincing
position from which to account for ‘unsayability’ as part of a wider
situation occurring in the shape of the concentration camp. As in
earlier works, humanity’s relation to language as a limit condition is
in play, as he focuses on the figure of the Muselmann (muslim) – the
prisoner who gives up and seems to be living a minimal animal exist-
ence, bereft of humanity. The Muselmann is the true witness of the
camp, truer in one way than those who survive with their human-
ity intact. These two categories interact in Agamben’s argument.
The Muselmann leaves the world of language and sociality behind,
becoming a risk to fellow prisoners, shunned by all. They are effec-
tively dead, barely human. It is the ‘effectively’ and the ‘barely’ that
count here – because they are still some sort of human, ‘mark[ing]
22

the threshold in which man passed into non-man’. It is from them

that we can begin to understand what Auschwitz does to humans,
and what it tells us about ‘the human condition’ in general: ‘in
Auschwitz ethics begins precisely at the point where the Muselmann,
the “complete witness”, makes it forever impossible to distinguish
between man and non-man’.28
Why though is this most lost of humans a witness? The spaces
between human and non-human, between language and non-
language are always there in language, in human culture, Agamben
claims. All language is ‘something to which no one has borne
witness’.29 This is the same argument we saw developed in Language
and Death – the interstitial moment between is the key, the moment
where we have pure language – the existence of language without
content, of being without being either animal or fully human, fully
social (the place of homo sacer). The Muselmann is the no-one who
can be there for the witnessing, through not really being there.
He, in turn, requires the witness who survives to become a witness
to this impossibility of witnessing that the Muselmann is. The pecu-
liar, exceptional circumstance that produces this category of bare
life is one that returns us to the totality of being as witnessing,
and to language as a permanent witnessing to what lies outside
it, to language as such: ‘testimony takes place where the speech-
less one makes the speaking one speak and where the one who
speaks bears the impossibility of speaking in his own speech’.30 The
witness is never present, but is always an other, even in the case
of someone who recovers from being a Muselmann and survives
the camps. Witnessing is not only about recounting the horrors of
Nazi industrialised mass murder, but is a testimony about what it
is to be human. What it is to be human is most profoundly raised
as a question when it is stripped down to bare life – to being only
an organic human being (Agamben strays into a type of Cartesian
thinking whereby the human is divided into essence and biology,
but the point here is the human does not become merely animal
but merely human).
Witnessing implies surviving, that something remains (trans-
lated as ‘remnant’ in English), and ‘survival designates the pure
and simple continuation of bare life with respect to truer and more
human life [and/or] the person who in fighting against death,
has survived the inhuman’.31 The existence of both categories
is essential, as, in surviving, the witness recounts the bare life of
the Muselmann existence, exposing what it is to be destructible,
23

Paul Hegarty
revealing ‘that it is not truly possible to destroy the human, that

something always remains’.32
Agamben has not sought to reveal a truth about the human
condition that is timeless, but one that is historical, occurring in
specific times, politics and contexts that bring out something pri-
mordial but social. The Nazi regime, in which the camps were the
most extreme element, turned the ‘state of exception’ where the
normal legal system is suspended into a permanent condition, a
return to the pure sovereignty of the state of nature, which can
always return. This ‘state of nature’ is precisely the sovereign crea-
tion of society through biopolitics, the bringing of humans into the
realm of ‘sacredness’ where they can be killed. The Muselmann is
the ultimate exception, the human being taken out of the human,
a product of the state of exception that is the camp; that is, the
product of the general suspension of law as the sovereign exercise
of power from 1933 to 1945.
Agamben returns to the ‘state of exception’ through a sustained
if selective reading of Carl Schmitt’s theory of sovereignty, in State
of Exception. Just as with Remnants of Auschwitz, actual political situ-
ations are where the apparently abstract thought of Being can be
conducted – Guantanamo Bay and the ‘exceptionality’ of the US
Patriot Act are cited early on. Agamben writes a history of the
development of actual states of exception or emergency in the nine-
teenth century and beyond. He argues that it is only with democracy
that we get the notion of ‘exception’,33 as individual sovereigns
simply wielded power without recourse to breaking free of law in
a way that required consulting other legally constituted bodies. As
the French and American revolutions spread the idea of democratic
legitimacy, they also spread the idea of the moment outside of that
legitimacy. This moment can be the founding instance, or when the
‘system’ needs to protect itself as a matter of urgency. The moment
of both sovereignty and of exception, according to Schmitt, is when
we have to ask ‘who is competent to act when the legal system fails
to answer the question of competence’.34 States of emergency are
merely the marker of this permanent capacity and need for the
system to deconstruct itself, underpinning the rest of the juridical
and political order. This potential, as hidden, as essence, of a legal
system becomes more acute in democratic parliamentary situations.
The exception spreads as legislatures give more and more ground
to executive sectors of government, because sovereignty occurs
when a decision must be made: ‘sovereign is he who decides on the
24

exception’.35 As well as the need and capacity to make a decision,

sovereignty establishes when and where rules can be suspended:
‘what characterizes an exception is principally unlimited authority,
which means the suspension of the entire existing order’.36
For all Schmitt’s near-deconstruction, sovereign power is still
something ‘to-hand’ that can be used. This is still true for Agamben,
but for him sovereignty is not the power to create exception, but
is the operating of the exception – so Guantanamo is the space of
sovereignty, not the mere effect of the US government’s sovereign
power. The suspension of Law is Law at its purest, where it becomes
only ‘force of law’ (with law crossed out for Agamben), as in Nazi
Germany.37 What then occurs is ‘legalised civil war’,38 with the State
waging war against all whom it deems to be opposed to it. The
return to exceptionality, this time made into the rule as it becomes
more or less permanent, is the essence of Law, but it is supposed
to be left only as trace, not to realise itself. Its realisation in actual
political situations reveals the previously interred reality of bare life
‘subject’ to total sovereignty, not as essence, but as biopolitically
constructed, through specific actions at specific historical moments.
Conclusion: The End of All Things

In The Time That Remains, we see Agamben’s fascination with time
as paradoxical, grounded and ungrounding. This is one of his
strongest and best-written works, where many of his ideas coalesce,
through the prism of messianic time. In looking at St Paul, he also
extends Benjamin’s exploration of the meaning of ‘messianic time’.
Messianic time is neither only about waiting for the future nor about
redemption. It is not even a deconstructive awaiting of something
‘to-come’. He who announces or believes in the future messiah
inhabits a time in which it is almost impossible to dwell. It is a time
where nothing comes to be, but all the past is made present: ‘the
time that time takes to come to an end’.39 Time contracts, becoming
an endless moment of all time occurring at once, like Nietzsche’s
eternal return. This means that time does not coincide with itself – a
state of exception (moments outside of time) becoming the norm.
Law is suspended and replaced by justice.
Rather than simply a beatific idea, this conception of time refers
to how Jewish law pertained only to Jews. From Paul onward, the
world is not split into Jew and non-Jew, writes Agamben, but Jew
and ‘non-non-Jew’. The Jews also become this: everyone is defined
25

Paul Hegarty
only through negativities. Those awaiting in messianic time become

a remnant: neither one thing nor another, neither subject to law nor
fully outside, but something less. This remnant is not a numerical
portion but a way of thinking ‘possibly everyone’ in terms of ‘not
everyone’, which then defines the character of those who await
and who have the past resuscitated in preparation for judgement.
Agamben’s political intent here presumes we agree with his mystical
theorisation of politics. This book can be read as part of a diptych
with Homo Sacer: in both humans must come to nothingness and
in both variants of the idea there is something Agamben takes to
be ontologically, fundamentally true about the non-presence of
humans to themselves and how this is structured historically, politi-
cally and theologically.
Agamben has been a major inspiration in the theoretical return
to the political that, allegedly, theory somehow forgot. In combin-
ing a thoroughgoing critique of biopolitical institutions and a phe-
nomenological ‘deconstruction’ of being at both individual and
cultural level, his theoretical project is a powerful tool. Yet, his read-
ings of philosophers are often sketchy, misrepresenting their ideas
to better make his own points. He is less likely to be remembered
for his work on literature and aesthetics, or his shaky reading of
science and its history. Yet the range of his reading and ethical drive
makes him a vital part of any self-reflective political philosophy.
Notes
1. Agamben uses Foucault’s notion of ‘biopolitics’ throughout much
of his work, and returns explicitly to Foucault in Signatura rerum,
where he works through the structure of Foucault’s The Archaeology of
Knowledge (New York: Pantheon, 1972), in order to reflect on the time
in which knowledge develops.
2. See Agamben, The Man without Content.
3. Agamben, Remnants of Auschwitz, pp. 28–31.
4. See, in particular Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1977), especially his early formulation of ‘negativ-
ity’ in the ‘master/slave dialectic’ (pp. 105–19). See also Alexandre
Kojève’s Introduction to the Reading of Hegel (New York: Basic Books,
1969).
5. Agamben, Language and Death, p. 84.
6. Agamben, Potentialities, p. 45.
7. Agamben, Language and Death, p. 45.
8. Ibid. p. 26.
26

9. Ibid. p. 35.
10. Ibid. p. 34.
11. Ibid. p. 96.
12. Agamben, The Open, p. 10.
13. Ibid. p. 22.
14. Ibid. p. 37.
15. Ibid. p. 58.
16. Ibid. p. 59.
17. Michel Foucault, History of Sexuality, vol. 1, trans. Robert Hurley
(Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1979).
18. Agamben, Homo Sacer, p. 8.
19. Ibid. p. 89.
20. Ibid. p. 82.
21. Ibid. pp. 82–3.
22. For more on this, see Paul Hegarty, ‘Supposing the Impossibility of
Silence, and of Sound, of Voice: Bataille, Agamben and the Holocaust’,
in Andrew Norris (ed.), Politics, Metaphysics and Death, pp. 222–47.
23. Agamben, Homo Sacer, p. 133.
24. Ibid. p. 148.
25. This will come to be known as Homo Sacer III, following the publication
in 2003 of State of Exception (Homo Sacer II.1).
26. Agamben, Remnants of Auschwitz, p. 32.
27. He is certainly very close to the position Jean-François Lyotard
presents in The Differend: Phrases in Dispute (Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota, 1988).
28. Agamben, Remnants of Auschwitz, p. 47.
29. Ibid. p. 38.
30. Ibid. p. 120.
31. Ibid. p. 133.
32. Ibid. pp. 133–4.
33. Agamben, State of Exception, pp. 4–5.
34. Schmitt, Political Theology, p. 11.
35. Ibid. p. 5.
36. Ibid. p. 12.
37. Agamben, State of Exception, pp. 38–9, 51.
38. Ibid. p. 2.
39. Agamben, The Time That Remains, p. 67.
Major Works by Agamben

Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen
(Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1998 [1995]).
Idea of Prose, trans. Michael Sullivan and Sam Whitsitt (New York: SUNY
Press, 1995 [1985]).
27

Paul Hegarty
Infancy and History: On the Destruction of Experience, trans. Liz Heron

(London: Verso, 1993 [1978]).
Language and Death: The Place of Negativity, trans. Karen E. Hardt and
Michael Hardt (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota
Press, 1991 [1982]).
The Man without Content, trans. Georgia Albert (Stanford, CA: Stanford
University Press, 1999 [1994]).
The Open: Man and Animal, trans. Kevin Attell (Stanford, CA: Stanford
Potentialities: Collected Essays in Philosophy, trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen
(Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999).
Remnants of Auschwitz: The Witness and the Archive, trans. Daniel Heller-
Roazen (New York: Zone, 1999).
The Signature of All Things, trans. Luca di Santo and Kevin Attell (New York:
Zone, 2009 [2008]).
Stanzas: Word and Phantasm in Western Culture, trans. Ronald L. Martinez
(Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 1993 [1977]).
The State of Exception, trans. Kevin Attell (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 2005 [2003]).
The Time That Remains: A Commentary on the Letter to the Romans, trans.
Patricia Daley (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2005 [2000]).
Suggestions for Further Reading

Mills, Catherine, The Philosophy of Agamben (Stocksfield: Acumen, 2008).
Useful overview of Agamben’s oeuvre.
Norris, Andrew (ed.), Politics, Metaphysics and Death: Essays on Giorgio
Agamben’s Homo Sacer (Durham and London: Duke University Press,
2005). Detailed readings, contextualising the book within political and
legal philosophy.
Ross, Alison (ed.), The Agamben Effect, South Atlantic Quarterly, 107, 1, winter
2008. Wide-ranging, but as a result focus is on exegesis. Excellent essay
by Ziarek on race and gender: Ewa Plonowska Ziarek, ‘Bare Life on
Strike: Notes on the Biopolitics of Race and Gender’, pp. 89–105.
Schmitt, Carl, Political Theology: Four Chapters on the Concept of Sovereignty,
trans. George Schwob (Chicago and London: University of Chicago
Press, 2005 [1934]). Essential background to Agamben.
Wall, Thomas Carl, Radical Passivity: Levinas, Blanchot and Agamben (New
York: SUNY Press, 1999). Advanced, but the comparative approach
works well.
28

2
Alain Badiou (1937–)

Benjamin Robinson
An Odd End
Alain Badiou is an unlikely heir to the tradition of French post-
Second World War philosophy and an even more unlikely heir –
despite his declared affinity to the radical events of Paris in May 1968
– to the post-structuralist movement that came into its own around
then with luminaries such as Deleuze, Foucault and Derrida.1 While
he engages those thinkers, he demonstrates a different set of loves
– of truth, universalism, the subject, fidelity and mathematics; and
holds a different set of antipathies – to postmodern celebration
of irony and consumption, multicultural identity politics and a
textual-hermeneutical grounding of existence. Even stylistically,
Badiou tends to be indifferent to cultivating the character of his
prose. He writes precisely and didactically, with an irreverent, even
pugnacious humour, and no pretense of modesty. As a philosopher,
his aspiration is to address everyone without exception, regardless
of ‘identity’. This aspiration is rooted in a commitment to what he
calls ‘communism in the generic sense’, in which ‘everyone is equal
to everyone else within the multiplicity and diversity of social func-
tions’.2 At the same time, his eccentric vocabulary of mathematics
and ontology can be intimidating in its straightforward applica-
tion to the familiar topics of politics and ethics. The philosophical
habitus, however, is just what Badiou’s simultaneously refined and
populist turn of thought succeeds in making strange. Key terms
from the philosophical encyclopedia with which Badiou might be
tagged include: ontology, the infinite and the void, and structure
29

Benjamin Robinson
and event. What matters, however, is how these topics, which reach
back to philosophy’s formal origins in Greek thought, become new
again in Badiou’s project.
Toward Plato
Since Nietzsche announced his reversal of Plato’s effort to grasp
being in the pure, non-relational way numbers exist, it seems that
philosophy has eagerly swerved onto the new course. After the past
century’s total wars, genocides and famines, it would seem that not
only philosophers have directed us away from Platonism, but the
events themselves, issuing from universal reason run amok, have
conspired to set us on a corrective course towards sensitivity regard-
ing diverse forms of being other than the mathematical. The col-
lapse of metanarratives, the implosion of Cold War fronts, the rise
of global ecologies, all seem to confirm the end of Plato’s regime of
mathematically revealed truth.
As close as Badiou is to that tradition that goes under the name
of reversing Plato in favour of the contingent, material, aesthetic
and historical, he embraces Plato as the very philosopher who put
truth and universality on the agenda. While Badiou’s philosophy
shares a post-enlightenment goal of situating itself among the
truths of non-philosophers, it maintains, uncharacteristically for its
era, that these truths should be grasped as truths, in their universal
and infinite import, and be made available indifferently to whomso-
ever might want to commit themselves to truth. Moreover, it is Plato
who insisted on the proximity of philosophy to politics. A ‘militant
philosophy’, such as Badiou’s, is one that situates itself within the
political conflicts of its time.3 Given all the cataclysms that have
issued from modernity – from its Eurocentrism, logicism, egoism,
and destructive pretence to universality – how, Badiou invites us
to think, does an oppositional political project assert itself in the
mode of truth? And who, he asks, is the subject that would bear the
truth? In asking such questions, Badiou sets about reclaiming some
old-fashioned ideas for a political left that has been exhausted by its
retreat into the noisy difference of the everyday.
Infinity as the Fact of the Matter

Badiou’s intervention on behalf of old-fashioned verities – like
truth, universalism and mathematical knowledge – responds to a
30

set of problems arising from a political programme in modernity

that asserts itself in the paired idioms of freedom and necessity,
initiative and responsibility, history and transcendence, and event
and structure. Insofar as the Platonic vita contemplativa underlying
philosophy and religion had understood its power as that of a tran-
scendence opposed to the contingencies of life and death, moder-
nity as a historical institution of a universal programme undermines
the age-old opposition. Whether defined in terms of techniques
of power and knowledge or cultures of autonomy, modernity does
not foreclose the issue of its contingency, but allows the contin-
gent and universal to confront each other on the same plane of
decision.
In this sense, Badiou’s call to return to a mindset oriented toward
the kind of truth one discovers in mathematics – deductively rigor-
ous, and, if not ascetic, then certainly exacting – is a call to think
the modern situation as itself based in thought, where thought is
that which correlates most painstakingly with reality. In The Century,
Badiou does not reiterate the Marxist appeal for a unity of theory
and practice, because – for better or worse – the unity of acting
and thinking is the twentieth-century achievement. Contrary to the
received view of a century distorted by ideological passion, Badiou
holds that the century’s distinctive ‘passion for the real’ drove it
beyond satisfaction with the ideological.4 What the unity of theory
and practice does need, however, as the violence and phantasms of
the twentieth century demonstrate, are procedures for distinguish-
ing its truth. To put it more technically, what modernity calls for, as
the era in which the infinite has been secularised (‘infinite alterity
is quite simply what there is’),5 is a way and a will to force, wherever
the infinite unexpectedly gapes open, a public declaration of its
measure.6 As abstract as such a mathematically inflected language
of infinity and measure is, a careful reading of Badiou demonstrates
its resemblance to the perennial topics of freedom and invention
and of ethical-epistemological responsibility.
Each of Badiou’s books orients our intellectual horizons dif-
ferently. Here I consider two central texts, Being and Event and
Saint Paul, with reference to Ethics: An Essay on the Understanding
of Evil. My goal is, first, to draw out some of the reasons why inter-
est in Badiou has reached beyond disciplinary specialisation and
second, to connect Badiou’s relevance to those philosophical ques-
tions that persist despite the waxing and waning of their fashion.
Badiou’s work has both an anti-philosophical, evental nature and
31

Benjamin Robinson
a lineage in the philosophical tradition of thinking about the new,

contemporary and relevant.
Being and Event – Mathematical Foundations

As his foundational work of philosophy where he establishes the
relationship of his guiding concepts to ‘the discourse of being as
being’ (namely, ontology, which for Badiou is mathematics), Being
and Event invites a reader to think about how philosophy has posi-
tioned itself with respect to two mathematical extremes: the void
(or empty set) and the infinite. These are indeed abstract ‘things’
lacking the reassuringly intuitive characteristics that our familiar
world of material objects and fellow humans has. In fitting the
void and the infinite into a foundational philosophy, Badiou also
addresses philosophy’s relationship to what is not philosophical – to
what is not thought within any system of representation. What we
do not think, and what Badiou chooses as his foundational axiom,
is that ‘the one is not’ and, hence, ‘nothing is’.7 This axiom is
unthinkable for the simple reason that no matter how multifaceted
and complex some appearance is, we need to discern it as something
in order to count it as a phenomenon at all.
To take this unthinkable inconsistency (a pure multiplicity that
we cannot discern as anything) as a foundation for philosophy
means that what exceeds Being (Being as ‘being thought’, as suf-
ficient reason) is what no philosophical system can contain and
secure: the pure, non-presentable multiple. This figure of the pure
multiple is not, but it does happen, and it happens right at the void
of a situation, right where a situation cannot account for itself.
It happens – the pure multiple appears – when someone throws
caution to the wind, jumps into the breach, and declares the unac-
countability of a situation to be an event worth heeding.
Deciding that ‘the one is not’ and ‘nothing is’ thus entails a role
for the term Badiou conjoins and disjoins from Being in his book
title – namely, the event. The event supplements Being – it is nothing
and everything. It is nothing in the sense indicated above: that if the
one is not, then nothing is. It is everything, however, to the extent
that nothing or the void is the axiomatic choice on which Badiou
wagers his philosophical edifice. Understanding this wager brings
us to the trickiest part of Badiou’s thinking: how is it that something
infinitely multiple, the event, comes to be out of no one thing?
Whether Badiou intends it or not, for those first working
32

through his arguments, his thinking here might look disturbingly

similar to the romantic belief in the creative genius, the fascist
belief in the organic leader, and the ultra-left belief in revolutionary
decisionism.8 It seems to give too much credence to pure, violent
and uninhibited freedom of choice – and moreover to address this
unfounded choice not to the sphere of private sentiment but to
that of universal truth. To avoid such misunderstanding, Badiou’s
conceptualisation of ‘the event’ should be traced through the scope
of the term’s usage, in all its variety, which suggests its significance
as a concept at odds with rational modernity’s most cherished reas-
surances, those of a continuous and law-abiding world of enduring
substance and value. Across the range of its semantic registers the
event figures as a remainder, a supplement – a something/nothing
– that does not fit into any structure.
● In a political register, the biggest events are war and revolution.

Even in a liberal era with few declared wars what counts as event-
ful are upsetting election outcomes; sharp inflations or reces-
sions; natural disasters or unprovoked violence. In each of these
cases, what becomes a political event is a phenomenon at or out-
side the boundaries of expectation and legitimacy; one might
say, at or outside the boundaries of the nation-state.
● In a theological register, events are apocalypses, miracles and con-
versions. They pertain to occasions without precedent and mea-
sure; occasions that are singular, sudden or vast. What Saint John
emphasises about the apocalypse is that it is a judgement that,
in contrast to Aristotle’s ‘just mean’, occurs without any propor-
tionality or reserve. A miracle, meanwhile, needs its prophets
and saints; and conversion is marked by imponderable grace.
● In an aesthetic register, events are sublime. They do not have the
pleasing scale and interrelation that characterise the beautiful
and intuitive. Rather, they are breathtaking natural wonders, ter-
rifying cataracts, or – in the case of the art object – epiphanic
moments of transport instead of pleasant contemplation.
● In a biographical register, events are turning points. Not religious
initiations, they are rites of passage: births, deaths and fallings in
love – occasions that ceremonies, solemnities and celebrations
seek to reintegrate into the steady order of the community by
demarcating their extraordinary nature.
● In the technical sense entertained by academic philosophy, events
are occurrences marked by verbs, adverbs, adjectives – signs
33

Benjamin Robinson
that do not indicate substances but rather happenings. As gram-

matically banal as verbs and adverbs are, they are mysterious be-
cause, unlike nouns and the things they signify, it is hard to see
what constitutes the unity of their referent, their beginning and
end, their boundedness. When does ‘loving’ begin and end and
where does it take place? Or, more venally, if someone is injured
by a falling wall, when did the event of its fall begin – with its con-
struction years before; when a later addition was added; when a
landlord neglected upkeep; when a drought compacted the soil?
What is the unity and totality of such falling whereby one could
assign it to a cause?
With these examples of the broad but still mysterious persist-

ence of events in a modernity that imagines itself disenchanted,
we come closer to understanding why events – resistant as they are
to expectation, legitimacy, proportion, intuition, community and
substantiality – are so compelling, not as anti-modernist holdouts,
but as a consequence of modern structural rigour. A few canonically
modern examples of events from Badiou’s work help draw us back
into Being and Event.
The French Revolution, arguably the inaugural event of moder-
nity, is Badiou’s most privileged example.9 There was nothing in
France’s ancien régime that could have anticipated the Revolution
as a step in its developmental logic. When in retrospect that which
came to be called the Revolution is inserted into its time, we see
that it did not follow necessarily from anything: its site was errant
and adventurous. If we insist on reducing it to an enumerable set
of conditions, those circumstances do not add up to a revolution
– the revolution was strictly extra. Qualifying it as a species of mob
violence, a momentary frenzy after a rough winter, or an ideo-
logically fanned outburst of resentment, we qualify away anything
deserving the term event: as the sum of its parts, we can say of it, as
Badiou does, citing Mallarmé, ‘nothing took place but the place’.
The Revolution will have been an issue of mismanagement, not
political possibility. If, on the contrary, we insist that what became
the Revolution is an actual event, we refuse to let it be completely
historicised. It remains a chance occurrence that is nonethe-
less unique to its situation. What was hazarded was a universal
opportunity – in excess of all historical particularisation. There was
a void in any given ordering of the situation, and the Revolution
marks that void’s brief, haphazard appearance, but only insofar as
34

we remain faithful to the possibility and consequences of its having

happened. This relationship of the event to the persons who pro-
claim fidelity to its universality is, as we shall see, crucial to Badiou’s
theory of the subject.
Another of Badiou’s favourite examples of an event is atonal
music. In its development from Haydn through Beethoven and up
to Schönberg, classical music rigorously explored the possibilities of
tonality to the point where, at least conceptually, only more-or-less
refined repetitions were left to be composed.10 When Schönberg
launched his atonal programme he did not do so recognisably within
the tonal tradition as a development of a latently indicated possibil-
ity. Rather, looking back, we discern that the point where atonalism
happened was indifferent to tonality, unmarked by necessity or dis-
covery. It appears now to have been a void in the tonal situation from
where something truly new – and general – had been launched.
These examples help clarify why Badiou’s conception of the
event should not be mistaken for ‘just anything’ that someone
more-or-less disinterestedly declares to be new and for which fidel-
ity is demanded. The simplest reason is hinted at already in Badiou’s
turn to mathematics with its rigorous truth procedures. Setting
aside his demonstrations of set theory, the very gesture of equating
mathematics with the discourse of being shows how impersonal,
general and universal his founding terms are. Set theory founds
mathematics on empty sets. That does not mean that founda-
tions are arbitrary – it means that they are without predetermined
quality, essence, relation; in short, subtracted of all attributes, they
gain their force by being generic, universal and actual. Being is
built on the very possibility of being generic, multiple and infinite,
of being not one. But it is hard indeed to seize that spot that is not
already beholden to established distinctions.
When a commitment to an event commits instead to the advent
of one thing that determines all belonging in particular, that com-
mitment is evil, as Badiou explicates in his short 1993 treatise on
Ethics.11 For evil to exist, according to Badiou, there must be truth,
because truth is the process of making an animal into a subject, of
distinguishing human being from innocent animality. No contempt
for animal being is implied – all Badiou argues is that, without
regard to truth, animal being proceeds also without reference to
good or evil. Animality is mostly our fate as self-interested, opin-
ionated creatures firmly attached to our situations. If we commit
ourselves to an event beyond our particular way of being, however,
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Benjamin Robinson
we become subjects. Subject to truth, we are also subject to the dis-

tinction between good and evil. The truth of our decision to declare
and show fidelity to an unprecedented occurrence, to a fleeting
event marking the universal and generic implications of a situ-
ational impasse, proves instead disastrous if this truth only seems
generic, but remains wed to particulars. If we are conscientious
and law abiding, we might feel like enlightened Kantian subjects,
but, cleaving to our situations, we are only the most estimable of
animals. If we break the law – not here or there, as further animal
adventure, but at the site of what appears to be an event – we risk
becoming subjects proper. As proper subjects, we are first subject
to truth – and if our commitment is false, if it proves to have been
in the name of a particular, then our fidelity becomes evil in
proportion to its closure, and our universality is a sham.
Badiou’s argument inverts Hegel’s case against revolution-
ary terror in Phenomenology of Spirit. There, Hegel interprets
Robespierre’s terror as the real working out of the universal ideal.12
Such idealistic universalism is bound to see hostility and factional-
ism in each particular, including in the particular persons who bear
the universal message. It is accordingly driven to extirpate every-
thing that exists because to exist is to exist as one, as particular.
For Hegel, hostility to animal particularity is the consequence of
abstract universalism and calls forth the development of morality as
the rights of the concrete individual. For Badiou, by contrast, it is
not by tolerating the one and particular, but by according particu-
larity no allegiance, that a subject is able to act truly sine ire et studio
(without hostility or bias). In other words, terror and disaster come
about not via commitment to the universal implications of truth but
by imagining that truth might take the form of closure – even, and
especially, the closure of idealism, which marches under the banner
of a transcendental vision.
The true subject is militant indeed, but the militancy is directed
against compromise with any party of particularism. Fighting com-
promise does not entitle the militant to close off an antagonist from
participation in the truth, especially when such exclusion takes the
form of extirpation.
We might fight against the judgments and opinions [an enemy]

exchanges with others for the purpose of corrupting every fidelity, but
not against his person – which, under the circumstances, is insignifi-
cant, and to which, in any case, every truth is ultimately addressed.13
36

So it is not the case, as it is for Hegel, that the true universalist hates
particularity – the universalist is indifferent to particularity in the
relevant situation. It is, rather, the false universalist, imagining truth
to have privileged prophets and caring too intently about individual
persons, communities and identities, who directs hostility against
everyone, against everyone precisely as generic nobodies outside
the community of the elect.
While the event forces an accounting, dictating what is relevant
to its break and what is not, it follows a generic rigor pertaining
strictly to what the void in its situation proposes. In this sense, decid-
ing what is an event and what a pseudo-event may be difficult, but
only by being forced to declare one’s decision is one called to live
in truth. Living in truth, being subject to the force of truth, means
being open to eventuality. Committing to the French Revolution
– like committing to atonal music, quantum mechanics or true
love – remains tolerant with respect to biographies and identities.
The force of the commitment comes via the void it opens wherever
people remain closed to its effects. The event thus appears – is
retrospectively discernible as having been an event – not as a fulfil-
ment of an implied destiny but as an open process of making its
multiplicity pertain, of working out what its post-evental situation
entails. That is, from pure multiplicity – infinite (since it has no
boundaries) and void (since it cannot be taken as one) – it becomes
an impure multiplicity, a multiplicity with elements and relations
transforming (but not destroying) the situation from which it arose.
What maintains this multiplicity in its truth, however, is that it is
never imagined as the one that henceforth plugs up the void. Its
infinity relates to the way it disqualifies without reserve a situation
that held no place for it. It does not relate to complete immanence
(divine memory) or ultimate transcendence (the timeless beyond)
– it is a secular infinity, a constituent of profane being.
Before turning to Badiou’s quintessential militant, Saint Paul,
a final consideration of set theory is helpful. As a branch of math-
ematics, it theorises number without imagining individual numbers
as qualities or intuitions ‘out there’ in the world. Breaking with
realist number theory – wherein numbers subsist as representable
entities – set theory eloquently serves Badiou’s project of under-
standing the world as based on blank ‘thatness’, a set of denotations
with no given properties or relations. ‘Thatness’ simply names a
void of meaning – all content is utterly subtracted. From that void,
however, set theory is able to group together multiplicities based
37

Benjamin Robinson
on minimal axioms and to develop all one needs for a workable

system of number. From number, even infinite number, another
key element of Badiou’s thought follows: the excess of inconsistent
multiplicity. This excess arises from the axiom that every set of ele-
ments also composes a set of subsets. This second set, however, may
exceed the first by an uncountable magnitude, by another order of
infinity. A nice example given by Peter Hallward is the set of letters
in the alphabet.14 While twenty-six is easy to count, when one con-
siders arrangements of subsets, there are 226 unrepeating arrange-
ments. If one allows for combinations that repeat letters – such as
the set of all utterable sentences – then the number of alphabetic
combinations can no longer be counted by real numbers. Without
going beyond a countable twenty-six, our few tokens, grouped in
their possible arrangements, rapidly exceed measurement. The
uncountable excess of subsets over elements points to a consti-
tutional instability in securing once and for all that of which a
multiple consists.
For the non-mathematically inclined Badiou’s recourse to set
theory might seem overly exacting. It accomplishes, however, an
elegant clarification of why number – ‘the one and many’ at the
basis of traditional ontology – arises by marshalling order from
blank ‘thatness’ with but a few axioms. This literal creatio ex nihilo
allows us to see how permeable the order of the world is, based as
it is not on immutable essences but on axiomatic arrangements
of empty tokens. Rather than fragility, this implies robustness for
Badiou: that any fixed set is susceptible to the excess of possible
rearrangements. While such susceptibility makes evil an option,
via meaningless nihilism, it also enables new truths, so long as rear-
rangement occurs not under the sign of jealous attachment to a
given situation but in the name of universality.
Saint Paul – The Universal Militant

In Ethics Badiou writes that ‘a subject [who] goes beyond the animal
. . . needs something to have happened, something that cannot be
reduced to its ordinary inscription in “what there is”’.15 What we
may have taken as philosophy’s quarry – truth – turns out to lie
beyond our knowledge. While philosophers can traverse diverse
knowledges, critiquing what gets inscribed in our books of ‘what
there is’, they are, for better or worse, not initiators, but formalis-
ers of truth. Originary truth belongs rather to those open to the
38

unthought – indeed, unthinkable – event. In thought’s encounter

with an event, in fidelity’s encounter with chance, truth is born as
a procedure of keeping alive the prospect that something new has
occurred. Such events do not happen in philosophy but in love, art,
science and politics – which are each what Badiou calls a ‘generic
procedure’.16
What do those lovers, artists, scientists and politicians look like
who are open to the event and become subjects in fidelity to evental
truth? When Badiou turns to Christian Church Father St Paul to
discover this sort of person, his move is unnerving, marking ‘the
greatest step back’, ‘when a step forward is the order of the day’.17
As a gesture saturated with strategic considerations, however,
Badiou’s provocation becomes clearer. What Paul presents to the
world, according to Badiou, is the subjective connection between
freedom and chance, on the one side, and law and nature, on the
other. Paul’s mode of forging this link is practical militancy, not
the Greek philosophical wisdom or Jewish interpretative authority
of his era. He names and denies the Hebraic and Hellenic dualism
that so inflects the course of European thought. If the mathemati-
cians whose truth procedures traverse Being and Event seem remote,
in St Paul we glimpse a canonised figure restored to unexpected
radicality: indifferent to the particularising powers of his time, Paul
exhibits the ‘invariant’ subjectivity of the militant universalist.18
Where Being and Event’s project is multifarious and philo-
sophical, Saint Paul’s is forceful and direct. Badiou holds that Paul
founded a faith explicitly as a universalism and did so – bore, propa-
gated and defended it – in blatant disregard of law and philosophy.
The contemporary force of Badiou’s gesture comes from its assault
on enlightened liberal expectations; namely, that the universal can
be thought only as a figure of law and/or reason – the Hebraic
and Hellenic couplet constituting the topography of modern uni-
versalism. Against this expectation, Badiou sees Paul as founding
the universal disposition on the basis of two alternate supports – a
generic subject (unqualified human being) and an event (the fleet-
ing chance of an imponderable opportunity). Despite Nietzsche’s
association of Paul with slave morality; despite the anticlerical
excoriation of him as the pillar of organised Christianity; despite
a theoretical recovery, via Benjamin, Levinas and Derrida, of the
Jewish messianism Paul left behind – despite such apparent liabili-
ties, Paul stands out for Badiou as exactly the site to theorise how
truth works as an attitude of subjective militancy in the name of an
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Benjamin Robinson
unprecedented breach in the status quo. Paul appears not as the

righteous and imperious (or devious and communal) founder of
orthodoxy but as the consummate tactician of revolution. He steers
the revolutionary good news clear of the shoals of canonical law,
Roman statism, Greek naturalism and the sectarian proprietorship
of prophets.
Rather than elaborating a dogma, Paul practises truth by defend-
ing a single absurd statement: Christ is resurrected. The statement’s
force resides not in factual veracity – it is a fable – but in the way it
oversteps orthodoxy by spurring conformity. Conformity – in the
light of Paul’s addressing the news of Christ’s resurrection to all
– means adhering to particularity, whether that of a community’s
jurisdiction or reason’s essentialism. Paul defends the ‘Christ event’
against cooptation by denying authority over it to any constituted
identity or recognised rule: ‘there is neither Jew nor Greek, there is
neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female’ (Gal. 3.28).
For those squeamish about the apparent irrationalism of Badiou’s
basing radical subjectivity on unqualified commitment to Christ’s
resurrection, the proposition is simply that our choices – about
love, beauty, freedom, nature – are grounded on nothing but the
possibility that we let ourselves be activated (resurrected) by the
implications of truth against all claims for the truth having been
settled (death). What the force of Badiou’s iconoclastic book comes
down to, especially when read with and against Being and Event, is
that, immersed in philosophical and leftist theoretical traditions,
Badiou also turns against them, making his book simultaneously an
antiphilosophical gesture and a philosophical explication of that
gesture: truth arises only as a rigorously strategised persistence in
non-conformity vis-à-vis every particularity.
Badiou presents Paul’s achievement against the background
of the archetypical distinctions of the ancient world – distinctions
whose primordial simplicity still organise much of contemporary
modernity. Paul becomes Paul on the road to Damascus, on the
basis of his insight that there is neither Jew nor Greek. ‘By the grace
of God I am what I am’.19 The implication is that true subjectivity is
generic not communal. It is founded on grace, which, in this case is
generative affiliation with the ‘Christ event’. There is nothing else
– just grace alone – that summons Paul to himself and his proper
name. Paul is not a biological son, nor a son by ethnicity, but one by
public loyalty to the grace that gave birth to the name of the saint.
Positively indifferent to biology and ethos, Paul’s grace is an
40

affront to Jew as well as Greek. To the ‘discourses’ of Hebraic and

Hellenic, Paul opposes the properly modern discourse of novelty, a
novelty marked by the preeminence of being offspring, not ances-
tor. What is the Jewish discourse? It is the discourse of the law, of
the symbolic order and its recourse to the sovereign exception (the
power of the father/prophet to judge all contested cases). What is
the Greek discourse? It is the discourse of nature and its rational
order (the power of the cosmos to demand conformity of desire
and aspiration). What Paul demonstrates, according to Badiou,
is that the law has no true support, neither historical nor a priori.
The classic antinomies of ‘the good versus the right’ and ‘com-
munal consensus versus natural law’ are derivative of the Hebraic/
Hellenic split. The particularism of Hebraic law is rooted in the
symbolic sign, over which the prophet has final – ultimately private
– authority. The conformism of Greek philosophy is rooted in the
iconic figure of nature, fixing the world according to a timeless
cosmos.
If Paul relieves us of the laws of nature and the laws of the
father, then what does he give us? At first, it seems a paltry recom-
pense: ‘weakness, folly and nonbeing’.20 This tripartite disposition,
however, is not a failure of proper plentitude, but an attitude of sub-
tracting oneself from the constituted order of differences, from a
cosmos of distinctions rooted in the unity of authority and closed to
the freedom of grace – closed, that is, to the possibility of an event,
of a generic, uncounted and infinite multiplicity, such as when a
universal truth appears in its moment of declaration. Weakness
and folly relate to nonbeing as the subtraction of omnipotence and
omniscient as predicates of God’s perfective Unity – without those
attributes God is not One. Not being one, God’s nonbeing is that
of the pure multiple. Under that sign of multiplicity Paul becomes
Paul, without regard to the limited choices, Jew or Greek, slave or
free, man or woman, he is offered.
Again, part of the complexity of this otherwise sweepingly
elegant argument for non-conformist individualism is that Paul
cannot pronounce his belief in Christ’s resurrection in the form
of a private revelation with no explicit bearing on the public situ-
ation. To the extent this connection to the real remains fabulous,
it is incumbent upon those seized by an event in the wake of the
Pauline gospel to think through the event’s unique site – and
how it breaks with the reigning situation. Paul theorises the uni-
versal break through the idea of the son of God, which Badiou
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Benjamin Robinson
generalises as the son of an event. What such filiation means is that

any voluntarism – any pure freedom in the mode of opportunism
or adventure – must come back to the evental site and account for
the way it belongs to its situation obscurely, without representation.
Faced with authority’s blindness to Christ, the first-century militant
grasped how declaring his resurrection undermines the hierarchy
of received differences, allowing truth to cut across them all. Truth
does not arrive as a demand for recognition placed upon the repre-
sentational order (upon the institutions of state) nor as a sceptical
questioning of the logic of that order (for a reformed state); rather,
born under the state but ignored by the state, the son declares the
state’s irrelevance to his life.
A declaration, however, that addresses itself merely to the state
of the situation and, brandishing its novelty, cleaves to particular
self-interest is a betrayal. If there is an asceticism to Paul (for which
Nietzsche reproaches him as a self-denying priest), then it consists
not in denying life but in refusing to sacrifice life to convenience.
This discipline – which discovers true subjectivity in fidelity to the
generically unprecedented – is one that returns hope in an event
to the situation that occludes it. Whatever trivial non-conformism
may belittle an orientation toward a glorious future, the orienta-
tion toward a present that ruthlessly effaces the event is anything
but casual. This present orientation is that of the militant’s uni-
versal address. It expresses a love (agape) that refuses to pander its
hope (elpis) in compromised terms, in terms that are not open in
principle to the boundless faith (pistis) of all.
Insisting on universal address lends subjective militancy its great-
est risk, and so requires its greatest discipline. The risk is that the
situation avenge itself on the apostle of the new, that it thwart any
hope that the event displace the existing situation. The terminology
of folly, scandal and weakness refers not only to the lack of any place
in the language of order for expressing the subject’s faith. Not just
rhetorical defamations, these epithets mark the real animosity of
law and order toward the bearer of truth. Exposed in official lan-
guage as mortal – never to be resurrected from self-interest to open-
ness toward infinite truth – the truth’s ‘earthen vessel’ becomes
easy prey for state violence. For the militant subject, body and soul
are not distinguished. While such commitment unites theory and
practice against the state’s intolerance for what does not belong, its
indifference often appears more embattled than ecstatic – it is, of
course, both.
42

Conclusion
Embattled and ecstatic: this is the experience of reading Badiou’s
philosophy and antiphilosophy. The set-theoretical terminology,
which grounds Badiou’s thinking in the most generic and genera-
tive possibilities of ordering and multiplicity, is demanding. Despite
Badiou’s protestations that his mathematics is elementary, there
is no use denying the effort required to leap from mathematical
conceptions of what counts to philosophical discourses of Being.
At the same time, as the provocation of St Paul makes clear, Badiou
relishes in gestures that blithely – if sometimes brutally – reorganise
expectations about which distinctions a thinker – and activist –
needs to defend and which to let scatter like dust in the face of new
truths, truths that are not the property of philosophy but available
to all who carefully heed them.
Notes
1. Alain Badiou, ‘The Adventure of French Philosophy’, New Left Review,
35, 2005, pp. 67–77.
2. Alain Badiou, ‘“We Need a Popular Discipline”: Contemporary Politics
and the Crisis of the Negative’, interview by Filippo Del Lucchese and
Jason Smith, Critical Inquiry, 34, 2008, p. 648.
3. Ibid. pp. 645–59 (646).
4. Badiou, The Century, p. 32.
5. Badiou, Ethics, p. 25.
6. Badiou, Being and Event, p. 148.
7. Ibid. pp. 31–7.
8. In ‘“We Need a Popular Discipline”’, Badiou sees a politics based in
negating the state and seizing power as obsolete. Instead of a destruc-
tive politics, he proposes a subtractive one, where ‘subtractive’ refers
to opting out of the relations the state proffers for managing politics.
Badiou, ‘“We Need a Popular Discipline”’, pp. 652–3.
10. Badiou discusses ‘the Schönberg-event’ in ‘A Musical Variant of the
Metaphysics of the Subject’, Parrhesia, 2, 2007, pp. 29–36. The example
of Haydn appears in Badiou, Ethics, p. 68.
11. Badiou, Ethics, pp. 58–89.
12. G. W. F. Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, trans. A. V. Miller (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1979), §§582–95.
14. Hallward, Badiou, p. 89.
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Benjamin Robinson

17. Badiou, Saint Paul, p. 2.
18. Badiou, Saint Paul, p. 2. For a discussion of invariant communist sub-
jectivity in Badiou, see Bruno Bosteels, ‘The Speculative Left’, South
Atlantic Quarterly, 104, 4, 2005, pp. 753–69.
19. 1 Cor. 15.10; Badiou, Saint Paul, p. 17.
20. Ibid. p. 49.
Major Works by Badiou

Being and Event, trans. Oliver Feltham (London: Continuum, 2005 [1988]).
The Century, trans. Alberto Toscano (Cambridge: Polity, 2007 [2005]).
Ethics: An Essay on the Understanding of Evil, trans. Peter Hallward (London:
Verso, 2001 [1993]).
Handbook of Inaesthetics, trans. Alberto Toscano (Stanford: Stanford
Logics of Worlds: Being and Event, Vol. 2, trans. A. Toscano (New York:
Continuum, 2009 [2006]).
Saint Paul: The Foundation of Universalism, trans. Ray Brassier (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 2003 [1997]).
Theoretical Writings, ed. and trans. Ray Brassier and Alberto Toscano
(London: Continuum, 2004).

Bosteels, Bruno, Badiou and Politics (Durham: Duke University Press, forth-
coming). Bosteels, who has translated Badiou’s Theory of The Subject and
some of his early Maoist work, highlights the political stakes of Badiou’s
philosophy.
Feltham, Oliver, Alain Badiou: Live Theory (London: Continuum, 2008). A
brief introduction to Badiou divided into four periods of his intellectual
genesis.
Hallward, Peter, Badiou: A Subject to Truth (Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press, 2003). Hallward is Badiou’s most authoritative English-
language interpreter.
Hallward, Peter (ed.), Think Again: Badiou and the Future of Philosophy
(London: Continuum, 2004). Responses to Badiou’s work by leading
contemporary thinkers from Slavoj Žižek to Ernesto Laclau.
44

3
Zygmunt Bauman (1925–)

Peter Beilharz
Zygmunt Bauman has an intriguing presence in English-speaking

social theory. His influence is ubiquitous, but at the same time it
is marginal. Little surprise: neither has he set out to establish a
system, a set of operational theoretical tools, nor has he established
a school. Across the years his modus operandi has been solitary and
idiosyncratic; and his object has moved, though his sensibilities
have remained more constant. He still identifies with sociology, as a
field, and with socialism, as a norm or utopia.
Now that his work is well known, it is worth remembering that
Bauman is not a celebrity. He is not a public intellectual, or at
least not a TV-intellectual. But he writes for a public, even if it is an
imaginary one, and this is especially true of his work over the last
decade. There is a prehistory to this most recent phase of public
writing; and there is another prehistory before that. Bauman wrote
fifteen books in Polish during his first career when he was living
another life that, quite reasonably, he imagined might be his last.
Having joined the Polish Army in the Soviet Union in 1941 he was
sacked from his rank as Major in 1953. He opened a new door,
that to sociology and philosophy at the University of Warsaw, and
eventually became one of its leading lights. Then, again (history
repeats) he was sacked for the most honorable possible professorial
crime – ‘misleading the youth’ – in the anti-Semitic purge of 1968.
Driven out, he finally settled in Yorkshire, where his fields were still
socialism and sociology. This, the opening English language phase
of his long life, generated at least thirty books, published in at least
thirty languages, and covering an extraordinary array of interests,
45

Peter Beilharz
from utopia to hermeneutics, culture to mortality, postmodernity,

intellectuals, violence, stigma, love, death and eternity.1
How could we characterise this project? Probably the two most
influential academic books across this span are Legislators and
Interpreters and Modernity and the Holocaust. But these are clearly
scholarly works, works directed primarily to his students and peers,
not so explicitly to the public, real or imagined. Yet there is a clear
break or change of strategy in his writing and publishing. It coin-
cides with his retirement, in 1990. Modernity and Ambivalence is his
last powerful monograph, though it is also a text entirely continu-
ous with Modernity and the Holocaust – it literally reads like its second
part or extension. Several volumes of essays followed – Intimations
of Modernity, Life in Fragments, Postmodernity and Its Discontents and
others. The sea change came with Globalization and the works that
followed it, especially Community, Identity and Europe – all little
books, keyword studies in brief compass.2 These were examples of
what he called the Buchlein, the little book, the strap hanger for
the train or bus, no footnotes, or few, rather a condensing image
put to work as the pretext for a complaint about the injustices and
asymmetries of the world we have constructed.
Along with these, not always in the same format but designed
to be user-friendly, was the flurry of work exercising the theme of
liquidity, from Liquid Modernity to Liquid Love, Liquid Life and Liquid
Times.3 By this stage, some of Bauman’s critics thought that he was
fished out, given merely to repetition. Bauman’s strategy was to
repeat his claims in different ways, using different symbols – glo-
balisation, community, identity, Europe, whatever – to connect the
present to the traditions of critical sociology which he inherited,
and indeed to repeat himself. For he was no longer thinking of his
reader as someone (like me) who would read his entire output seri-
ally, awaiting each instalment in a personal scholarly trajectory. His
new imaginary reader was rather the strap hanger who might read
one book, and next be reading Richard Sennett or Alain de Botton
or Who Weekly or The Guardian. So, for example, we find Bauman’s
influence acknowledged in a novel like Monica Ali’s In the Kitchen.4
This shows that his strategy for the little books has had some success:
they are books that might even be read in the kitchen.
So there are now two different audiences, or constituencies,
for the work of Zygmunt Bauman. One is popular, curious, terti-
ary educated but occasional in its encounter with universities. The
other (us) has some professional investment in theory, like it or not,
46

will view matters from different perspectives, not always given to

democracy or to sharing, looking for clues or pendants with which
to legitimise our work and to make it seem different or distinct from
that of our competitors. How, amidst all this, do we find a line into
this labyrinth?
There are many, already, suggested. Some, like Keith Tester,
value the literary aspect of Bauman’s work. Others, like Anthony
Elliott, want to stress its contemporaneity. My own inclination has
been to stress its continuity, for this is the aspect of his work that
shouts the loudest at me. Bauman, for me, is still a traditional East
European critical theorist. He carries traditions that he takes very
seriously, from Simmel, Freud and Weber, as well as many others,
including novelists and anthropologists.5 But the longest lineage for
Bauman starts in Trier and ends in the British Museum, not too far
from the library of the London School of Economics where he also
laboured.
Marx and Surplus Population

In 1867 Karl Marx published Capital Volume One. It was to have
a major effect on the life and work of Zygmunt Bauman, who had
become a communist in Poland during the Second World War. For
it contained a world-view, and a critique of capitalist civilisation as
well as of political economy; and its frame reflected Marx’s exile in
the homeland of capitalism, an exile which Bauman was to follow, a
century later, when he took up his chair at the University of Leeds,
not too far from Engels’s Manchester.
The power of Capital Volume One can be found in the rigour
of its internal logic, the cell-form of the commodity leading to the
ghosts of commodity fetishism, in its descent into the purgatory
of the labour process, like entering Dante’s inferno, in its majestic
survey of the struggle over the working day, in its apocalyptic climax
in Chapter 32, where Marx’s drama finally closes with the expropria-
tion of the expropriators. But the passages which extend most clearly
from Marx’s project into Bauman’s are different. They arrive in
Parts Seven and Eight, the last two acts of Capital. Part Seven Section
4 addresses ‘Different forms of the Relative Surplus Population’.
Marx’s initial field of concern here is unemployment, though the
idea of ‘surplus population’ is broader and more expansive. It travels
across time and space, right through to the present, to Bauman’s
concern with the lost postmodern souls he calls vagabonds.
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Peter Beilharz
Even in his moment Marx understands the importance of

partial employment. Regardless of cyclical trends, he tells us, unem-
ployment has three forms, floating, latent and stagnant, liquid
metaphors of the human condition that again anticipate Bauman’s
critique of modernity a hundred years later. Floating unemploy-
ment appears mainly in connection with machinery, in great
workshops that prefer to employ boys rather than men. The youth
whose fate it is to float often float overseas – they are compelled
to emigrate, following that part of capital which emigrates. The
mechanisation of agriculture likewise compels local and regional
migration. This is what Marx calls latent surplus population. Finally,
by stagnant relative surplus population Marx designates those
workers who are subject to extremely irregular employment. The
lowest category of relative surplus population dwells in the sphere
of pauperism. ‘Exclusive of vagabonds, criminals, prostitutes, in a
word, the “dangerous” classes, this layer of society consists of three
categories’, he tells us: those able to work; orphans and pauper chil-
dren; and the demoralised and ragged, the mutilated and sickly.6
In sum total these categories go to make up the industrial reserve
army of the unemployed. All this, of course, is the result of progress,
development, the further application of capitalist technology.
Marx returns to these issues historically in Chapter 27, on
the expropriation of the agricultural population from the land,
a theme which still resonates through Southeast Asia and Latin
America today. In Thomas More’s nightmare, sheep ate men; you
can modify the images as you will for the inhabitants of the rainfor-
ests in those other lands today. After all, it was the introduction of
local laws preventing the ‘theft’ of wood from the commons which
had originally drawn Marx into the field of radical journalism,
before he became a marxist.
Capital closes, infamously, with the double ending of Chapters 32
and 33. (Bauman was to introduce his own double ending, modern
and postmodern, in Legislators and Interpreters). Colonisation, as
Marx and Engels had anticipated earlier in The Communist Manifesto,
would sooner or later expand to cover the planet. There would be
nothing outside the rule of capital. Primitive accumulation would
extend across the entire globe. And as Bauman would conclude,
in his own time, the planet would be full. The connection and
affinity between Bauman and his teacher is clear. While Marx’s
revolutionary choreography culminates in proletarian victory in
the penultimate chapter of Capital, Chapter 33 opens the door to
48

the world to them, and to the apparent solution to the problem of

surplus population proposed by Edward Wakefield, namely, sys-
tematic colonisation in Australia. The prospect of migration to the
New World provides the safety valve for the Old World. But by our
time, and Bauman’s own, this idea has been totally exhausted. It was
already impossible in Marx’s time. The point of connection is an
obvious one, which perhaps drops out of sight because it is obvious.
The politics of capitalism and of nation states is a geopolitics, a poli-
tics of space. Surplus populations will become a major attribute of
modern times.
Labour and Modern Capitalism

Marx’s work never transcends its labour ontology, or departs from
its founding preface, that men and women are suffering, sensuous,
creative beings. Bauman’s sociology can be characterised in many
different ways, as a critique of modernity, as an East European
critical theory, as a critique of consumption, whatever. Yet one of its
enduring motifs is to be found in the idea of surplus populations,
sensuous, suffering, creative beings who are told or compelled to
move on. Movement is central to modernity, to power and to culture.
Forced movement is one of its central facts of life. This theme can
be traced through some of Bauman’s most powerful works, from
his English language beginning in the 1972 work Between Class and
Elite to the 1982 classic Memories of Class, to the peak of his influence
in Modernity and the Holocaust; Postmodernity and its Discontents; Work,
Consumerism and the New Poor; and Wasted Lives.
So let us begin at Bauman’s beginning. He had published fifteen
books in his native Polish when he was himself driven into exile, like
Marx, a political refugee, with all the irony of the great communist
experiment: he was too marxist for a putatively marxist regime, so
he and his family were harassed and then shown the door, the final
exit of the one way visa out of Warsaw via Jerusalem. He had been
out before, in moments of authorised scholarly pursuit, not least
in the late fifties, when his curiosity took him to Manchester and
to the London School of Economics and Bloomsbury, which has
meant so much to so many, and Marx’s drag as well, from Dean
Street and Soho to the splendour of the British Museum. Marx
was, as he himself said, a machine condemned to devour books,
and also a machine condemned to produce more than his share of
them, another characteristic that Bauman was to come to share with
49

Peter Beilharz
him. So it is clear. Zygmunt Bauman was attracted to England for

the same reason as Marx was. They would leave you alone, even if
they ignored you for a long time; they had the primeval experience
of industrialisation, capitalism and modern class struggle; and, by
Bauman’s time, they had Marx, and they still tolerated marxists.
Its first results appeared in Between Class and Elite. It was based
on Bauman’s earlier work in Polish and was deeply connected to
his earlier time and experience in Britain. Bauman is interested
in a general theory of labour movements, understood as a prelude
to a general theory of social movements. His interest is both in
the movements themselves and in their representation. The latter
matters, not least because the realities of class and suffering always
strain against intellectual self-interest when it comes to the rep-
resentation of some by others who do not suffer in the same way.
Intellectuals always get in the way.
Bauman’s curiosity invariably takes him onto the turf dominated
by historians, not least of them E. P. Thompson. He contests some
of the humanist confidence of Thompson’s famous Making of the
English Working Class, both as regards labour’s promethean origins
and its present capacity.7 Bauman views class as a retrospective manner
of naming a series of struggles against industrialism. ‘Community’
matters more than ‘proletariat’, in the beginning. Thompson, in
others words, reads history backwards. The mass worker is a new,
twentieth-century phenomenon; the pioneer workers of the indus-
trial revolution still had their heads elsewhere, somewhere before
fordism and modernity. But when labour organisation changes, and
accommodates itself to capitalism, it does so with a vengeance. In
the long run, labour provides the most able lieutenants for capital.
Labour develops its own elites, with a thin relationship with those
unskilled they actually claim to represent. The organisations of the
labour movement became a career escalator.
The Industrial Revolution was a prime mover: it introduced the
fact of motion or, as Marx put it, it normalised the possibility of
geographical and social mobility. Population density and migration
increased dramatically. Movement from the country to the cities
became the Leitmotif of modernity that it still is. Capitalism’s per-
manent revolution was one of movement. Surplus population con-
stituted a kind of explosion within the old existing social relations
and structures. Bauman gestures towards Capital as the authoritative
source here, but also reminds us of Engels’s major contribution in
The Condition of the Working Class in England.8 The general sentiment
50

of his analysis, however, is that this was a matter of all that was solid
melting. Industrialism normalised change or disintegration before
the emergence of the new order was possible. The motif here is
exactly the same as that later coined as ‘liquid modernity’ replacing
‘solid modernity’. Estrangement ruled. The least advantaged were
the pariahs, the ‘navvies’, the masterless men.
Having been there first, Edward Thompson pilloried Bauman
and his book in The Guardian on 28 December 1972. It was bad
enough that Bauman was a sociologist, but he also imagined he
knew more about socialism than Thompson did. Bauman never-
theless persisted. He returned to Thompson’s fields, in company
with the unwelcome figure of Michel Foucault, in his major reprise,
Memories of Class: The Prehistory and Afterlife of Class. Bauman was, in
a sense, writing the marxian instalment missing from Foucault’s
project, where there was Discipline, Power, Hospital, Clinic, Prison
– but no Factory.9 For Marx, for Capital, of course, the factory was
the characteristic institutional form and core of modernity. And
Bauman follows this, until the 1970s, when consumption replaces
work or production as the central activity of modernity, and the
mall replaces the factory as its institutional embodiment. The
factory is the Panopticon.
Here, again, the issue of representation is fundamental. For the
new industrial class, the proletariat, there is another, new intellec-
tual class, the helpers, from social workers to trades union leaders
and politicians – no Panopticon without Bentham, no reform
without its Fabians, no Russian Revolution without Bolsheviks. But
it was the rapid erosion of protective institutions which was a major
cause of discontent; and again, the obvious echo in Bauman’s work
is with the dismantling of the welfare state after the decline of the
golden age of capitalism after World War Two. Alongside Foucault’s
Discipline and Punish and Thompson’s Making of the English Working
Class, the third pillar of Bauman’s thinking is Barrington Moore’s
Injustice.10 Socialism and the labour movement, on this way of think-
ing, represent reaction rather than progress, resistance to change
rather than its enthusiastic pursuit. The results of industrialisation
were unmistakable. The dissipation of locally based paternalis-
tic institutions resulted in a massive production of paupers and
beggars, vagrants and vagabonds.
Call it modern capitalism, call it the Industrial Revolution, the
most powerful immediate effect of the great transformation was
demographic. Now there was the beginning of material abundance.
51

Peter Beilharz
Together with surplus product and surplus value came surplus pop-
ulation. The historical novelty of the factory system, after its disas-
trous collapse in the Depression, was in its capacity to absorb labour.
This was the exceptional moment of postwar fordism, when produc-
ers had been taught to produce and now were able also to consume,
before they had to be taught that consumption, alone, was to be the
primary source of identity. The factory, in any case, was at least as
profoundly a cultural as an economic institution. Its purpose was to
make new men, and women, and to bind them into the new order,
not merely to generate profit or to extract surplus value.
Throughout the period of its consolidation into the twentieth
century, capitalist culture worked through the politics of inclusion
and, via inclusion, exploitation. Peasants became proletarians;
pariahs eventually became factory fodder. But there remained
problems of surplus population, of stigma, of others who did not
belong or whose belonging was temporary or contingent. The pro-
letarian was never quite unmarked in his universality; some were
more completely included or assimilated than others. Not all were
to be welcomed into the Panopticon, or into the Factory. There
were other institutions yet to be fully designed and constructed,
like those of the gas ovens, anticipated earlier in lightweight canvas
form as the camps of the nineteenth century. The bodies of others
had also been drilled through the slave trade and plantations, which
as Bauman observes may in turn have influenced the formation of
factory systems.
In the heartlands of the West, in the meantime, the proletariat
had garlanded its chains with flowers. They had been lead actors,
along with the bourgeoisie and the new class, in the construction of
corporatism, which represented the inclusive moment of postwar
capitalism. The outsiders now were those without hope, the postwar
lumpenproletariat. The ‘new victims’ of this social arrangement would
be those who truly missed out. For there was now, again, a discern-
able underclass in the cities of the West. And there were others.
They might be marginals within these systems, or they might consist
of the massed ranks of the dispossessed of the earth, the poor and
excluded of the Third World.
Postmodernity and Intellectuals

Two turns follow, in the path of Bauman’s work, in 1987 and 1989.
The 1987 turn is to the postmodern, famously, in Legislators and
52

Interpreters: On Modernity, Post-Modernity and Intellectuals. The hyphen

gives it away – this was a pioneering work on the postmodern in
sociology, before the connector became lost and the unitary term,
‘postmodern’, became naturalised. The title tells more, and less.
First, the proper object of Bauman’s enquiry is intellectuals; for
the postmodern is first and foremost an intellectual preoccupation.
Neither proletarian nor bourgeois would be much moved by it,
except until the postmodern became a consumer good. But more,
Bauman’s enthusiasm for the idea of the postmodern was limited,
analytical rather than celebratory. Something had changed, since
corporatism or fordism or what he would later call solid modernity.
And one aspect of this was that intellectuals, who hitherto were
keen to step up not only to celebrity but also to power, might now
step back, return to more modest claims to interpretation or trans-
lation between life-worlds. Second, and more surprisingly, we had
met the enemy, and he (she) was us. For the problem in this book
was intellectuals, Enlighteners, implicitly all of us would-be improv-
ers, from Fabians to Bolsheviks to postwar social democrats, social
engineers all.
While Bauman remained committed both to socialism and to
sociology, and had long identified utopia as a norm rather than as
a state-of-affairs to be achieved, this was nevertheless a step back or
away from his own class. Another significant step came in Modernity
and the Holocaust. Here, under the influence of Janina Bauman’s
childhood memoirs of life in and escape from the Warsaw Ghetto,
Winter in the Morning (London: Virago, 1986), Bauman chose to
foreground the Holocaust as a way of seeing modernity. If the
victims of the do-gooders in Legislators and Interpreters were the
masses of ordinary people who were the victims of routine social
engineering since the nineteenth century, then the victims of the
Holocaust were also apparent. Outsiders, Romany, socialists, devi-
ants, radical Christians, homosexuals, but above all, Jews. Jews,
notoriously, had to be stigmatised, culturally alienated before they
could be banished or destroyed. Vermin, weeds, dirt, matter out
of place; all the most powerful stigmata were applied prior to the
mass destruction of the Jews. But why? Because these people repre-
sented surplus population. ‘Rootless’, they could be charged with
belonging nowhere, first to be driven to Madagascar, then east, into
Poland, for the Final Solution. Nazism was also, fundamentally, a
means of dealing with ‘surplus population’.
Bauman could not fully articulate the case in this way, because
53

Peter Beilharz
of the pioneering nature of his work. And it is worth remembering

that, while it now has been assimilated into social science common-
sense, and despite its Amalfi-Prize-winning status, Bauman and his
book were originally shunned.11 Most of his initial reviewers did not
welcome this messenger, but dismissed Bauman for blaming moder-
nity, rather than the Germans, for this atrocity. Today, Bauman’s
message is rather accepted, even if as a necessary provocation, and
students of Holocaust studies routinely approach their subject in
terms of surplus population, viewing Nazism primarily as a massive
project in demographic engineering.12 The Holocaust, like the
Enclosure Acts before it, was a topological project. Nazism was
primarily a territorial politics, a project which necessarily included
the deterritorialisation of others and the reterritorialisation of their
spaces as German ground. Anti-Semitism was fundamental to this;
but its territorial aspects plainly involved relocating and extermi-
nating populations in order to establish the Third Reich in all its
spatial grandeur. Lebensraum (the German and Nazi drive for more
territory) was elemental.
Underneath all this there is a hostility on Bauman’s part to the
spectre of Faust, the legendary German figure who makes a pact
with the devil in return for knowledge, and his children, those who
want to set the social and natural world to rights. Faust is happy to
cut up the world, as well as to sacrifice others along the way. Hitler’s
project became a gardening state, seeking out the weeds and their
eradication. So the Nazi kind of social engineering also had some-
thing to do with the Enlightenment impulse of setting-the-world to
rights, even if and as the Nazis hated the Enlightenment. They used
its technologies, and those of the industrialism it later licensed.
They became Faustian gardeners with a vengeance, cultivators
without a precedent. Gardening was a metaphor which Bauman
had used in Legislators and Interpreters, where he contrasted the zeal
of the do-gooders with the gentler ecology of the gamekeepers.
Bauman’s own temperament has long been apparent, in contrast.
He has always been a gamekeeper.13
Liquidity
There remains an unavoidable tension in modernity. There are
always others who need help. But is it better to help or not to
help? Does the welfare state merely reproduce or even increase
patterns of dependence? We all depend on others, almost every
54

moment of our waking lives. To turn away is even worse. For there
will always be outsiders, strangers in our midst. Bauman returns to
these themes in his essays on ‘Parvenu and Pariah: The Heroes and
Victims of Modernity’ and its sequel, ‘Tourists and Vagabonds: The
Heroes and Victims of Postmodernity’.14 Here, before the idea of
liquid modernity is coined, it is modernity itself which is restless:
as Bauman puts it, ‘modernity is the impossibility of staying put.
To be modern means to be on the move.’15 This is not a choice.
We are driven to move by the disparity between the beauty of the
vision and the ugliness of reality. This makes us all nomads, in this
sense at least. Nomads are parvenus, arrivistes, in but not quite of.
This is the tragedy of modern culture: we only feel at home in our
homelessness and this is an ambivalence beyond cure. The same
ambivalence holds true for tourists and vagabonds, even if the latter
move by necessity as contrasted to the choice of the former. Tourists
have credit cards; and the vagabonds serve them, or can do, carry
their bags, hold their doors open, service them sexually. Neither
tourists nor vagabonds can be fixed in place, though tourists get
closer to fixity by choice (they can choose home) and vagabonds
get closer to fixity by circumstance (there is simply nowhere else
to go, until further notice). Tourists, as Bauman puts it, in an early
exercise of the notion, are the supreme masters of the art of melting
the solids and unfixing the fixed. They do not belong, yet they can
keep their distance. Tourists move, on this account; they do not
arrive. Vagabonds, in contrast, are the waste of the world which has
dedicated itself to servicing tourists. The background image of vaga-
bonds is as Romany, and again Zygmunt Bauman is working here
under the influence of the work of his wife, Janina. Tourists happily
evacuate, leave their mess behind for the vagabonds to work over
and deal with. Their worlds are attractive. Vagabonds move because
they find the world unbearably inhospitable. Tourists travel because
they want to, vagabonds because they have no other choice. Their
momentary sense of tolerance or ‘welcome’ can be withdrawn at a
moment’s notice.
Bauman knows that these are metaphors, rather than concepts;
he is not presenting this couplet, tourist/vagabond, as a replace-
ment or updating of, for example, class relations. Nevertheless,
he suggests that ‘the opposition between the tourists and the vaga-
bonds is the major, principal division of the postmodern society’,16
and it is a global divide, even as it is lived out locally in the metropo-
lis as well. This is an extension of the older, Hegelian dialectic of
55

Peter Beilharz
master and slave. The poor, the dispossessed of the world, become
the rubbish bins of the privileged. Vagabonds are trash cans for
tourist filth.
Bauman pursues these themes further in Work, Consumerism
and the New Poor. Here, everything that is old is new again. For the
worlds of division and exclusion that we face today still call out
earlier images of pauperism and a literature which runs through
Disraeli, ‘The Two Nations’, Carlyle, Gaskell, Ricardo and Mayhew,
Bentham and Chadwick. What he here calls modernity phase two,
consumer’s modernity, however, summons up a different empha-
sis between production and consumption. For some years, by this
point, Bauman had been travelling in company with the kindred
spirit of Jeremy Seabrook. Here, in effect, their concerns merge,
for there is also a fellow traveller to this 1998 book, which is the
little book on Globalization, where the effects of displaced peoples
is tracked globally, in a complementary dimension to that of the
Keynesian welfare state which is the analytical object of Work,
Consumerism and the New Poor. The point, after Marx, with Keynes, is
that capital is not only the vampire which sucks living labour dry; it
also expels labour, literally evacuates it from the core institutions of
modernity. Capital prices labour out of work, so that there is now
a global reserve army of the unemployed, while welfare provision
remains local. The underclass, Marx’s Lumpenproletariat, returns
to haunt us. No longer mere victims, they now become demons,
moral rather than economic in their primary function, constantly
reminding all of us of the horrible fates of outsiders, keeping our
noses down and bums up. The figure of the poor person becomes
a scarecrow, not only superfluous to economic needs but also scary.
The most powerful condensation of these concerns comes, finally,
with Wasted Lives – Modernity and Its Outcasts. This is the point at which
Bauman connects most powerfully back to the issue of humans as
waste posited in Modernity and the Holocaust. ‘Our planet is full’.17
Not only full, but bloated, as parts of the planet are rendered unfit
for habitation, and the world system of consumption has expanded
to the point that there is nothing left outside it, even as its marginal
members struggle to survive. The production of ‘human waste’,
more correctly wasted humans, excess souls, surplus population, the
redundant, is an inevitable outcome of modernisation. Colonialism
no longer offers the outlet for surplus population that it once did.
The vast masses of lost humans want in, want in to the cities, most
evidently in the megacities of the developing world. We are awash in
56

shit, in the detritus of an economy based on obsolescence of humans

and materials alike. Bauman is too polite to use the word, but it is the
image of shit, human waste, wasted humans, actual and metaphori-
cal, which holds up this entire book. So Mary Douglas reappears in
the text, along with the anthropology of dirt. More, as he puts it,
Waste is simultaneously divine and satanic. It is the midwife of all
creation – and its most formidable obstacle. Waste is sublime: a unique
blend of attraction and repulsion arousing an equally unique mixture
of awe and fear.18
This much across time, but so much inflamed by modernity and its
recklessness. Modernity is excess. Surplus population is one of the
great externalities of capitalist economy. Prisons become the most
expressive of institutions for this dumping of human lives. Refugees
become its most stigmatised object.
But in the meantime, at the turn of the millennium, Bauman has
posited the idea and the telos of Liquid Modernity, and all that which
follows – liquid love, liquid fear, liquid times. The primary sociologi-
cal purpose of the idea of liquid modernity seems to be to clarify
the periodisation of twentieth century development outside of the
language of postmodernity. Yet postmodernity routinely was used to
describe the capitalist world after the 1970s, and liquid modernity
indicates the same kind of notional periodisation. Solid moder-
nity is fordism. Liquid modernity is what comes after, fraught with
uncertainty, fragility, precariousness. Liquidity, like the postmod-
ern before it, might be an attitude rather than a fixed condition or
a fact. If postmodernity was for Bauman a matter of experiencing
modernity without illusions, then liquid modernity was a matter
of taking on modernity without certainty, safety or security. Life,
henceforth, would be even more precarious, especially for those
who did not choose this but had it forced rather upon them.
Certainly the rate of change seems to be accelerating, and the
purpose of liquidity is to capture this mercurial quality of flux, inas-
much as it is open to capture at all. How will all this look later, after
the fact, after the immediacy of our moment and its experience? As
Bernard Smith is given to remind us, in the company of Hegel, it
remains entirely possible that we only understand history after the
fact.19 What looks liquid to my generation, or Bauman’s, might well
look different to those who are just now entering this world, and
experience it as normal. The fact of movement, and the problems
of surplus population, will persist, and accelerate further.
57

Peter Beilharz
The image of liquidity is an intellectual device, not a thing in

the world. It is a way of seeing, and Bauman has always been fond of
ways of seeing, of the metaphor of past social critique and new. Like
its object, modernity, Bauman’s critical theory keeps moving on,
anchoring interpretation between past critique and new futures. Its
fascination rests with this intricate sense of negotiation, where the
interpreter represents the present in between. This much we owe to
his example.
Notes
1. See for example Peter Beilharz (ed.), Zygmunt Bauman; Keith Tester
and Michael Hivid Jacobsen, Bauman before Postmodernity: Invitation,
Conversations and Annotated Bibliography 1953–1989 (Aalborg: Aalborg
University Press, 2006); Anthony Elliott (ed.), The Contemporary Bauman.
2. Zygmunt Bauman, Community: Seeking Safety in an Insecure World
(Cambridge: Polity, 2002); Zygmunt Bauman, Identity: Conversations
with Benedetto Vecchi (Cambridge: Polity, 2004); Zygmunt Bauman,
Europe: An Unfinished Adventure (Cambridge: Polity, 2004).
3. Zygmunt Bauman, Liquid Love: On the Frailty of Human Bonds
(Cambridge: Polity, 2003); Zygmunt Bauman, Liquid Life (Cambridge:
Polity, 2005); and Zygmunt Bauman, Liquid Times: Living in an Age of
Uncertainty (Cambridge: Polity, 2006).
4. Monica Ali, In the Kitchen (New York: Doubleday, 2009).
5. Peter Beilharz, ‘Another Bauman: The Anthropological Imagination’,
in M. Davis and K. Tester (eds), Baumann’s Challenge: Sociological Issues
for the 21st Century (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), pp. 62–9.
6. Karl Marx, Capital Volume One (London: George Allen and Unwin,
1867/1946), p. 659.
7. E. P. Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class (London:
Victor Gollancz, 1963).
8. Friedrich Engels, The Condition of the Working Class in England in 1844
(London: Swan Sonnenschein & Co., 1892).
9. See Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (New
York: Vintage, 1979).
10. Barrington Moore, Injustice: The Social Bases of Obedience and Revolt
(New York: Random House, 1978).
11. See Beilharz, Zygmunt Bauman, Volume 2, Part 3, ‘The Holocaust’.
12. Ibid. David Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature: Water, Landscape and the
Making of Modern Germany (London: Cape, 2006).
13. John Carroll, ‘Zygmunt Bauman – Mortality and Culture’, in M.
H. Jacobsen, S. Marshman and K. Tester (eds), Bauman beyond
Postmodernity (Aalborg: Aalborg University Press, 2007).
58

14. See Bauman, Postmodernity and Its Discontents.

15. Ibid. p. 77.
16. Ibid. p. 93.
17. Bauman, Wasted Lives, p. 5.
18. Ibid. p. 22.
19. Bernard Smith, The Formalesque (Melbourne: Macmillan, 2007).
Major Works by Bauman

Between Class and Elite (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1972).
Globalization: The Human Consequences (Cambridge: Polity, 1998).
Intimations of Postmodernity (London: Routledge, 1992).
Legislators and Interpreters: On Modernity, Post-Modernity and Intellectuals
(Cambridge: Polity, 1987).
Liquid Modernity (Cambridge: Polity, 2000).
Memories of Class: The Prehistory and After-Life of Class (London: Routledge,
1982).
Modernity and Ambivalence (Cambridge: Polity, 1991).
Modernity and the Holocaust (Cambridge: Polity, 1989).
Postmodernity and Its Discontents (Cambridge: Polity, 1997).
Socialism: The Active Utopia (London: Allen and Unwin, 1976).
Wasted Lives: Modernity and Its Outcasts (Cambridge: Polity, 2004).
Work, Consumerism and the New Poor (London: Open University, 1998).

Beilharz, Peter, Zygmunt Bauman: Dialectic of Modernity (London: Sage,
2000). One of the first general surveys of Bauman’s work.
Beilharz, Peter (ed.), The Bauman Reader (Oxford: Blackwell, 2001).
The first general collection of Bauman’s work, historically focused on
themes of culture, socialism and sociology.
Beilharz, Peter (ed.), Zygmunt Bauman, Sage Masters of Modern Social
Thought, 4 vols (London: Sage, 2002). This collection combines all
available critical responses and supplementary materials until 2001.
Elliott, A. (ed.), The Contemporary Bauman (London: Routledge, 2007).
Brings together more recent views and materials on the ‘little books’,
liquidity and contemporary culture.
Smith, Dennis, Zygmunt Bauman – Prophet of Postmodernity (Cambridge:
Polity, 2000). A useful early survey of Bauman’s work.
Tester, Keith, The Social Thought of Zygmunt Bauman (London: Palgrave, now
Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004). A major work of interpretation
with a significant emphasis on literary and political-philosophical themes.
59

4
Homi K. Bhabha (1949–)

David Huddart
Introduction
Homi K. Bhabha is best known for his central contribution to the
development of post-colonial theory, extending across writing
about visual arts, literature in English, and issues relating to human
rights and globalisation. Through his work, Bhabha has become
one of the so-called Holy Trinity of post-colonial theory, alongside
Edward W. Said and Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, and now teaches at
Harvard University.1 He has been widely discussed and celebrated
as a thinker of post-colonial cultures, the importance of which
he explores by drawing on the work of Said and Spivak, as well as
diverse figures such as Jacques Derrida, Frantz Fanon, Sigmund
Freud, Michel Foucault, Anish Kapoor, Jacques Lacan, Albert
Memmi, Toni Morrison and V. S. Naipaul. Many critics in various
disciplines have taken on board his ideas about the hybridity of
cultures, which are particularly significant in the light of ongoing
imperialism.
Bhabha brings together many different critical theories, in
particular psychoanalysis and deconstruction, in order to explore
how the cultures of colonialism are fissured or divided against
themselves, despite appearing to be straightforward expressions
of authority and dominance. Beginning with the idea that colonial
culture is a form of discourse, he stresses the ambivalence and
anxiety contained in many of its examples. Bhabha explores this
anxiety within the coloniser’s authority, juxtaposing it with the
active agency of the colonised, seen in strategies of mimicry and ‘sly
60

civility’. Together, these two features of colonial discourse also help

us understand the hybridity of our post-colonial world, most clearly
seen in minority cultures that have to embrace the mutability of
cultural identity. Overall, Bhabha encourages us to see that colo-
nialism is still uncannily influential in our post-colonial present,
and gives us powerful theoretical models for understanding this
ongoing influence.
Although one feature of Bhabha’s work is the questioning of
fixed or pre-given identity, his background is a useful context for
his most influential ideas. Born in what is now Mumbai, Bhabha is a
Parsi. The Parsis, a minority with a worldwide population of approx-
imately 160,000, are Zoroastrians who migrated from Persia to India
in the eighth century to avoid persecution. However, Bhabha’s ref-
erences to his origins are not declarations of a fixed ethnic identity.
Stressing the multilingual and commercial associations of his family
and Parsis generally, he makes the following observations:
Of modernity, the Parsis have a largely transnational experience, at

first mediated by British colonialism, and later developed through
a spirit of commercial and financial enterprise. On the question of
western culture, middle-class Parsis, often called the ‘Jews of the East’,
have emulated the bourgeois ethic of professionalism and philan-
thropy, and have sought recognition in the high cultures of the West.2
Elsewhere, he refers to their ‘negotiated cultural identity’,3 an iden-

tity negotiated between very different cultural contexts. A principal
characteristic of Parsi identity is, then, its cultural/linguistic hybrid-
ity, which accompanies an economic mobility and international
experience. Bhabha’s own educational background demonstrates
this mobility: he first studied at the University of Bombay, before
moving to the University of Oxford. His teaching career has taken
in the University of Sussex in the UK, before Chicago and then
Harvard. In his work, Bhabha explores the extent to which hybrid-
ity and migrant experiences of many kinds are defining features of
modern life. His work also translates art and ideas between different
contexts, showing how this translation is in fact transnational and
comparable to Parsi culture as Bhabha understands it. In addition, it
is arguable that this translation is fundamental to both the cultures
in which Bhabha is interested and the methods which he uses to
study them; indeed, translation in a general sense helps to explain
the ongoing influence of his work, as other critics have sought to
translate his ideas to understand their own concerns and contexts.
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David Huddart
Interdisciplinary Theory
While Bhabha’s influence is clear, he has also been attacked as
a representative of ‘high theory’, which often seems a specifi-
cally Western discourse and so quite unsuited for the purposes of
post-colonial criticism. Accordingly, it is important to understand
Bhabha’s commitment to theory, which he conceives as an interdisci-
plinary enterprise. Questioned by W. J. T. Mitchell about the impor-
tance of theory for post-colonial studies, Bhabha distinguishes two
forms of interdisciplinarity. The first emphasises the development
of joint degrees and teaching in order to widen the pedagogical
or research base, juxtaposing disciplines which at the same time
retain their solid foundations. The second form of interdisciplinar-
ity acknowledges disciplinary limits, but responds to a crisis of their
apparently solid foundations; Bhabha argues that it
is not an attempt to strengthen one foundation by drawing from

another; it is a reaction to the fact that we are living at the real border
of our own disciplines, where some of the fundamental ideas of our dis-
ciplines are being profoundly shaken. So our interdisciplinary moment
is a move of survival – the formulation of knowledges that require our
disciplinary scholarship and technique but demand that we abandon
disciplinary mastery and surveillance.4
Elsewhere, in his central essay ‘DissemiNation’, Bhabha expands

this point to argue that this second form of interdisciplinarity is
necessary:
To enter into the interdisciplinarity of cultural texts means that we

cannot contextualize the emergent cultural form by locating it in terms
of some pre-given discursive causality or origin. We must always keep
open a supplementary space for the articulation of cultural knowl-
edges that are adjacent and adjunct but not necessarily accumulative,
teleological or dialectical.5
As in the foundational work of Said, the significance of interdisci-

plinarity is not just a question of adequacy to a multifaceted object;
as Bhabha indicates, interdisciplinarity also in principle resists
transcendent critical judgements that would erase difference in
pursuit of an increasingly inclusive total discipline. Disciplines, like
cultures, can be understood as effects of efforts at stabilisation, but
they are no less real for that. The interdisciplinary post-colonialism
62

envisaged by Bhabha presumes that duplicating the procedures of

its object is unlikely to be rewarding: that is Bhabha’s most general
point about colonial discourse analysis, which on one level works to
categorise hierarchies of race and culture. For Bhabha, because there
is tension between the apparent pre-givenness of culture and the
necessity of its ongoing production, this tension must be marked
thematically and formally in our critical language. As he argues:
Interdisciplinarity is the acknowledgement of the emergent sign of

cultural difference produced in the ambivalent movement between the
pedagogical and performative address. It is never simply the harmoni-
ous addition of contents or contexts that augment the positivity of a
pre-given disciplinary or symbolic presence.6
The interdisciplinary form of his criticism is an attempt to capture

the ambivalence of its object.
The Post-Colonial Challenge

Bhabha’s interdisciplinary translation of ideas makes them hybrid,
which is clearly a key term in his work, even if its complexities
are not always understood. His ideas about hybridity owe much
to postmodern and post-structuralist philosophers and cultural
critics, with Bhabha offering a kind of post-colonial supplement to
their attempts to question and de-centre the traditional assump-
tions of Western thought. In the essay ‘The Postcolonial and the
Postmodern’, Bhabha writes the following about the connection
between the two terms:
My growing conviction has been that the encounters and negotiations

of differential meanings and values within ‘colonial’ textuality, its gov-
ernmental discourses and cultural practices, have anticipated, avant
la lettre, many of the problematics of signification and judgement that
have become current in contemporary theory – aporia, ambivalence,
indeterminacy, the question of discursive closure, the threat to agency,
the status of intentionality, the challenge to ‘totalizing’ concepts, to
name but a few.7
In other words, although postmodernism challenges many tradi-

tional assumptions in Western thought, assumptions mainly relat-
ing to the stability of meaning, post-colonialism actually anticipates
these challenges. If we return to the historical archive, particularly
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David Huddart
that of colonialism, it is possible to find a pre-history or pre-text for

the philosophical and critical controversies that characterise post-
structuralism and its reception. However, Bhabha is not only direct-
ing us to return to the historical archive. The term post-colonialism,
in this case, does not refer to post-colonial criticism, but instead
to the complex of thinkers and movements arising out of colo-
nial contact, anti-colonial activism and post-colonial culture. For
Bhabha the post-colonial perspectives derived from these contexts
are more radical and challenging than postmodernism.
Bhabha expresses this post-colonial challenge clearly: in the
most general terms, his work attempts to account for the ways in
which colonialism has been more than a simple expression of one
culture’s domination over another. In the essays collected in The
Location of Culture, Bhabha introduces various, sometimes appar-
ently incompatible, critical perspectives to the study of colonial
rule, and its ongoing consequences. For example, he draws on
the work of Jacques Derrida to explore the way colonial authority
and identities were always different and deferred, and therefore
never fully as present and authoritative as they appeared. Bhabha
also controversially draws on Frantz Fanon’s revolutionary psy-
chology, but instead of focusing on the more famous The Wretched
of the Earth, he emphasises the early Black Skin, White Masks, to
explore the way the identities of both coloniser and colonised
are always partial and in process. Using such diverse writers as
Derrida and Fanon leads Bhabha to write a form of inventively
hybrid and interdisciplinary criticism. His writings are complex,
allusive and fragmented, and therefore can seem rebarbative; they
are hybrid in their tangential approach to their sources, using con-
cepts or quotations in a kind of bricolage critical form, an approach
which has been criticised.
While many readers have found his style needlessly complex, and
his conceptual framework difficult to pinpoint, Bhabha’s general
aims are clear. Throughout his work, although he focuses on differ-
ent contexts and uses different critical terminology, Bhabha consist-
ently argues the following:
Our major task now is to probe further the cunning of Western moder-
nity, its historical ironies, its disjunctive temporalities, its much-vaunted
crisis of representation. It is important to say that it would change the
values of all critical work if the emergence of modernity were given a
colonial and postcolonial genealogy. We must never forget that the
64

establishment of colonized space profoundly informs and historically

contests the emergence of those so-called post-Enlightenment values
associated with the notion of modern stability.8
Understanding how the West reached its present state, Bhabha sug-
gests, demands that we look outside the West, principally of course
for historical reasons relating to slavery, colonialism and so on. For
example, during the colonial period, the violence of colonial Algeria
testified to a certain disease at the heart of the French mission civili-
satrice. The same kind of understanding helps us consider broader
histories of colonialism and imperialism, from the British Empire
through to present-day neo-colonialism. Fundamentally, Bhabha
believes that in the contemporary moment the post-colonial per-
spective has a privileged role in rethinking global and local cultural
relations. The post-colonial perspective comes from the margins,
but cannot remain there if it is to play this role. Indeed, the
post-colonial perspective is necessarily part of the metropolitan
centre, through the hybrid qualities of modern cultures that are a
consequence of increased migration in its many forms.
Hybridity and Hybridisation

Hybridity is a central category in Bhabha’s work, being neither a
simple description of cultures as mixed-up nor referring to a phase
of history in which cultures have come increasingly into contact.
While it could certainly be argued that we have entered a phase of
globalisation that is distinct from earlier comparable phases owing
to specific historical events and technological developments, that is
not Bhabha’s point. He has resisted narratives that either celebrate
or dismiss global simultaneity, preferring instead to investigate
forms of slowness or ‘time-lag’. The impetus behind his concept of
hybridity can be seen in an interview from Art in America, in which
Bhabha summarises his own project:
The postcolonial perspective resists attempts at holistic forms of social

explanation. I question the traditional liberal attempt to negotiate
a coming together of minorities on the basis of what they have in
common and what is consensual. In my writing, I’ve been arguing
against the multiculturalist notion that you can put together harmoni-
ously any number of cultures in a pretty mosaic. You cannot just solder
together different cultural traditions to produce some brave new cul-
tural totality. The current phase of economic and social history makes
65

David Huddart
you aware of cultural difference not at the celebratory level of diversity

but always at the point of conflict or crisis.9
While calling the perspective outlined here ‘the’ post-colonial

perspective is controversial, this passage does give a clear sense
of Bhabha’s own perspective. He rejects totalising explanatory
schemes, associating such schemes with one idea of multicultural-
ism that imagines its goal is to bring disparate cultures together into
harmonious wholes, rendering difference largely irrelevant, if not
erasing it. This version of multiculturalism is not so far away from an
assimilationist perspective, in that consensus or harmony are taken
to be goals that are achievable, so long as we can overcome practical
obstacles. However, in terms of Bhabha’s work, the key point comes
in the last sentence: he argues that those disparate cultures are not
pre-existent, but instead are an effect of historical change, specifi-
cally of colonialism and post-colonialism (this is what is implied by
the ‘point of conflict or crisis’).
From Bhabha’s perspective, cultural hybridity is neither abso-
lutely general nor equivalent to cultural diversity. Hybridity may
appear to be a category applicable to all cultures, and indeed in
one way it is. Bhabha cautions against a concept of hybridity that
blurs all difference into indifference, consequently making all
hybridity appear equivalent. He warns that finding examples of
ambivalence in (for example) Hong Kong or Mexico is merely to
transmit a theory without translating it.10 Hybridisation is a process
that takes place continually, with cultures in their different forms
the result of that process, each time requiring specific contex-
tualisation. Cultural difference, likewise, is simply what we find
ourselves within, while cultural diversity is a misleading category
insofar as it implies that the diverse cultures have coherent and
static identities that coexist in a bounded national space. In short,
Bhabha’s theory of hybridity denies that there were cultures already
in existence that later became hybrid: hybridity is less important
than hybridisation.
Bhabha believes that this process of hybridisation is central to
the discourses of colonialism, which he argues form ‘an apparatus
that turns on the recognition and disavowal of racial/cultural/
historical differences’.11 In the essay ‘The Other Question’, he
pays particular attention to the operation of colonial stereotypes
and the way they are undermined by forms of psychical resistance.
Drawing on the pioneering work of Said, particularly Orientalism,
66

Bhabha is interested in the ways that European discourses tend to

stereotype the Other; unlike Said (in Orientalism at least), Bhabha
focuses on the necessary failure of this stereotyping. Bhabha argues
that stereotypical knowledges are understood by the coloniser to be
stereotypes with the function of maintaining control, and are there-
fore kept separate from the ‘civilising’ justifications of the colonial
project. However, Bhabha further argues that the two are neces-
sarily inseparable, with the phantasy world of the stereotype always
undermining the coloniser’s civilising narrative. We usually think
the problem with a stereotype is that it fixes identities, denying
groups their own sense of identity and presuming to understand
them on the basis of prior, usually defective and often racist knowl-
edge. This problem would certainly be found in colonial discourse,
which wants stereotypes to be fixed, in order that relationships of
domination can be justified. In turn, traditional criticism of such
colonial stereotypes assumes them to be fixed. Against this assump-
tion, Bhabha argues that this fixity is coexistent with disorder, which
the apparatuses of colonial power recognise and desperately guard
against.
Analyses of colonial discourse that subject colonial stereotypes to
normalising judgements make the same assumptions as colonial dis-
course itself: in other words, these analyses assume that there exists
a prior normality, this time a positive one, next to which stereotypes
can be seen for their simplifications and racism. Bhabha insists that
all forms of identification must be understood as ‘modes of differ-
entiation, realized as multiple, cross-cutting determinations, poly-
morphous and perverse, always demanding a specific calculation of
their effects’.12 Accordingly, every time we come across a stereotype,
we need to see it as a singular instance rather than merely another
example of general patterns that we can so easily dismiss.
Agency of the Colonised

Bhabha’s analysis of stereotypes is extended to consider the agency
of the colonised, particularly through the process of mimicry, which
he analyses in ‘Of Mimicry and Man’. According to him, the colo-
nial desire for similarity with difference leads to inevitable instabil-
ity in identity.
Colonial mimicry is the desire for a reformed, recognizable Other, as

a subject of difference that is almost the same, but not quite. Which is
67

David Huddart
to say, that the discourse of mimicry is constructed around an ambiva-

lence; in order to be effective, mimicry must continually produce its
slippage, its excess, its difference.13
Colonial discourse directs the colonised to be like, yet not identical

with, the coloniser: if there were equivalence between the two, then
the ideologies justifying colonial rule could not operate, because
they assume a structural non-equivalence that explains how any one
group might dominate another. The colonised is also marked by
mimicry, with Bhabha arguing that it ‘does not merely “rupture”
the discourse, but becomes transformed into an uncertainty which
fixes the colonial subject as a “partial” presence’. The oscillation
between equivalence and excess makes the colonised both reassur-
ingly similar and also terrifying: ‘mimicry is at once resemblance
and menace’.14 The colonised therefore seems to be engaged in an
act of resistance through this menace.
However, it is not clear that this resistance really can be com-
pared to the anti-colonial resistance that is such an important pre-
condition of post-colonial thought. Some critics have responded
to Bhabha’s analysis by suggesting that, in adapting Said’s work,
he has introduced new conceptual and political problems. For
example, Michael Pickering suggests that Bhabha adopts a ‘textual-
ist’ approach which leads to ‘a unitary conception of the psychic
economy of the stereotype and the colonial discourse in which it
operates’.15 For Pickering, Bhabha’s model does not pay enough
attention to differences in colonial contexts, partly because it is a
textual model. Bhabha could respond that his account should not
be abstracted and applied without translation to other contexts. A
more serious criticism is elaborated by Anne McClintock who sug-
gests that, even in the context he analyses, Bhabha’s theory of the
stereotype is seriously deficient, in that his analysis of the colonial
context successfully emphasises the position of race but ignores the
significance of class and gender. Bhabha theorises ‘an ungendered
mimicry’ and so, in his analysis of the colonial stereotype and colo-
nised resistance, ‘masculinity becomes the invisible norm of post-
colonial discourse’.16 Women, McClintock argues, are ‘an elided
shadow’17 in Bhabha’s work, a claim which seriously undermines
his understanding of the colonial situation. Caroline Rooney has
suggested that Bhabha’s work actually does contain the outlines of
a more thorough analysis: ‘somewhat implicit in Homi Bhabha’s
Lacanian theorization of the colonized is an understanding of
68

the colonized as feminized inasmuch as his analyses of mimicry

and fetishism could co-implicate a phantasmatic femininity’.18
Nonetheless, his work certainly lacks an explicit theory of how stere-
otyping and class/gender interact in the colonial context.
Furthermore, the question of the colonised’s agency remains
controversial: even though Bhabha implies that if recognised as a
form of agency this mimicry could become a strategy of resistance,
the entire psychical structure necessarily operates unconsciously.
Despite the apparent shift to the colonised, it seems that mimicry
remains on the level of the coloniser, just as the term ‘post-colonial’
seems to make the experience of colonialism too definitive: mimicry
indeed is something in which the colonised cannot avoid becoming
involved. Bhabha suggests that the partiality of presence in colonial
discourse leads to a drive towards authenticity: this means authen-
tically British, although this could always blur into being more
British than the British. Bhabha writes that, ‘The desire to emerge
as “authentic” through mimicry – through a process of writing and
repetition – is the final irony of partial representation.’19 The more
partial an identity is recognised to be, the more we strive to solidify
it and draw a clear boundary around it. This desire is not only that
of the colonised but also that of the coloniser: colonial discourse at
once demands both similarity and difference in the figures of the
colonised, but additionally colonial discourse’s ambivalence has the
strange effect of making the British feel not quite British, alienated
from what they must believe is their true identity. Colonial power
shows concern about its ability to draw boundaries around its iden-
tity: it presents itself as serenely self-confident and stable, but is actu-
ally anxiously ambivalent. This is the structure of mimicry, and it is
clearly far removed from the anti-colonial activism that played such
an important role in ending colonial rule in different countries.
Nations and Globalisation

Despite critics’ concerns, the basic position advanced in Bhabha’s
work on colonial discourse is clear: colonial power is hardly as
authoritative or self-identical as it portrays itself to be. This insight
is something that informs all Bhabha’s work, and can be seen as a
reaction to one understanding of Said’s Orientalism. Bhabha draws
further on such arguments questioning the stability of authorita-
tive identity, particularly in his analysis of modern nations. This
analysis is found in the edited collection Nation and Narration, and
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David Huddart
expressed most clearly in the essay ‘DissemiNation’, also included

in The Location of Culture. Bhabha draws upon the well-known work
of Benedict Anderson,20 who has examined the imagined but
very real power of national identities. Bhabha’s central point in
‘DissemiNation’ is that ‘the space of the modern nation-people is
never simply horizontal’.21 In this he is using Roman Jakobson’s
characterisation of metaphor operating ‘horizontally’ (selection
according to similarity) and metonymy operating ‘vertically’ (com-
bination through contiguity).22 With industrialisation and glo-
balisation, there has been a loss of simple community identity;
according to Bhabha, ‘The nation fills the void left in the uproot-
ing of communities and kin, and turns that loss into the language
of metaphor.’23 Given this emphasis, Bhabha is less interested in
nationalism, which is on the side of metaphor, and therefore has
a kind of ‘contexture deficiency’. Instead, he is more interested in
the unending ambivalent vertical shifts of metonymy: these shifts
remind us that while national identity is an achievement, it is an
ambivalent one, often excluding those to whom the nation owes
much. Instead of progressing serenely and horizontally through
what Walter Benjamin calls ‘calendrical time’, nations are inevitably
beset by vertical instabilities. Bhabha’s fundamental point about
nations is that they are structured by an ambivalent temporality:
‘The language of culture and community is poised on the fissures
of the present becoming the rhetorical figures of a national past.’
Bhabha refers to ‘the disjunctive time of the nation’s modernity’,
suggesting that we are caught ‘between the shreds and patches
of cultural signification and the certainties of a nationalist peda-
gogy’.24 National identities are both pedagogical and performative:
the nation is something that is taught as a stable entity but is lived as
a constantly changing process.
Such a critical perspective on the nation has led Bhabha to
increasing engagement with ideas about the transnational elements
of contemporary culture. In this he comes into conflict with particu-
lar critics who argue that post-colonial theory, including that associ-
ated with his work, is no longer appropriate for an age that has been
transformed through technology. For example, Michael Hardt and
Antonio Negri focus on Bhabha’s work as an example of an earlier
phase of progressive thought that valorised difference in opposi-
tion to dominant forces of the same.25 They argue that as global
capitalism itself now embraces difference and relativity, progres-
sive thinkers must grasp the challenge of the same or simultaneity,
70

which increasingly is enabled by developments in communications

technology. From this perspective, technology now enables a poten-
tial simultaneity of global revolution. With his emphasis on hybrid-
ity, we might expect Bhabha to celebrate the transnational and the
cosmopolitan, but also the kinds of technology that increasingly
(and increasingly quickly) enable new forms of cosmopolitanism.
However, despite the arguments of writers like Hardt and Negri,
for Bhabha matters are not so simple; in the context of comments
on Jacques Derrida, Bhabha expresses reservations about what we
could call the digital technological imaginary:
If the virtual community shares the essential temporal structure of the

modern national-form and its social imaginary, then what will prevent
the reproduction on the Net of the worst excesses of nationalism and
xenophobia? the agonisms of center and periphery? the travails of
majoritarianism and minoritarianism? Although cyberspace communi-
ties do not have the territorial imperatives of nationalism, it is interest-
ing how active xenophobic nationalists are on the Web, often in the
cause of nations to which they no longer belong, but to which they now
turn to justify their fundamentalist aspirations.26
There is nothing inherently transnational about communications

technology: even if its form seems so clearly suited for the creation
of bonds beyond the nation state, its content can so easily fall back
into simplistic homogeneity. Bhabha is suspicious of the ideologies
of digital capitalism, because those ideologies obscure homolo-
gies of temporality quite in keeping with the reproduction and
extension of modernity’s worst features.
In stressing temporality, however, Bhabha is not simply dismiss-
ing these ideologies. ‘We’ may all be digital nomads in some sense,
but there is a great deal of diversity and conflict and therefore
multiple nomadic identities to be scrutinised: not all culture travels
easily, or quickly, and some of the time at least culture simply stops.
Bhabha does not consider ‘the’ exile to be a normative identity, and
he certainly does not assume that all exiles are cosmopolitans like
himself; indeed, he has written dismissively of ‘a doctrinal espousal
of global nomadism or transnationalism’.27 Elsewhere, responding
to the historian of anthropology James Clifford, he emphasises ‘the
place of a lack of movement and fixity in a politics of movement
and a theory of travel’, paying attention to those ‘people caught in
that margin of nonmovement within an economy of movement’.28
Process and circulation, attributes that Bhabha wants to reintroduce
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David Huddart
to the identity of nation states (and which minorities necessarily if

controversially reintroduce), actually come to a halt for many dif-
ferent reasons. National myths may desire a return to a ‘golden age’
that of course never existed, and so such myths can be criticised
for their damaging effects. Refugees, by contrast, hold onto fixed
symbols for their survival, and as a consequence hybridisation and
stability come together.
Accordingly, whatever the ideologists of digital capitalism might
argue, Bhabha has recently developed an emphasis on slowness,
something that can help us understand the stability of certain
symbols of cultural survival. This slowness is positioned specifically
as a counterweight to what he calls the ‘digital impulse of accelera-
tion and immediacy – the split-second, virtual transmission of mes-
sages, money, and meaning’.29 Writing in tribute to Said, Bhabha
criticises what he calls ‘telegraphic forms whose rapidity renders
the world one-dimensional and homogeneous’.30 Describing Said’s
critical practice as based upon a ‘philological imperative’ demand-
ing close reading, Bhabha suggests that rapidity (or even simul-
taneity) has a tendency to totalise and therefore be uncritical. By
contrast, when we slow down our reading and thinking, we can be
truly critical and attend to the decisions and omissions that neces-
sarily structure our knowledge but that cannot be allowed to go
unconsidered and unremembered. Bhabha writes that ‘The slow
pace of critical reflection resists processes of totalisation – analytic,
aesthetic, or political – because they are prone to making “transi-
tionless leaps” into realms of transcendental value, and such claims
must be severely scrutinized.’31 Such leaps must be interrogated
all the more when they occur in the context of well-intentioned
attempts to right past wrongs and defend the rights of the great-
est number. Bhabha’s more recent work has explicitly applied his
understanding of cultural identity and process to various connected
contemporary contexts.
In particular, Bhabha has written on vernacular cosmopolitan-
ism, global citizenship and human rights discourses, drawing out
the implications of his ideas about colonial discourse for contem-
porary culture. In ‘On Writing Rights’, he has argued that inter-
national human rights discourses must be adapted to encompass
those peoples without nationality as such, because as they stand
such discourses too easily assume the centrality of stable, coher-
ent national cultures. This position follows directly from Bhabha’s
suspicion of simple and fixed cultural identities, questioning the
72

extent to which international discourses necessarily begin from

the perspective of nations. In an essay on W. E. B DuBois, Bhabha
makes the same point in the particular context of the Universal
Declaration of Human Rights, Article 27, which defends cultural
rights: ‘a strong preference for cultural “holism” prevents Article
27 from envisaging, or providing protection for, new and affiliative
forms of minoritarian agents and institutions that do not necessar-
ily choose to signify their lifeworlds in the political forms of nation-ness
and nationalisms’.32 He further argues that the adaptation of such
discourses will only become more important as various kinds of
migration and displacement become increasingly common. Many
attempts to conceptualise the transnational have so far translated
awkwardly into legal and political realms, which have been under-
standably slow to shake off the fundamental category of the nation.
Nonetheless, it is already vital that new concepts of transnational
and minoritarian culture are developed, and to do this Bhabha
looks to central figures who were very much part of nation states but
already imagined categories beyond them. For example, adapting
DuBois and Albert Memmi, Bhabha imagines a ‘transnational gath-
ering of the “quasi-colonial” not as a racial or ethnic community
but as a “community of condition”’.33 Discussing DuBois’s novel Dark
Princess, Bhabha focuses on its pessimistic criticism of the superfi-
ciality of ‘spontaneous solidarity’, claiming its central theme is the
way minorities that share histories of oppression are yet drawn into
conflict and betrayal. All of these recent writings develop in some
way from the earlier analysis of colonial discourse, and the connec-
tions will no doubt become clearer when Bhabha publishes his next
two books, The Measure of Dwelling and The Right to Narrate, which
systematically explore his ideas about global citizenship, vernacular
cosmopolitanism, human rights and transnational cultures.
Conclusion
The recent expansion of Bhabha’s focus follows from the impact
of his work beyond literary and cultural criticism. His writing
has been very influential and is discussed by a large number of
writers in colonial discourse analysis and post-colonial theory,
as well as related fields relating to contemporary literature and
culture. Bhabha has been invited to lecture around the world:
he delivered the Clarendon Lectures at the University of Oxford,
the Wellek Library Lectures at the University of California Irvine,
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David Huddart
the Presidential Lecture at Stanford University, the Richard

Wright Lectures at the University of Pennsylvania, and the W. E.
B. DuBois Lectures at Harvard University. However, his influence
has also been evident beyond the university: for example, he was
a central participant and writer of the manifesto for the 1997
British Council conference on ‘Re-inventing Britain’, a keynote
speaker at the UNESCO Forum on Higher Education, Research
and Knowledge Colloquium, and was faculty advisor to the
DAVOS World Economic Forum. Nonetheless, in terms of critical
evaluation, Bhabha’s work has never been less than controversial,
with writers such as Benita Parry and Aijaz Ahmad questioning
its historical accuracy and pertinence.34 There has been a persist-
ent charge that Bhabha’s work applies its theoretical influences
without sufficient attention to the specific details of time and
place. This inattention, it might be said, concurs with the gener-
alised qualities of the term ‘post-colonial’, which groups together
so many disparate cultures and experiences. However, it can be
argued that, with its stress on translation, Bhabha’s work inevi-
tably appropriates historical, cultural and theoretical examples,
re-contextualising them productively. It is this translation that
catches the attention of critics and artists from so many different
lifeworlds, and that will continue to make Bhabha’s work fire the
imagination of new communities large and small.
Notes
1. Robert J.C. Young, Colonial Desire, p. 163.
2. ‘Joking Aside’, p. xv.
3. ‘Translator Translated’, p. 81.
4. Ibid. p. 118.
5. The Location of Culture, p. 163.
6. Ibid. p. 163.
7. Ibid. p. 173.
8. Ibid. p. 64.
9. ‘Art and National Identity: A Critics’ Symposium’, p. 82.
10. ‘Translator Translated’, p. 83.
12. Ibid. p. 67.
13. Ibid. p. 86.
14. Ibid. p. 86.
15. Michael Pickering, Stereotyping: The Politics of Representation (London:
Palgrave, now Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2001), p. 159.
74

16. Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender, and Sexuality in the
Colonial Contest (London: Routledge, 1995), pp. 64–5.
17. Ibid. p. 363.
18. Caroline Rooney, African Literature, Animism and Politics (London:
Routledge, 2006), p. 104.
20. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and
Spread of Nationalism, 3rd edn (London: Verso, 2006).
22. Roman Jakobson and Morris Halle, Fundamentals of Language, 2nd edn
(The Hague: Mouton de Gruyter, 1971).
24. Ibid. p. 142.
25. Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, Empire (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 2000), pp. 143–6.
26. ‘Arrivals and Departures’, p. ix.
27. ‘Another Country’, p. 34.
28 Bhabha, citing James Clifford, ‘Traveling Cultures’, in Lawrence
Grossberg, Cary Nelson, Paula A. Treichler (eds), Cultural Studies
(London: Routledge, 1997), pp. 96–116.
29. ‘Another Country’, p. 30.
30. ‘Adagio’, p. 11.
31. Ibid. pp. 12–13.
32. ‘The Black Savant and the Dark Princess’, p. 57.
33. Ibid. p. 58.
34. Benita Parry, Postcolonial Studies: A Materialist Critique (London:
Routledge, 2004); and Aijaz Ahmad, ‘The Politics of Literary
Postcoloniality’, Race and Class 36, 3, 1995, pp. 1–20.
Major Works by Bhabha

‘Adagio’, in Homi Bhabha and W. J. T. Mitchell (eds), Edward Said:
Continuing the Conversation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005),
pp. 7–16.
‘Another Country’, in Fereshteh Daftari (ed.), Without Boundary: Seventeen
Ways of Looking (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2006), pp.
30–5.
‘Arrivals and Departures’, in H. Naficy (ed.), Home, Exile, Homeland: Film,
Media, and the Politics of Place (London: Routledge, 1999), pp. vii–xii.
‘Art and National Identity: A Critics’ Symposium’, Art in America, 79, 9,
1991, p. 82.
‘The Black Savant and the Dark Princess’, in H. Trivedi (ed.), The Nation
across the World: Postcolonial Literary Representations (New Delhi: Oxford
University Press, 2007), pp. 41–62.
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David Huddart
‘“Caliban speaks to Prospero”: Cultural Identity and the Crisis of

Representation’, in P. Mariani (ed.), Critical Fiction: The Politics of
Imaginative Writing (Seattle: Bay Press, 1991), pp. 62–5.
‘Democracy De-realized’, Diogenes, 50, 1, 2003, pp. 27–35.
‘Joking Aside: The Idea of a Self-Critical Community’, in Bryan Cheyette
and Laura Marcus (eds), Modernity, Culture and ‘the Jew’ (Cambridge:
Polity Press, 1998), pp. xv–xx.
The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994).
Nation and Narration, ed. Homi Bhabha (London: Routledge, 1990).
‘On Writing Rights’, in Matthew J. Gibney (ed.), Globalizing Rights: The
Oxford Amnesty Lectures 1999 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003),
pp. 162–83.
‘Re-inventing Britain: A Manifesto’, British Studies Now, 9, 1997, pp. 9–10.
‘Translator Translated: W. J. T. Mitchell Talks with Homi Bhabha’,
Artforum 33, 7, 1995, pp. 80–3.

Fanon, Frantz, Black Skin, White Masks, trans. Charles Lam Markmann
(New York: Grove Press, 1967 [1953]). Necessary for understanding
Bhabha’s interpretation of the colonial psyche, which Bhabha reinter-
prets powerfully if controversially.
Huddart, David. Homi K. Bhabha (London: Routledge, 2006). Systematic
reconstruction of Bhabha’s arguments, drawing in his many theoretical
influences, and using literary examples for illustration.
Moore-Gilbert, Bart, Postcolonial Theory: Contexts, Practices, Politics (London:
Verso, 1997). Patiently reconstructs post-colonial theory’s arguments,
putting Bhabha alongside thinkers like Wilson Harris to suggest that
post-colonial theory has many connections with traditions that it seem-
ingly displaces.
Said, Edward W., Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient (New York:
Pantheon Books, 1978). Necessary in order to understand post-colonial
theory in general, but Bhabha’s early work on stereotypes in particular.
Young, Robert J. C., Colonial Desire: Hybridity in Theory, Culture and Race
(London: Routledge, 1995). A text that often discusses Bhabha explic-
itly, and throughout shows the influence of his psychoanalytic approach
to colonialism and post-colonialism.
Young, Robert J. C., White Mythologies: Writing History and the West, 2nd edn
(London: Routledge, 2004). Considers Bhabha as part of a lineage of
post-structuralist thought that has sought to decentre Western construc-
tions of knowledge.
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5
Judith Butler (1956–)

Moya Lloyd
Born in Cleveland, Ohio, Judith Butler first came to academic

prominence with the publication of Gender Trouble in 1990, a book
now regarded as foundational to the development of queer theory
and as a classic of feminist theory. Currently a professor of rhetoric
and comparative literature at the University of California, Berkeley,
and renowned for the inter-disciplinarity of her work, Butler trained
as a philosopher. Her rabbi tutored her in Spinoza, existential the-
ology, and German Idealism and its relation to Nazism (all topics
she had chosen herself).1 This career, principally in continental
philosophy (phenomenology, existentialism, hermeneutics and the
Frankfurt School, with forays into German Idealism) included a
spell studying with Hans-Georg Gadamer at Heidelberg University
in Germany. Yet, Butler has been keen to maintain some distance
from the ‘institutionalised life’ of philosophy.2
It is significant that Butler’s formal philosophical training began
in the context of a Jewish education conditioned by ethical questions
raised by the Holocaust. It marked her writing both methodologi-
cally (her mode of engagement with texts is arguably informed by
Talmudic scholarship) and thematically (the emphasis on negativ-
ity, the idea of life as precarious, questions of mourning, the notion
of Otherness, not to mention the Spinozan desire for existence). It
made her resistant, initially, to reading Nietzsche (a fact that might
surprise those familiar with her work); produced both fascination
and yet revulsion at the ideas of deconstructionist Paul de Man; and
cultivated a concern for politics and, later, ethics (specifically an
ethics of responsiveness to the Other). Significantly, it also appears
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Moya Lloyd
to have underpinned her enduring interest in and engagement

with Hegel, the philosopher, par excellence, of alterity (on whom she
wrote her doctoral thesis) and whose ideas on recognition inflect all
her major texts to date.
Not all Butler’s intellectual endeavours can be construed in the
light of her Jewish education, however. Butler published her thesis
as Subjects of Desire: Hegelian Reflections in Twentieth-Century France. It
contained a new final section on the ‘post-Hegelian’ ideas of Jacques
Derrida, Michel Foucault, Jacques Lacan, Gilles Deleuze and Julia
Kristeva. Although she quickly dropped Deleuze and became
increasingly critical of Kristeva, this engagement with French theory
came to be regarded as one of the hallmarks of her work.
Butler’s interest in gender and sexuality developed at the same
time, through reading Simone de Beauvoir, Michel Foucault and
French feminist theorist, Monique Wittig. A participant in the
famous ‘Towards a Politics of Sexuality’ conference held at Barnard
College in 1982, she signed its petition to counter attempts within
the women’s movement to restrict feminist discussions of sexuality
and wrote a report on the conference for Gay Community News, a
radical gay and lesbian periodical of the time.3 This conference was
important for at least two reasons: first, because it argued the need
for feminists to theorise sexuality; and, second, because the theo-
retical framework favoured by many at the conference was social
constructionism, namely, one that rejected the ‘naturalness’ of sex
and sexuality.4 Since then, Butler has been active in gay and lesbian
human rights campaigns, chairing the International Gay and
Lesbian Human Rights Commission; protested about affirmative
action; and spoken out against gay marriage. Her ongoing politi-
cal involvement has not been limited to queer or feminist issues,
however. Butler has also been critical of US involvement in the Iraq
War, of events at both Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib, as well as
intervening in debates on Zionism and on the Palestinian-Israeli
conflict. As such, the caricature of her as the apolitical theorist that
some critics draw is clearly ill deserved.
Sex/Gender/Sexuality as Performative
The idea for which Butler is best known is undoubtedly that of
gender performativity, which is given its most extensive treatment
in her second book Gender Trouble. The term performativity derives
from the ordinary language philosophy of J. L. Austin, where it is
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used to denote an utterance that is also an enactment; where, that

is, saying something is also its doing (as in ‘I promise’). As used by
Butler in Gender Trouble, however, performativity is conceived less as
a linguistic phenomenon (a speech act) than a form of corporeal
enactment.
One of the goals of Gender Trouble is to problematise feminist
understandings of the relation between sex and gender and,
in particular, the emphasis of ‘French Feminism’ on sexual dif-
ference.5 Developed initially to contest the idea of biology as
destiny, the distinction between sex and gender allowed feminists
to contend that whereas sex (the biological differences between
men and women) is fixed gender is not. Because it is culturally
constructed, it can be altered. This, in turn, means that gender
hierarchies (the patriarchal privileging of men) can be assailed.
Butler accepted the argument that gender is cultural but, contro-
versially, challenged the ideas central to other feminist accounts
that sex is natural and that sex both temporally and logically pre-
cedes gender. Or, to put it the other way round, Butler denied that
gender is built on sex.
If gender is only ‘the cultural meaning that the sexed body
assumes’ rather than being determined by sex then it follows that
there is no necessary connection between maleness and masculinity
or between femaleness and femininity.6 If such a connection exists,
by implication, it must be because gender is the apparatus through
which binary sex is produced. Inspired by Foucault’s argument in
The History of Sexuality that sex is constituted by a specific regime of
sexuality, by Wittig’s idea of the ‘heterosexual contract’, as well as
the notion of ‘compulsory heterosexuality’ developed by both Gayle
Rubin and Adrienne Rich, Butler argues that sex is not merely an
effect of gender norms but rather that sex, gender and sexuality
are constituted within a ‘heterosexual matrix’, which she defines as
‘that grid of cultural intelligibility through which bodies, genders
and desires are naturalized’ as heterosexual.7 This matrix generates
a set of ideal relations between sex, gender and desire where each
is said to be implicated in the other. Thus, femaleness entails femi-
ninity, which is expressed in sexual desire for a man and so ‘intel-
ligible’ (that is, normalised heterosexual) subjects are produced.
Where sex, gender and sexuality align in a different way, say where
a masculine woman desires another woman, both the relation and
the person are normatively unintelligible. Butler’s reputation as a
queer theorist rests on her focus on heteronormativity (that is, the
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Moya Lloyd
normativity of heterosexuality) and her critique of the sex–gender

relation.
The notion of performativity is developed through Butler’s
changing interpretations of Beauvoir’s idea that ‘one is not born,
but rather becomes, a woman’.8 When she begins theorising about
Beauvoir, Butler’s goal is to develop a phenomenological account
of gender. This entails understanding how the body (conceived as a
historical idea) acquires its gendered form. Her reading of Beauvoir
leads Butler to the idea that gendering is a process – a ‘stylized repeti-
tion of acts’.9 Becoming a woman involves, in other words, reiterating
a series of ‘bodily gestures, movements, and enactments of various
kinds’.10 From this Butler deduces that it is the doing of gender that
constitutes the gendered body and subject. In Gender Trouble, Butler
distances herself from Beauvoir and phenomenology, recasting her
ideas in Nietzschean terms as ‘there is no “being” behind doing . . .
the deed is everything’. In terms of gender, this means ‘[t]here is
no gender identity behind expressions of gender; that identity is
performatively constituted by the very “expressions” that are said to
be its results’.11 Gender is an effect created by the reiteration of a
corporeal lexicon. It exists, that is, only in the acts that constitute it.
Critics were divided by Butler’s radical account of gender. Some
discerned in her work the potential for a new gender politics gen-
erated through the performative reconfiguration of gender norms
(that is, through doing them differently – ‘parodically’ as Butler
notes in Gender Trouble), which would validate already existing,
though presently unintelligible, forms of sex, gender and sexuality.
Others, however, worried about its voluntaristic assumptions, taking
performativity to imply that one could change one’s gender at will,
simply by acting or dressing differently. It did not help that drag was
Butler’s example of how the enactment of a determinate set of prac-
tices creates the impression of a specific gender identity. In dem-
onstrating the fictive nature of all gender it appeared to confirm
the idea of gender politics as performance, a mode of dressing-up/
cross-dressing. Partly to allay concerns such as these, Butler sought
to clarify the concept of performativity in her next book, Bodies That
Matter, by exploring Derrida’s ideas about iterability and citational-
ity as he elaborated them in response to Austin.12
Butler focused on Derrida’s objection to Austin’s attempt to
differentiate between authentic speech-acts (those that are serious,
intentional and singular) and parasitic speech-acts (such as those
said by a stage-actor and which, are thus, citations). Refusing the
80

distinction, Derrida contends instead that all performative utter-

ances are already citations. They succeed because they ‘repeat a
“coded” or iterable utterance’.13 Although dependent on prior
uses, meaning is not necessarily fixed; in certain situations words
may be recited in ways that shift their meaning. According to
Butler, gender has the same citational structure as language. It
too is ‘coded’: behaviour is identifiable as masculine, namely,
because it recites normative practices that have, over time, come
to signify masculinity. Apprehended thus performativity is ‘neither
free play nor theatrical self-presentation’ but rather the ‘regular-
ized and constrained repetition of norms’.14 Even as there is scope
to repeat gender norms in such a way potentially as to challenge
heteronormativity – there is always the risk that non-normative
performances of gender might, in fact, reinforce it – norms have to
be reiterated. Performativity as a ‘process of iterability’ (or ritual-
ised repetition) is the very condition of possibility for the subject’s
existence. As such, it is both constraining (it must be done) and
enabling (it might be done differently).
Citationality and ‘Talking-back’

During the 1980s and 1990s in the USA, a group of feminists and
critical race theorists began to argue that pornography and racially
assaultive speech, respectively, should be removed from the protec-
tion of the First Amendment, which defends freedom of speech.
Their argument was that words (and images) wound and, as such,
should be prosecutable under law. In Excitable Speech, Butler sets out
to debunk their claims by invoking the performative power of lan-
guage. At stake in this debate is how the relation between speech and
conduct is theorised. In short, those arguing for censorship charge
that assaultive speech is simultaneously both speech and assault.
Hate-speech and pornography harm directly by subordinating those
against whom they are directed. They performatively produce the
very inequality and abuse they name. Butler is unsympathetic to this
line of argument, arguing instead that the pro-censorship lobby has
misunderstood the relation between speech and action.
Butler pins her case on a distinction Austin draws between illo-
cutionary and perlocutionary utterances. The former refer to utter-
ances that do something, like a warning; the latter, by contrast, bring
something about as a consequence, such as convincing someone to
buy something. The two are, Austin suggests, differentiated both
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Moya Lloyd
by their temporal sequence – illocutionary speech-acts rely on a

simultaneous saying and doing whereas perlocutionary speech-acts
involve consequences following from the utterance – and by the
fact that illocutionary utterances rely on convention.15 Butler rejects
Austin’s argument, claiming that the force of both kinds of utterance
stems from convention, which means logically they both share the
same temporal structure. If any performative succeeds, she argues,
it does so because ‘that action echoes prior actions, and accumulates
the force of authority through the repetition or citation of a prior and authori-
tative set of practices’;16 a view already familiar from her discussion of
gender performativity. Every iteration, in other words, is always a
re-iteration. The force of hate-speech (its capacity to subordinate)
derives, therefore, from the fact that it recycles terms (or images,
in the case of pornography) that have already become offensive.
Butler does not explain, however, how instances of hate-speech
have gathered this wounding force in the first place.
The contention that there is always a gap between speech and
conduct, although challenging the argument of pro-censorship
advocates, does not in itself undermine the argument for the legal
regulation of hate-speech. To justify this claim, Butler focuses on
the ‘excitability’ of language: the fact that a speaker is never fully
in control of the language they use, thereby contesting both the
idea of sovereign performatives (speech that is always efficacious)
and sovereign subjects (those that originate speech).17 Two conse-
quences follow from this: that hate-speech might fail to wound – it
might be inefficacious – and, in an argument derived from Derrida,
that because such failure is not only possible but is intrinsic to
speech itself, that potentially hateful words can always be deployed
in non-hateful ways. Hate-speech (like all speech, in Butler’s view) is
citational and thus can be resignified. The term ‘queer’ is, she avers,
a case in point: it was resignified from a shaming, stigmatising name
into an affirmative, politically defiant one.18 There is thus no need
for the legal regulation of hate-speech. All terms, even the most
contaminated and odious, can be cited – or rather re-cited – in ways
that escape their established connotations. Hence ‘talking back’ is a
more effective strategy than censorship.
There is, however, a second reason Butler advocates a resignifi-
catory politics. She is deeply wary of the state. In Excitable Speech, she
documents some of the ways that the courts have acted in partial
fashion, seemingly countenancing racist hate-speech while being
more disposed to prosecute cases of obscenity (particularly those
82

involving representations of homosexuality or rap music, with its

sexually explicit lyrics). Allowing the state to censor speech permits
the state to establish what counts as publically acceptable speech
and, by extension, what counts as offensive speech. The state does
not merely censor hate-speech but ‘produces hate-speech’.19 Hate-
speech does not exist, in other words, prior to judicial interven-
tion; the intervention performatively enacts it. As a consequence,
the state sets the racial and sexual norms it then deploys actively
to police its subjects – an argument that is reprised in slightly dif-
ferent form in her discussions of gay marriage and of the politics
of kinship.20 This is one reason why, throughout her work, Butler
favours civil society, and especially the reshaping of ‘daily social
relations’,21 as the primary locus of political activity: because the
state is not neutral in its adjudications.
The Body
One issue that came to the fore because of Butler’s discussion
of gender performativity was her conceptualisation of the body.
The (sexed) body is a central concern of feminism; most notably
because it is taken to be one of, if not the, principal sites upon
which gender differences are erected. Underpinning this claim is
the assumption that sex difference itself is immutable and because
of this female biology, particularly reproductive capacity, inevita-
bly affects women’s lives. Butler’s contention that the notion of
a natural body wrongly ontologises what is, in fact, a culturally
instituted phenomenon is a clear challenge to this view. In Gender
Trouble, Butler does not merely subscribe to Foucault’s Nietzschean
view that the body is shaped or disciplined by power; she criticises
Foucault for ‘maintaining a body prior to its cultural inscription’ for
the material body, as she conceives of it, is nothing other than the
effect of specific signifying practices.22 Unsurprisingly, some of her
feminist readers baulked at this conceptualisation, accusing Butler
both of denying the ‘reality’ of women’s bodies and of going too far
in her denaturalisation of the body.23
What perplexed Butler’s critics was that she appeared not to
subscribe to a belief in the body as a material entity with any innate
functions. When she remarks, in the preface to Bodies That Matter,
that ‘surely bodies live and die; eat and sleep; feel pain, pleasure;
endure illness and violence’, Butler appears to concede that the
body does indeed have an extra- or pre-discursive existence. Almost
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Moya Lloyd
immediately, however, she qualifies this remark when she notes

that the body cannot be understood outside culture. It can only be
apprehended, she continues, through ‘constructions’ represent-
ing ‘that “without which” we could not think at all’.24 Specifically,
the body cannot be thought – or, indeed, lived – except within
particular normalising schema (such as heteronormativity), which
determine the matter of bodies.
Yet, Butler does not maintain that the body is crafted entirely
from language or is a linguistic construction. Like phenomenolo-
gists such as Beauvoir, Butler believes this (excessive) body to be
itself unknowable. What is amenable to knowledge is just the body
‘as an imaginary formation’25 – the material body as represented or
categorised in discourse. This is arguably why, when Butler refers
to the matter of bodies, she does so in such a distinctive way: not
as a substance but as ‘a process of materialization that stabilizes over
time to produce the effect of boundary, fixity, and surface we call matter’.26
Matter, in this sense, has a dual meaning for Butler: as both matter-
ing (having value) and materialisation.27 The (sexed) bodies that
matter are those that have been rendered intelligible (materialised)
by a particular regulatory regime.
Critics might charge, and with some warrant, that in once again
stressing the constituted nature of sex in Bodies That Matter Butler
has not explicitly demonstrated that anatomical sex, though a dis-
cursive construct, is nevertheless lived as real, that sex is lived, in
other words, as constraint: as a source of anguish, a site of medical
intervention, or a fleshy incarnation that is always less-than-human.28
Certainly the emphasis changes in later works. In The Psychic Life of
Power, Butler begins to develop the idea of corporeal vulnerability,
which is amplified in Undoing Gender and Precarious Life. Her argu-
ment begins with a claim concerning primary human dependency:
that all infants rely on others to survive. This reliance reveals a basic
fact about the body: it is inherently vulnerable, mortal. Without
care, the helpless infant will surely die. This dependency, accord-
ing to Butler, does not end when the subject is able to take care of
itself practically; it continues in perpetuity. The ‘skin and the flesh
expose us to the gaze of others but also to touch and to violence’.29
The body is the medium though which we encounter others: be
that through love, passion, anger, guilt, mourning, hatred, cruelty
or killing. To ‘be a body is to be given over to others’.30 Willingly or
not, the body is always already communal: open and susceptible to
others; affecting and impacting on others.
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Cultural (Un)intelligibility, the Human and Normative Violence

Hand in hand with Butler’s growing attention to the precariousness
of embodied life, there has also been a more explicit focus on some-
thing she calls a ‘livable life’. The concept of a livable life brings
together a series of ideas that have become more explicit in her
work in recent times: namely, normative violence, cultural unintelli-
gibility and the human. A livable life is a life that is viable within the
dominant normative order. In terms of sex and gender, therefore, a
feminine woman who desires masculine men has a greater prospect
of being able to live her life with ease than a feminine woman who
desires other women. The option of a livable life rests on cultural
intelligibility, that is, on the possibility of a particular person being
recognised as a subject. For the subject ‘is the linguistic occasion for
the individual to achieve and reproduce intelligibility, the linguis-
tic occasion of its existence and agency’.31 Its continued existence
hinges on its intelligibility – on its conformity to dominant norms.
But what of those who are in some sense ‘outside the norm’?32
Normative violence is the term Butler gives to the operation of
norms in determining who counts as a subject. This is the violence
performed by ‘ideal morphologies of sex’ in designating certain
bodies as normal and others as anomalous;33 it is the violence that
occurs when heterosexuality is naturalised and all other forms of
sexuality are rendered unreal and, thus, unintelligible. It is the
violence at work when a particular racial frame is deployed that
serves to render certain populations less than human: be that Arab-
Americans at the height of the ‘War on Terror’ or the ‘200,000 Iraqi
children . . . killed during the Gulf War and its aftermath’.34 Norms
of gender and race are to be understood thus as apparatuses gen-
erating and naturalising particular bodies and persons and which
have the capacity to constrain how humanity is defined. If livability
depends on conforming to norms, then, ‘struggle with the norm’
defines attempts to extend livability to those made unintelligible by
them.35
As Butler observes in Frames of War, the ‘frames’ operating to dif-
ferentiate intelligible from unintelligible life set up specific ‘ontolo-
gies of the subject’.36 Breaking with the traditional conception
of ontology as revealing fundamental universal truths about the
world, Butler conceives of ontologies as contingent, historical and
hence political. They are constituted by norms. For a person to be
recognisable as human, therefore, she or he has to fit a particular
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Moya Lloyd
conception of the human; she or he has to be intelligible as human.

Intelligibility precedes and conditions recognisability. To suggest
that the unintelligible are not yet human, that not all who presently
live and breathe qualify as such, is to argue that the ‘human’ is a site
of normative struggle. The political implications that follow from
this are significant. Countering unintelligibility cannot be done by
assimilating the excluded to current normative standards, by for
instance extending to them exactly the same rights extended to
intelligible citizens. It requires no less than ‘an insurrection at the
level of ontology’37 or a remaking of the category of the human.
Given that the frames defining the human have to be reiterated in
order to be sustained, such remaking is always possible. Just as there
is a risk inherent in language that it may be redeployed, so too there
is a risk with normative frames. To bring about the ontological revo-
lution identified by Butler, however, this remaking must produce
subject positions that enable the unintelligible to occupy the site of
the human. This alone can render them intelligible.
Ethics
Although the initial prompt for Butler’s exploration of ethical
responsibility in Precarious Life was the events of September 11
2001, in many other respects it is the natural culmination of several
lines of thought pursued in prior work. The conception of corpo-
real vulnerability outlined earlier grows out of arguments begun
in The Psychic Life of Power, and underpins her concern with how
experiences such as grief, love, mourning and anger might become
resources used to extend what constitutes a livable life. Her endur-
ing interest in questions of recognition, Hegel’s bequest, is linked
inextricably to Butler’s exploration of the connections between
intelligibility and recognisability – the general conditions under
which acts of recognition occur. For, before an act of recognition
can occur – before someone’s life might be accepted as livable or
they might be acknowledged as human – those involved have to be
(or become) recognisable to the other as a subject. An additional
element which is central to the kind of ethics Butler advances is the
self’s opacity to itself. It is this ‘foreignness to myself’ that, in Giving
an Account of Oneself, she claims is ‘the source of my ethical connec-
tion with others’38 and which also indicated the depth of her debt
to psychoanalysis.
Throughout her work, from Subjects of Desire onwards, Butler has
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engaged with and drawn on psychoanalysis, particularly the work of

Sigmund Freud and Jacques Lacan. When challenged by her critics
that, in Gender Trouble, she had denied the performative subject any
interiority whatsoever, she retorted, in Bodies That Matter, that there
is, in fact, a psychic dimension to performativity insofar as what the
subject performs functions to hide what is opaque or unconscious
to it. Specifically, what the psychic subject cannot avow is a form of
gender melancholia. In brief, Butler borrows from Freud the idea
of melancholia as an ungrieved loss which results in identification
with that lost object. (A person loses a lover and so in order to keep
them alive psychically he or she takes on certain of their character-
istics.) In terms of gender, she interprets this to mean that at the
heart of normative heterosexuality there is both disavowed loss of
and identification with homosexual desire.
Ethically, that the formation of the subject rests on attachments
of which the subject is unconscious matters more than gender
melancholia per se; for it implies a subject who is not transparent to
itself. Butler spots in this notion of non-transparency, when allied
with the fact of primary dependency, the possibility for an ethics
of responsibility – but an ethics of a very particular kind. Because
in some fundamental sense, subjects are opaque to themselves,
they are never able to have full knowledge of themselves: of their
actions, their desires or their prejudices. Ethically, this means that
the subject is not fully accountable or responsible for what it does
as many ethical theories assume. The norms conditioning its behav-
iour are not of the subject’s own choosing and its conscience is
actively shaped by ‘norms of social regulation’ that it interiorises.39
If responsibility is to mean anything, in ethical terms, then it has
to be rethought in such a way as to take into consideration human
interdependence, both psychic and corporeal, and opacity. It has,
that is, to be reconceptualised as part and parcel of the process of
subject formation.
Butler is preceded in this line of thinking by Emmanuel Levinas,
a philosopher whose work she has recourse to in the development of
her own argument. Butler calls, above all, on his idea that an ethical
relation is established at the moment the subject is summoned into
existence by the unwilled address of the other. Responsibility is
thus an effect of that relation, a relation established ‘prior to any
possibility of action or choice’ and prior to ‘the formation of “I”’.40
The ethical subject is thus never an autonomous subject, as is often
contended. From the outset, instead, for both Levinas and Butler,
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Moya Lloyd
subjects are ethically enmeshed with, and impinged on by, one

another.
It is the subject’s susceptibility, therefore, to the other – its
capacity to be ‘undone’ by them – that is both the basis of its vulner-
ability to injury and of its ethical responsibilities. At times of such
undoing or ‘dispossession’ – when, for instance, someone dies – the
foreignness to the self noted earlier is revealed.41 When bereave-
ment occurs, the subject loses not only the person who dies but also
something of themselves. The possibility of ethical responsibility to
the other, Butler suggests, arises exactly at these instants of unknow-
ingness; when, for example, those who have suffered violence react
not with more violence but in order to defend nameless others,
including perhaps so-called enemies, from similar violence. At such
times, the prospect surfaces of reconfiguring the norms defining
who counts as defendable; in essence, who counts as human. It is
only by actively cultivating such ethical responsiveness to the other,
therefore, that it is possible to protect and support precarious life.
In this regard, the fact of being-with others is not a limitation on the
subject’s capacity for ethical action. Instead, it is the very condition
of possibility for its ethical response.
Butler’s Influence
To say that Butler’s work has had a significant impact on femi-
nism or queer theory is scarcely contentious: Gender Trouble alone
has been translated into over twenty languages and has spawned
responses, commentaries and refutations aplenty. To focus on
this one book alone, however, is to underestimate the range of
Butler’s academic influence. Her work in general is cited rou-
tinely in disciplines as varied as philosophy, geography, perform-
ance studies, design, sociology, politics and literature (among
many others). Butler’s idea of performativity has been drawn on
not only to illuminate further the relation between sex, gender
and sexuality but also the performativity of race. The concept of
life’s precariousness has been influential in recent international
relations theory. Her understanding of subjectivity had been
used in film interpretation, while the idea of cultural unintelli-
gibility has been borrowed to explore questions of immigration
and asylum. Volumes have been published examining Butler’s
politics, the influence of her ideas on the study of religion and
her contribution to the study of law. In addition, several special
88

issues of journals have also appeared, exploring the impact of her

work on the sociology of education, as well as on, for example,
feminist and queer studies. Extracts from her writings are found
in most readers on feminist or queer theory, and in many on the
body. Scholars have recently begun to explore her contribution to
radical democratic theory.
It is fair to say, however, that for all their influence Butler’s
ideas have divided her critics. Some responses have been posi-
tively vitriolic. Others have drawn attention in a more measured
fashion to perceived limitations with her ideas. Her interpretations
of other thinkers, from Beauvoir, through Foucault, to Catharine
MacKinnon, have troubled several scholars, who have challenged
her for being idiosyncratic, partial, even for distorting the writing
with which she is engaging. She has been criticised for failing to
stipulate normative criteria against which to measure ‘good’ per-
formances from ‘bad’ and ‘good’ norms from ‘bad’ norms, taken to
task for failing to deal with the ‘realities’ of (women’s) oppression
and condemned for her ‘hip quietism’.42 At the same time, however,
still others have found questions in her work, undoubtedly, but also
insight.
From the outset, Butler has responded to her critics – though
not always by directly engaging with them. Bodies That Matter
endeavours to resolve issues generated by Gender Trouble. The
Psychic Life of Power develops the psychoanalytic dimensions of her
thought in ways hinted at, though not always amplified, in her
earlier work. Excitable Speech takes the theory of performativity in
another direction while Undoing Gender returns to questions raised
in Gender Trouble and offers yet another take on them. Questions
of kinship touched on in Bodies That Matter are given centre stage
in Antigone’s Claim. Precarious Life reprises the theme of mourning
found in the last text at the same time as it signals something of
a shift in direction, with its more explicitly political orientation
and overt concern with ethics. These themes are, as already noted,
picked up in different ways in Giving an Account of Oneself and
Frames of War. It is this perpetual restaging of earlier arguments
that explains both the ripeness of Butler’s work for appropriation
by others and some of the frustrations her readers feel in attempt-
ing to pin her down. For although there are certain ideas that are
emblematic of her work, what is also emblematic of it is the way
that it is, itself, reiterative, that is, invested with different meanings
in different contexts.
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Moya Lloyd
Notes
1. Judith Butler, ‘Afterword’, in Ellen T. Armour and Susan M. St. Ville

(eds), Bodily Citations: Religion and Judith Butler (New York: Columbia
2. Undoing Gender, p. 234.
3. Carole S. Vance (ed.), Pleasure and Danger: Exploring Female Sexuality
(London: Pandora Press, 1989 [1984]), p. 452.
4. See ibid., pp. 8–9; and Lynn Comella, ‘Looking Backward: Barnard
and Its Legacies’, The Communication Review, 11, 2008, pp. 202–11.
5. ‘French Feminism’ is used to refer to the work of three thinkers –
Hélène Cixous, Luce Irigaray and Julia Kristeva – none of whom is
French and only one of whom calls herself a feminist.
6. Gender Trouble, p. 10.
7. Ibid. p. 194 n. 6.
8 Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex, trans. H. M. Parshley
(Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1972 [1949]), p. 301.
9. ‘Performative Acts’, p. 519; but see also Gender Trouble, p. 179.
10. Ibid. p. 519.
11. Gender Trouble, p. 33.
12. Jacques Derrida, ‘Signature Event Context’, in Peggy Kamuf (ed.), A
Derrida Reader: Between the Blinds (New York and London: Harvester
Wheatsheaf, 1991), pp. 80–111.
13. Ibid. p. 104.
14. Bodies That Matter, p. 95.
15. J. L. Austin, How to Do Things with Words, 2nd edn (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1976).
16. Excitable Speech, p. 51, original emphasis.
17. Ibid. p. 15.
18. See, for instance, Bodies That Matter, p. 226; and ‘Changing the
Subject’, p. 351.
19. Excitable Speech, p. 77.
20. Antigone’s Claim.
21. Contingency, Hegemony, Universality, p. 14.
22. Gender Trouble, p. 166; see also p. 177.
23. For the former position see Susan Bordo, Unbearable Weight:
Feminism, Western Culture, and the Body (Berkeley, CA: University of
California Press, 1993), p. 38; and Martha Nussbaum, ‘Professor
of Parody’, <http://www.md.ucl.ac.be/ebim/scientif/Recherche/
GenreBioethique/Nussbaum_NRO.htm> (accessed 23 January 2007);
and for the latter see Carole Bigwood, ‘Renaturalizing the Body (with
the Help of Merleau-Ponty)’, in Donn Welton (ed.), Body and Flesh: A
Philosophical Reader (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998), pp. 99–114.
24. Bodies That Matter, p. xi.
90

25. Ibid. p. 66.

26. Ibid. p. 9. On the idea of bodily substance see Vicky Kirkby, ‘When All
That Is Solid Melts into Language: Judith Butler and the Question of
Matter’, International Journal of Sexuality and Gender Studies, 7, 4, 2002,
pp. 265–80.
27. Bodies That Matter, p. 32.
28. See Samuel A. Chambers and Terrell Carver, Judith Butler and Political
Theory: Troubling Politics (London: Routledge, 2008), Chapter 3.
29. Undoing Gender, p. 21; and Precarious Life, p. 26.
31. Psychic Life of Power, p. 11.
33. Gender Trouble, p. xx.
34. Precarious Life, p. 34.
36. Frames of War, p. 3.
38. Giving an Account of Oneself, p. 84.
39. Psychic Life of Power, p. 171.
40. Giving an Account, p. 88; Precarious Life, p. 31.
42. Nussbaum, ‘Professor of Parody’.
Key Works by Butler

Antigone’s Claim: Kinship between Life and Death (New York: Columbia
Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of ‘Sex’ (London: Routledge,
1993).
‘Changing the Subject: Judith Butler’s Politics of Radical Resignification’,
in Sarah Salih (with Judith Butler) (eds), The Judith Butler Reader
(Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), pp. 326–56.
Contingency, Hegemony, Universality: Contemporary Dialogues on the Left, with
Ernesto Laclau and Slavoj Žižek (London: Verso, 2000).
Excitable Speech: The Politics of the Performative (London: Routledge, 1997).
Frames of War: When Is Life Grievable? (London: Verso, 2009).
Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity, Tenth Anniversary
Edition (London: Routledge, 1999 [1990]).
Giving an Account of Oneself (New York: Fordham University Press, 2005).
‘Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology
and Feminist Theory’, Theatre Journal, 40, 4, 1988, pp. 519–31.
Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence (London: Verso, 2000).
The Psychic Life of Power: Theories in Subjection (Stanford, CA: Stanford
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Moya Lloyd
Subjects of Desire: Hegelian Reflections in Twentieth-Century France (New York:

Columbia University Press, 1987).
Undoing Gender (London: Routledge, 2004).

Carver, Terrell, and Samuel Chambers (eds), Judith Butler’s Precarious
Politics: Critical Encounters (London: Routledge, 2008). This is an excel-
lent but challenging volume of essays, which is organised thematically
and covers most aspects of Butler’s work.
Chambers, Samuel, and Terrell Carver, Judith Butler and Political Theory:
Troubling Politics (London: Routledge, 2008). This useful and wide-
ranging book focuses on Butler’s theory of the political.
Lloyd, Moya, Judith Butler: From Norms to Politics (Cambridge: Polity, 2007).
This book offers a comprehensive and critical examination of Butler’s
work that focuses in particular on its impact on feminism.
Loizidou, Elena, Judith Butler: Ethics, Law, Politics (Abingdon: Routledge-
Cavendish, 2007). A challenging book examining the themes of law,
ethics and politics, which explores the potential contribution of Butler’s
work for critical legal scholarship.
Salih, Sara, Judith Butler (London: Routledge, 2002). This is a short, acces-
sible introduction to Butler’s work up to Antigone’s Claim. It stresses, in
particular, its significance for literary studies.
Salih, Sara (with Judith Butler), The Judith Butler Reader (Oxford: Blackwell,
2004). This volume contains a selection of Butler’s writings (essays,
extracts from books, and interviews), along with a comprehensive intro-
duction and additional editorial material provided by Salih. It is an
excellent resource.
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6
Cornelius Castoriadis (1922–97)

Caroline Williams
Thinker of a World in Fragments

Cornelius Castoriadis does not figure often among the French
philosophers most cited and utilised by critical theorists in the
Anglophone world. His vast and varied oeuvre of almost fifty
years spans philosophy, psychoanalysis, politics, literature, science
and mathematics. But it has developed largely in the margins of
contemporary critical thought. Indeed, his thought defies easy
classification. It does not sit neatly within a category such as ‘post-
structuralism’ which might act as a somewhat bare label to mark
out the thought of many of the thinkers considered in this volume.
The very few references made by Castoriadis to prominent French
post-structuralist thinkers such as Foucault, Derrida and Deleuze
tend to be pejorative and lack sustained engagement, even though
it might be argued that there are grounds for interesting dialogue
with some, notably with Deleuze’s views on science and politics. To
the extent that post-structuralism is mediated via an engagement
with Nietzsche, such perspectivism could only be, for Castoriadis,
a symptom of the cultural conformism of contemporary Western
society from which he wished to detach his thought. At a time
when the political bearings of structuralism and post-structuralism
appeared lost and the primacy of the human subject was being
challenged by the disciplines of philosophy, linguistics, politics and
psychoanalysis, Castoriadis claimed that the so-called ‘death of the
subject’ was an evasion of political responsibility. His own response
to this crisis of philosophy and politics was a novel reworking of the
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Caroline Williams
Marxist project as a project of autonomy expressed in the model

of a radical, participatory democracy that drew sustenance from a
deep engagement with Classical Greek philosophy and Freudian
psychoanalysis.
Castoriadis was a heterodox thinker. He was born in Athens
where he began reading philosophy at an early age and joined the
Communist Youth. He later moved to France and formed the legen-
dary political group Socialisme ou Barbarie, which contained among
its membership Nicos Poulantzas, Claude Lefort and Jean-François
Lyotard and exerted a significant impact upon the events of May
1968. It was from within this group that Castoriadis began writing the
pamphlets and essays that offered a trenchant critique of the rigid,
bureaucratic nature of communist regimes with their totalisation
of economy and society.1 The project of social change, he argued,
could no longer be conceived in terms of workers’ self-management
of production but must extend to the collective self-management
of society.2 In his orbituary of this enigmatic figure, Axel Honneth
describes Castoriadis as ‘the last great representative of the tradi-
tion of Western Marxism’ whose theory is comparable in originality
and scope to that of Merleau-Ponty (whom Castoriadis read closely)
and Herbert Marcuse.3 In common with these two, Castoriadis
embarked upon an immanent critique of Marxism designed to push
open and renew its theoretical framework. This is encapsulated in
his central work, The Imaginary Institution of Society.
The form of this critique of Marxism is also inseparable from a
number of other aspects of Castoriadis’s intellectual development,
not least his formal training as a psychoanalyst. Beginning his train-
ing under the auspices of the Lacanian school, Castoriadis, along
with Luce Irigaray, was to break in 1969 with the École Freudienne,
forming the post-Lacanian Quatriame Groupe. Lacan’s controver-
sial model of analysis, its structural logic and the accompanying con-
ception of the subject as a signifier were understood by Castoriadis
to jettison the specificity of the radical imagination as an individual
and collective form of self-alteration and creation, a concept that
would become central to his project of autonomy. Together with the
many interventions within contemporary scientific discourse (espe-
cially with the biological theory of Francisco Varela) this psycho-
analytical approach gives rise to a nuanced conception of the living
being as a self-constituting or auto-poietic mode of being. As we
shall see in the discussion below, if Castoriadis may be understood
as reclaiming (in a qualified form) the reflective and deliberative
94

attributes of the human subject against the dominant tendencies

of contemporary critical thought, this must nonetheless be viewed
also as a non-human quality of physis or nature. In this sense, aspects
of Castoriadis’s thought might invite dialogue with Bruno Latour.
Indeed, as one commentator has recently argued, there is a clear
shift in the later Castoriadis from a regard with a regional ontology
of being established with the formation of the human individual
in The Imaginary Institution of Society to a transregional ontology of
physis itself as governed by creative emergence.4
If it is within the broad context of Marxist theory that Castoriadis’s
thought may be placed, then the shadow of structuralist Marxism
must also be mentioned. The discourse of structuralism certainly
organised if not dominated debates in the 1960s across a wide
range of disciplines from feminism and philosophy to anthropol-
ogy and politics. The scepticism with which Castoriadis viewed
post-structuralism and postmodernism must also be extended to
structuralism, which he saw as little more than a pseudo-science.
There can be no structure or law that can predetermine and
account for the contents of a given society because there is a produc-
tive element within every societal structure which remains ungraspa-
ble. Structuralist attempts to extrapolate a comprehensive system
based upon the differences and relations between elements com-
prising it, such as that developed by Louis Althusser, appear to rely
upon an ontology of determinacy. In other words, as a systematic
theory seeking an underlying truth or a rational understanding of
the object of society, and as a largely ahistorical or at least transhis-
torical and formal account of that object’s ontological emergence,
structuralism remains closed in upon itself and is unable to account
for the impurities and particularities that form part of its very com-
position. It is against the elision of the undetermined in this syn-
chronic (or structuralist) view of time and history that Castoriadis
develops a view of history as the emergence of new figures and
forms. Thus he notes, ‘What is given in and through history is not
the determined sequence of the determined but the emergence
of radical otherness, immanent creation, non-trivial novelty.’5 It
is the recognition of this irreducible moment of novelty that leads
Castoriadis to formulate a view of the social world as a process of insti-
tution, where we understand the term ‘institution’ not merely as an
object (namely, social institutions) but rather as a dynamic state of
being of the social-historical world. Let us turn now to reconfigure
and evaluate the central concepts of Castoriadis’ thought implied
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Caroline Williams
by this new philosophy of time and history, and this ontology of

genesis, before moving to consider some of the terms of its critical
appraisal, and assess the originality of his perspective.
The Imaginary Institution of Society: Towards an Ontology

of Creation
The Imaginary Institution of Society offers responses to an important
series of questions that continue to preoccupy critical theory today.
Such questions include the following. How might we theorise the
emergence of social, political, and indeed all living forms? To what
extent do power relations shape the individual subject and con-
struct social identity? How can agency be theorised in the wake of
the questioning of metaphysical foundations that previously have
shaped the conception of the active subject? How might we account
for the effect of the unconscious within social life, or the role of
contingency vis-à-vis social structure? In the wake of the many chal-
lenges to foundationalism and the universal status of truth-claims,
how might we theorise an ‘open’ form of knowledge (or science)
without presuppositions, and move forward with a viable, trans-
formatory political project? All of these questions – and more –
concerned Castoriadis throughout his life.
We have already seen that he is reluctant to attribute any model,
rationale, teleology, or logic of final causes to human life, instead
drawing attention to the multiple and intertwining conditions of
emergence of social forms and individuality. It may be possible to
identify some common properties of society, namely, that it must
provide a system of meaning for (the waking life of) its members.
Such a system of meaning must offer a series of norms and values
and a shared language; it must establish ways of making and doing,
ways of forming social relationships, patterns of gender, recognised
forms of desire, and so on, but these can never be the basis of a
model or totalising theory. No two societies are ever the same and
beyond this need for bare meaning, social imaginary significations,
as Castoriadis describes them, create individuals in a multitude of
different ways (for example, as monogamous, polygamous, mono-
theistic, pagan or pacific). Indeed, in a society that recognises its
self-institution, that is conscious of its historicity and perpetual
genesis (after all, systems of meaning are always in the process of
configuration), there may be a democratic interrogation of norms
by autonomous individuals in a political (public) space where the
96

laws and norms, the nomos of a society, is subject to rational delib-

eration and revision. It is the presentation of this double-birth of
philosophy and politics that Castoriadis locates in the Greek polis.6
However, modern and contemporary societies have tended to
rationalise and manipulate, solidify and fix the mobility of images
available to subjects. In this way, both subject and social world
appear as already instituted, timeless, exhausted and heteronomous
states of being, and the creative, organising, meaning-giving form
that is radical imagination is suppressed and covered over. What,
then, is the status and function of radical imagination, and how
does Castoriadis propose to theorise it?
Radical Imagination: Understanding the Subjective and

Anonymous Fields of Creativity
Significantly, Castoriadis posits imagination as having two related
modes of being. The first is the singular human being, existing as
part of the Soul or psyche; its operations permit the very possibility of
individuality and social identity. It is therefore theorised primarily
in relation to Freud and largely against Lacan. In both the history of
philosophy and psychoanalysis itself, radical imagination has been
undertheorised and sometimes occluded in positions that empha-
sise the linguistic structure and presentation of the unconscious.
The second mode of being is the collective, anonymous social-
historical field and here, claims Castoriadis, its occlusion is absolute
since no thinker has tried to understand or actualise the dynamic
temporal life of society itself as radical imagination. It is first and
foremost in The Imaginary Institution of Society that the modalities of
this concept of radical imagination are elaborated.
For Castoriadis, radical imagination departs from those negative
formulations which view it as the other of reason. If in the seven-
teenth century imagination was tied to an understanding of the pas-
sions or emotions (in particular, their passivity/activity or intensity),
this was often to domesticate and transcend its power rather than to
acknowledge its productivity and constitutive role in the creation of
form or eidos. Imagination is not a figment or delusion and its role is
not corruptive of reason. It is neither fictive in structure nor opposed
to the real presentations of the intellect. Castoriadis traces a selec-
tive genealogy of the radical imagination finding but two transitory
historical examples of it in the philosophies of Aristotle and Kant.
The former philosopher, in De Anima, identifies an elementary
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Caroline Williams
coherence of imagination as a movement of thought identified as

phantasia; a working up ex nihilo not simply of images (which are its
secondary outcomes) but of eidos itself. The latter develops the tran-
scendental imagination, which in The Critique of Judgement enjoys an
expansive creative power, particularly in the form of genius. In both
thinkers, however, imagination is ultimately domesticated between
sensation and intellect (in Aristotle) and overruled by Reason (in
Kant).7 One might add to this genealogy the philosophy of Spinoza
who likewise develops an account of imagination that prioritises its
productive elements as well as its transindividual, impersonal struc-
ture. In this example too, imagination is not an illusion; it is a pow-
erful force that circulates between composite bodies (be they subject,
mass or multitude). For Spinoza, imagination acts as a fulcrum or
conductor for the process of identification, creating relations of
agreement and possibility between bodies to enhance their activity
and power. Indeed, this radical potentia of Spinozist imagination has
been theorised to great political effect in the work of Michael Hardt
and Antonio Negri, and may suggest the value of a comparative
study of these thinkers on imagination.8
Building upon the philosophical innovations of Aristotle and
Kant, Castoriadis resurrects the ‘scandal of imagination’9 as a
Heraclitean flux of figure and meaning giving rise to differentiation,
distinction and representation. This surging forth of new forms and
determinations (always with spacings, gaps, extensions and hence
underdetermined) is irreducible to what already exists and brings into
being something radically Other. As Castoriadis notes, ‘It destroys
the thesis on being that underlines Greco-Western philosophy from
beginning to end, according to which being is considered as deter-
minacy’.10 Representation has often been reduced to perception but
in relation to imagination it is something quite different:
Representation is perpetual presentation, the incessant flux in and

through which anything can be given. It does not belong to the subject,
it is, to begin with, the subject . . . [It] is precisely that by which this
‘us’ can never be closed in upon itself, that by which it overflows on
all sides, constantly makes itself other than it ‘is’, posits itself in and
through the positing of figures and exceeds every given figure . . .
Representation is not tracing out the spectacle of the world, it is that in
and through which at a given moment a world arises.11
This contestation of the unity and foundation of the subject

leads Castoriadis to psychoanalytic theory for the development and
98

qualification of imagination, and we will proceed to investigate the

basis of this theoretical relation below. It is also of crucial impor-
tance, nonetheless, to underscore the sense in which the function
and formal activity of imagination described above takes much
more than a subjective form; it is not solely a corporeal imagination.
If radical imagination also deploys itself in a second, rather more
anonymous modality as society, as the social-historical, then it is also
that mode of self-alteration which brings itself into being as instituted
society and as social imaginary. This formulation creates a bone of
contention about Castoriadis’s ontology of creation, a point of cri-
tique not missed by several commentators on his work, in particular
Habermas, who finds in his account some unexplained source of
vital agency: ‘the world-devouring praxis of the social demiurge’ as
self-instituting society that merely replaces the self-positing subject of
modern philosophy.12 How can Castoriadis account for beginnings?
What is the origin of creativity?
Thinking Beginnings: Conceptualising the Magma

This question of origins is fully recognised and answered by its
author, however, who explains it as follows: the social-historical is at
once instituted and instituting; it is the given structures and materi-
alised institutions, and that which structures, materialises and insti-
tutes. Thus: ‘In and through its own creation, society creates the
individual as such, and the individuals in and through which alone
it can exist.’13 Castoriadis searches for a number of formulations to
express the consubstantiality and interdependence implied here. In
particular, this dynamic relation is described in terms of the mutual
inherence of psyche and society, or the leaning of the social upon a
primary substratum. This primary stratum in its basic form is nature
or physis, but we must be careful not to think of it as a homogene-
ous or monolithic Nature as Substance from which the world simply
emanates or which we can transcend. As the metaphor of leaning
upon makes clear, there is no clear division between natural and
cultural, biological and social realities. The striving toward such
a division Castoriadis views merely as the ‘incoherent fantasy of a
certain stage of Western science’.14 Instead, we might better think
about these realities on the model of a continuum, of the becoming
culture of nature, or, following Deleuze, as the virtual field of the
socio-political. This metaphor also affords a much more sticky and
intrinsically immanent connection/relation to describe the means
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Caroline Williams
whereby myths, symbols or any other figures of social meaning are

organised by the social-historical into imaginary significations and,
of course, materialised in institutions.
Nature is not to be understood in a determinist fashion as a uni-
vocal cause from which life and being emerge as its logical and local
effects. Nor is it, as Habermas presents it, a new theodicy where
‘the personification of society as a poetic demiurge releases ever
new world-types from itself’.15 How, then, are we to think about the
source of this creative power (as imagination)? In order to explain
this field of organisable potentiality, Castoriadis is inspired not by the
history of philosophy but by the contemporary crisis in mathematics
(which is also a crucial source for Badiou), the aporias of contem-
porary physics (such as chaos theory) and problems regarding the
emergence and organisation of living beings in biology (how should
we understand the biological closure of systems of life?). Engaging,
often forcefully and always in an interrogatory manner, he invents a
new concept able to give content to the relation of interdependence
or inherence expressed above.16 The originary upsurge of imagina-
tion proceeds from a total indetermination. There is no Essence or
Being to ground the productivity of imagination. Similarly there
is no primary Cause and thus no straightforward sense of agency
behind this creative praxis. Rather there is a magma, which can only
be described as plural, undifferentiated and indefinite, an ‘onto-
logical heterogeneity’17 or a groundless abyss from which emerge
an inexhaustible series of possibilities to stratify, compose and
organise the genesis of forms.18 Nature is, therefore an excessive
living Being, an infinitely organisable set of compossibilities, or an
irregularly stratified form which, through perpetual self-alteration
(that is, creation) presents, contra Habermas’s view, the absent
ground for the emergence of new forms. In order to simplify this
inescapably complex description of the role of magma as the unde-
cidable origin of stratified or instituted worlds, let us briefly take
an oft-cited example from Castoriadis’s writings where he engages
with the ground-breaking biological theory of Francisco Varela
who introduced (with Humberto Maturana) the idea of autopoiesis
to define the self-productive activity that brings into being a living
being as an autonomous system.19
According to Varela, the living being is a self-organising, self-
asserting, sense-making system exhibiting an important quality of
autonomy. It is in constant exchange with its environment such
that what is ‘outside’ is always constituted internally, and must have
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meaning for the metabolic existence of the system itself. Like the
quality of inherence discussed above, this formulation upsets all
distinctions between inside and outside, instead suggesting the
idea of an informational ‘loop’.20 Varela suggests that autonomy is
represented by the on-going maintenance of organisational closure
and conservation of the system as a unity, while its disintegration
signals a loss of identity and partial or complete death for the
system. Varela’s work establishes important developments within
theories of creative evolution and might refine our understanding
of the emergence of non-human as well as human living systems (an
eco-system or a socially constituted individual, for example). While
it is evident that Castoriadis draws creatively upon Varela’s theory
of autopoiesis, he is at pains to emphasise a more specific aspect
of autonomy against the organisational closure of Varela’s theory
which leads, for Castoriadis, to paradoxical results.21 It implies that
even a society whose system of world and institution is totally closed
and rigid might be considered self-maintaining and, therefore,
autonomous. In the context of the project of autonomy developed
by Castoriadis, such a political system, be it archaic or authoritarian,
fosters not autonomy but only heteronomy. By replacing the focus
upon self-organisation with one of self-constitution, Castoriadis
transforms the focus from autonomy as biological closure to one of
opening. He writes:
It is ontological opening, since to go beyond this closure signifies alter-

ing the already existing cognitive and organizational ‘system’, therefore
constituting one’s world and one’s self according to other laws, therefore
creating a new ontological eidos, another self in another world.22
Thus the living being creates life, as well as the infinity of ways of
existing socially and the myriad of laws and norms that pertain to
this or another form of life. Furthermore, it is because there is an
inexhaustible and indefinite series of possibilities (described above
as a magma-like horizon of representations, ready for symbolisation
and communication) that autonomy exists as a political project
and a political activity. It is, he writes, ‘the term nomos that gives full
meaning to the term and project of autonomy’ where the subject
becomes the explicit author of form.23 Can the individual become
an autonomous being, one who acts deliberatively to modify its
law? How might the radical imagination as self-alteration (and
the novelty implied by its mode of social-historical being) bring
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Caroline Williams
into being new ways of existing politically and socially? In order to

answer these questions concerning the ‘politics of the subject’ we
need first to return briefly to psychoanalytic theory.
Psyche and Subject, Autonomy and Democracy

All this points clearly to the sense in which the psyche is inher-
ently social, both in terms of the relations it will form (as a living,
autopoietic system), and its social existence, given that the mecha-
nisms for the sublimation of its expressions are always socially
instituted in the transindividual realm of the social-historical.
Castoriadis thus politicises psychoanalysis from the very begin-
ning, and marks out his own project from that of the dominant
Lacanian school. He also arguably sets his position against those
thinkers who have utilised, albeit critically, some formulation of
the Lacanian imaginary (for example, those who follow in the
wake of the Althusserian/Lacanian matrix of thought, notably
Butler, Žižek and Laclau).
Within both his training as a psychoanalyst, as well as in his
writings upon psychoanalytic theory (early and late), Castoriadis
has sought to theorise and understand the distinctiveness of the
psyche as radical imagination. This, he argues, has been flattened
into a purely specular form by the Lacanian imaginary where
unconscious images, affects and representations are reduced to
the form of a linguistic signifier, and the practico-poetic activity of
the subject as ‘a ceaseless emergence of representations’ is down-
played.24 Since it is haunted by a ‘vulgar ontology of reflection’25
that privileges vision as a measure for designating the constitution
of the subject, the act of perceiving itself as an imaginary object is
taken as the metaphysical source of the ontological status of the
subject as split or fractured (Spaltung ). It is this condition that
renders it a subject of lack or an experience of alienation from
which there appears to be no possible escape. For Castoriadis
(and Merleau-Ponty, upon whom he draws here), perception
already implies ‘a cutting up of what is lived into discontinuous
acts’.26 In other words and as we have argued above, the mode of
appearance for and organisation of representing and doing and the
ways we participate in them are always socially instituted. There
is no subject of representation and Castoriadis aims to show us a
scene of the subject and of imagination other than that offered
by Lacan.
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A number of commentators, most recently Yannis Stavrakakis,

have suggested that a more sustained dialogue is necessary between
Lacanian psychoanalysis and Castoriadis. Stavrakakis claims that the
latter’s work may act as an ‘external frontier’ since it points to some
professed limits regarding creativity in Lacan (that are ultimately
misplaced, in his view). Stavrakakis argues that Castoriadis idealises
autonomy since he ignores the alienating dimension of creativity,
and the way in which desire always emerges from the field of the
Other. Since he does not focus strongly on the undifferentiated
feature of the magma, Stavrakakis (and Žižek too) tend to reduce
Castoriadis’s conception of the subject to an essentialist, solipsistic
and voluntarist form.27
Castoriadis describes the natural stratum of the subject as a
‘monadic core’ that only initially refers solely to itself: it is ‘an indis-
sociable unity of figure, meaning and pleasure’28 where subject,
object and other are without distinction. The psyche produces per-
petually a flux of images and affects; it is, as we have seen in relation
to Aristotle’s phantasia above, form creating. The subject cannot be
assigned the role of predicate or origin here:
There can be no question of separating, even ‘partially,’ the subject

and the flux. . . The subject is not the possessor of ‘its representations,’
‘its affects,’ and ‘its intentions’: the subject is that: representational-
affective-intentional flux in which has emerged the permanent pos-
sibility of reflections . . . and in which the raw (brute) spontaneity of
the radical imagination has in part converted itself into reflected
spontaneity.29
According to Castoriadis, Freud never thematised the imagina-

tion; for him it is the drive that becomes the carrier of representa-
tions. Castoriadis reactivates the Freudian legacy, particularly the
latter’s concept of phantasy, by positioning the radical imagination
at the fulcrum of the psyche as that which permits a drive or an affect
to have an ambassador in the psyche.30 In this sense, the unconscious
becomes part of the magmatic flux of representations and affects
described above, and Freudianism is rescued from an association
between primal phantasies and phylogenetic explanations such as
those described in Totem or Taboo. This primary monadic core is
modified – or sublimated – with the social imaginary creation (or
institution) of the subject as a social individual. But the birth of the
subject is also the work of the radical imagination since the psyche
has to abandon its own monadic world and, via social imaginary
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Caroline Williams
significations, cathect and create new social objects and meanings.

Through the social-historical, these significations create a social
world and shape the psyche. They create a drive for society and a
mood or cluster of affects; the drive and mood instituting a Christian
society is very different from that creating a classical Greek polis:
the Christian and the Athenian individual are instituted in quite
different ways.31
In his essay ‘The State of the Subject Today’ and in the wake of
the many theoretical challenges (for example, deconstruction and
structuralism) to the philosophy of the subject, Castoriadis draws
attention to the subject’s capacity for deliberate activity understood
as the reflective dimension of imagination as a source of creation.32
Reflective deliberation here refers to an ability to both challenge
and alter itself and the law. While such a project of subjectivity con-
cerns the practico-poetic task of psychoanalysis, which will always
remain unfinished, it is also a social-historical project and one
which has emerged twice with different modalities in Greece and
Western Europe. Castoriadis does not mythologise and romanticise
the Greek polis as some of his critics have suggested. He draws atten-
tion to the qualities of parrhesia (speaking one’s mind, publicly)
and isegoria (an equal right to this act of free speech) in ways that
recall the writings of the late Foucault on the hermeneutics of the
subject. But he also notes on several occasions the restrictive condi-
tions and exclusions that appear necessary to the form of the Greek
polis. Like Arendt too, with whom his thought has certain affinities,
and upon whom he often draws in these discussions regarding the
public space of democracy, the Greeks must be viewed as a kind of
germ since they never stopped asking the question: what is it that the
institutions of society ought to achieve?33
Castoriadis supplements this germ of autonomy by also arguing
that one cannot will autonomy without willing it for all. Politics is,
then, the collective project of autonomy. In this way, Castoriadis’s
political thought elicits conceptions of social equality and social
justice in forms compatible with Marxist views. Nonetheless, democ-
racy is a self-limiting political system without presupposition which
can rely on no foundational or extrasocial guarantee outside its
own laws (there is a metacontingency of meaning, and democracy
is the domain of political reflexivity par excellence). Democracy is,
therefore, a fundamentally tragic political regime. Castoriadis often
refers to the centrality of the agonistic element in Greek life, and in
his later essays explored this through the Greek poets.34 This tragic
104

element is connected both to human mortality and to the contin-

gency of foundations: nothing is given once and for all, and the
history of the Greco-Western world is the history of the perpetual
struggle between heteronomy and autonomy. Thus he writes:
Democracy is the sole regime that takes risks, that faces openly the possi-
bility of its self-destruction . . . [T]his amounts to saying that democracy
thrusts aside the sacred, or that – and this is the same thing – human
beings finally accept what they have never, until now, truly wanted to
accept: that they are mortal, that nothing lies ‘beyond’.35
This view of politics, and the ontology accompanying it, puts

Castoriadis’s thought up against a common series of problems
that we find in other thinkers too, notably Arendt and Badiou.
Castoriadis’s unswerving attention to the genesis of creation in
imagination, Arendt’s conception of natality as the capacity of
beginning something anew and Badiou’s evanescent event as
the chance-like invention that breaks with the prevailing state
of affairs, each recognises the abyssal or ungrounded nature of
inaugural emergence, and the sense in which creation might
also entail destruction as part of this emergence. Viewed in the
context of a democratic structure called for by Castoriadis, it is
unsurprising that critics such as Habermas and Honneth worry
about the political risks of metacontingency, and of how one may
arrive at claims of validity and justification for emerging politi-
cal forms. Of interest in this context is the dialogue established
between Castoriadis’s more flexible and multifaceted concept
of autonomy and theories of deliberative democracy by Andrea
Kalyvas.36
Conclusion: Charting the Labyrinth of Thought

In comparison with that of his contemporaries in French phi-
losophy, Castoriadis’s thought remains somewhat under-explored.
Many areas of debate remain uncharted and lines of engagement
with his thought undeveloped. Certainly, Castoriadis responds, as
we have seen above, to many of the dominant questions of his and
our time. At times utopian, his vision offers a refreshing antidote
to both the more determinist accounts of politics and state offered
by some Marxist positions, and the ultimately liberal postmodern
celebrations of difference. His reconceptualisation of the subject
brings a novel approach to ontological questions, underscoring the
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Caroline Williams
ways in which these are also inescapably political in content and

form.
In the Introduction to Crossroads in the Labyrinth Castoriadis writes
that to think ‘is to make be and appear a Labyrinth . . . where things
are no longer simply juxtaposed . . . and we no longer know whether
there is a centre, what the centre is’.37 But it is also to take up a posi-
tion against some background or figure, ‘to tear apart the given
horizon’ and ‘to shake up the perceptual institution of the world
and society’.38 In this sense creation is not in nihilo but ex nihilo; it
takes place against the constraints of a given world.39 It is therefore
important to consider the ontology of creation and radical imagina-
tion developed by Castoriadis in his many writings as a profound
challenge to the political present. This occludes the existence of crea-
tion and hence threatens the radical imagination with extinction. By
redeploying the category of the subject as imagination and delibera-
tive reflection, Castoriadis sought not to return us to a form of exis-
tentialism or political idealism but to reinvigorate a radical politics.
Positions that allude, in various ways, to the world-disclosing power
of imagination or some original presence of the subject to itself tend,
unfortunately, to foreclose the political force of the undecidability
and radical heterogeneity of imagination in its two key modalities.
Notes
1. See Castoriadis, Political and Social Writings, 3 vols.
2. See Castoriadis, Imaginary Institution, Part 1.
3. See Axel Honneth, ‘Symposium on Castoriadis’, Radical Philosophy, 90,
1998, pp. 2–8.
4. See Suzi Adams, ‘Castoriadis’ Shift towards Physis’, Thesis Eleven, 74,
2003, pp. 105–12.
5. Imaginary Institution, p. 184. It must be noted that such a view of
structuralism begs further questioning. One must surely note the
thesis of overdetermination as well as Althusser’s later reflections
on aleatory materialism since both unravel the rigidity of structure,
as Castoriadis views it. See the essays in Louis Althusser, For Marx
(London: Verso, 1990) and Philosophy of the Encounter: Later Writings
1978–1987 (London: Verso, 2006).
6. For elaboration, see ‘The Greek Polis and the Creation of Democracy’,
in Castoriadis, Philosophy, Politics, Autonomy.
7. On Aristotle and Kant, see ‘The Discovery of Imagination’, in
Castoriadis, World in Fragments; ‘Radical Imagination and the Social
Instituting Imaginary’, in The Castoriadis Reader.
106

8. For Spinoza on imagination, see G. Lloyd and M. Gatens, Collective

Imaginings: Spinoza, Past and Present (London: Routledge, 1999); C.
Williams, ‘Thinking the Political in the Wake of Spinoza: Power, Affect
and Imagination in the Ethics’, Contemporary Political Theory, 6, 2007,
pp. 349–69.
9. Castoriadis, World in Fragments, p. 245.
10. Castoriadis, Imaginary Institution, p. 330.
11. Ibid. p. 331.
12. See Jürgen Habermas, The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity, trans. F.
Lawrence (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1987), p. 332.
13. Castoriadis, Philosophy, Politics, Autonomy, p. 145.
15. Habermas, Philosophical Discourse, p. 333.
16. For an excellent discussion, see ‘Modern Science and Philosophical
Interrogation’, in Castoriadis, Crossroads.
19. See Humberto Maturana and Francisco Varela, Autopoiesis and
Cognition: The Realization of the Living (Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1973).
Their work has also been a great stimulus for discussions around the
creativity of science in Bergson, Deleuze and DeLanda, among others.
20. See in this context the book by contemporary cognitive scientist
Douglas Hofstadter, I Am a Strange Loop (New York: Basic Books,
2007).
21. See ‘Logic of Magmas’, in The Castoriadis Reader, pp. 308–10; ‘Physis
and Autonomy’, in Castoriadis, World in Fragments, p. 337.
22. ‘Logic of Magmas’, p. 310.
24. Castoriadis, Crossroads, p. 22.
26. Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Visible and the Invisible, trans. A. Lingis
(Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1968). For Castoriadis’s
discussion, see Crossroads, pp. 329–39.
27. See Yannis Stavrakakis, The Lacanian Left (Edinburgh: Edinburgh
University Press, 2007), Chapter 1; Slavoj Žižek, The Ticklish Subject
(London: Verso, 1999), p. 24.
28. Castoriadis, Imaginary Institution, pp. 300–1.
30. Ibid. p. 254.
31. See Castoriadis, Imaginary Institution, pp. 332–7.
33. Castoriadis, Philosophy, Politics, Autonomy, p. 123. For a comparison of
Castoriadis and Arendt, see Linda Zerilli, ‘Castoriadis, Arendt and the
Problem of the New’, Constellations, 9, 2002, pp. 540–53.
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Caroline Williams
34. See the essays under ‘Poiesis’ in Figures of the Thinkable.

35. The Castoriadis Reader, p. 316.
36. See Kalyvas’s ‘Norm and Critique in Castoriadis’ Theory of Autonomy’,
Constellations, 5, 1998, pp. 161–82, and ‘The Politics of Autonomy and
the Challenge to Deliberation: Castoriadis Contra Habermas’, Thesis
Eleven, 64, 2001, pp. 1–19.
37. Castoriadis, Crossroads, pp. ix–x.
38. Ibid. p. xxv.
39. See Castoriadis Reader, pp. 332–6 for Castoriadis’s account of these
myriad constraints. This aspect of the text also represents an indirect
response to some critics.
Major Works by Castoriadis (in English)

The Castoriadis Reader (Oxford; Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1997).
Crossroads in the Labyrinth, trans. M. Ryle and K. Soper (Brighton: Harvester
and Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1984 [1978]).
Figures of the Thinkable, trans. H. Arnold (Stanford, CA: Stanford University
Press, 2007).
The Imaginary Institution of Society, trans. K. Blamey (Oxford: Polity;
Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1987 [1975]).
On Plato’s ‘Statesman’, trans. D. Curtis (Stanford, CA: Stanford University
Press, 2002).
Philosophy, Politics, Autonomy, ed. D. Curtis (New York and Oxford: Oxford
Political and Social Writings, Volumes 1 and 2 (Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press, 1988).
Political and Social Writings, Volume 3 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
Press, 1993).
World in Fragments, trans. D. Curtis (Stanford, CA: Stanford University
Press, 1997).

Adams, Suzi, ‘Castoriadis and Autopoiesis’, Thesis Eleven, 88, 2007, pp.
76–91. This discussion considers the idea of auto-poiesis and its relation
to the project of autonomy.
Busino, B. (ed.), Autonomie et autotransformation de la société: la philosophie
militante de Cornelius Castoriadis (Genève: Droz, 1989). This is a mul-
tilingual Festschrift for Castoriadis and contains a valuable range of
critical perspectives on his work (including the pieces by Honneth and
Habermas mentioned in this chapter). Castoriadis responds in ‘Done
and to Be Done’, in The Castoriadis Reader.
108

Ciaramelli, Fabio, ‘Castoriadis’, in S. Critchley and W. R. Schroeder (eds),

A Companion to Continental Philosophy (Oxford: Blackwell, 1999). A
nuanced introduction to the thinker.
Klooger, Jeff, Castoriadis: Psyche, Society, Autonomy (Leiden and Boston:
Brill, 2009). A monograph offering an accessible and uptodate overview
of Castoriadis’s theory, with an excellent bibliography.
McNay, Lois, Gender and Agency: Reconfiguring the Subject in Feminist and
Social Theory (Oxford: Polity Press, 2000). An interesting application of
Castoriadis to feminist theory.
Thesis Eleven, 49, 1997. A helpful and wide-ranging special issue on
Castoriadis, including an excellent piece by Fabio Ciaramelli, ‘The Self-
Presupposition of the Origin: Homage to Castoriadis’, pp. 45–67.
Urribarri, Fernando, ‘Castoriadis: The Radical Imagination and the Post-
Lacanian Unconscious’, Thesis Eleven, 71, 2002, pp. 40–51. This article
expertly negotiates the differences and relations between Castoriadis,
Freud and Lacan.
109

7
Green Critical Theorists

David Kidner
Introduction
Although green critical theory has only developed over the past
three decades, its antecedents can be traced to much earlier eras.
In this chapter, I will outline only a few of the more important
sources, which generally involve some sort of reaction or chal-
lenge to the increasing domination of society by technological and
economic considerations, as well as protest against the narrowing
of subjectivity that accompanies this domination. Various green
writers have argued that rational argument is, by itself, too narrow a
framework for articulating what they want to say, and that we need
to draw also on intuition, empathy and embodied sensing. Edward
O. Wilson’s ‘biophilia hypothesis’,1 for example, suggests that
humans are innately drawn to natural entities; and John Livingston
has written that rational argument ‘is not only inappropriate to our
subject matter but may also be destructive of it. There is no “logic”
in feeling, in experiencing, in states of being. Yet these same phe-
nomena appear to be the prerequisite for wildlife preservation’.2
Green writing, then, like green practice, is a heartfelt activity, stem-
ming from our embodiment as a particular sort of animal within a
community of other such animals, inherently challenging the split
between body and mind which has often been the assumed basis of
philosophies since Descartes.
So the conservation of wilderness, for example, is not merely
a calculated policy advocated for climatic reasons or to protect
‘useful’ plants such as the rosy periwinkle. For Edward Abbey
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– whose books express the green critical spirit as well as anyone –

wilderness cannot be defined simply as ‘a minimum of not less than
5000 contiguous acres of roadless area’. Rather,
the word suggests the past and the unknown, the womb of earth from
which we all emerged. It means something lost and something still
present, something remote and at the same time intimate, something
buried in our blood and nerves, something beyond us and without
limit . . . The romantic view, while not the whole of truth, is a necessary
part of the whole truth.3
Around a century after Descartes had dismissed feelings and

intuitions as untrustworthy,4 defining humanity through our think-
ing powers, La Mettrie was suggesting the view of ‘man as a
machine’;5 and the notion that the world itself could be under-
stood – and controlled – scientifically was rapidly gathering pace,
setting the scene for the current subordination of the natural world
through the production and trade of commodities. In contrast, the
conception of nature as inherently organised and intrinsically valu-
able was enthusiastically advocated by the Romantics. But whereas
much post-Kantian philosophy – including that of the German
romantic philosopher-scientists of the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries – reacted to the scientifically-informed commercial take-
over of nature by retreating into a rarified idealist realm, green
theory has typically chosen to confront this takeover more directly
by arguing that acquiescence to existing political and economic
power implies the abandonment of a world that is wild, intrinsically
valuable, often beautiful and structured in ways that are beyond our
cognitive comprehension.
Green critical theory has developed somewhat apart from main-
stream critical theory, which, even if it is critical of ‘rationality’,
nevertheless tends to be more heavily invested in thought and more
human centred (‘anthropocentric’). Green theorists are generally
critical realists, meaning that they view the natural world as existing
independently of how we think about it, so that we do not construct
it so much as discover it by using the senses. Much post-Kantian ide-
alist philosophy views the world essentially as an outgrowth of the
mind – a viewpoint that has enjoyed a fashionable makeover in con-
temporary social constructionist theory. Green theorists tend to see
language and theory as inadequate but necessary tools for express-
ing the much greater sophistication and diversity of the natural
world. For example, green theorists do not generally agree with
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David Kidner
the current fashion for describing sex as ‘culturally constructed’ or

wilderness as ‘a product of civilisation’, viewing both ‘internal’ and
‘external’ nature as prior to their expression within culture or lan-
guage. Deeply suspicious of the anthropocentric realm of language,
discourse and the whole technologically realised fantasy of indus-
trial society, green theorists prefer the untidy realities of the natural
world, sharing D. H. Lawrence’s view that ‘the human race is dying.
It is like a great uprooted tree, with its roots in the air. We must
plant ourselves again in the universe.’6 Likewise, Edward Abbey
rejects the Platonic preference for a conceptual ‘underlying reality
of existence’, preferring the physical immediacy of such things as
the grasp of a child’s hand in your own, the flavour of an apple, the
embrace of friend or lover, the silk of a girl’s thigh, the sunlight on
rock and leaves, the feel of music, the bark of a tree, the abrasion of
granite and sand, the plunge of clear water into a pool, the face of the
wind – what else is there? What else do we need?7
Those of constructionist inclination often inhabit the urbanised

landscapes of Europe or the portion of North America that is east
of the Rockies, where it is easier to see the largely domesticated
landscape as ‘socially constructed’. In contrast, if one lives in the
still awesome country to the west, then, as Holmes Rolston suggests,
cultural influences on the scenery fade:
put five miles in good hiking boots between yourself and the trailhead
. . . and stop for lunch at a craggy overlook or beside a spring, watch
the ravens soar, hear their call, turn an eye on the gathering afternoon
thunderstorm; and you are not much inclined to believe that your
environment is nothing but a social construction.8
This realist preference is a common thread which suffuses the work

of each of the green theorists I discuss below.
Peter Singer and Animal Liberation

As a graduate student, Peter Singer was struck by the inconsisten-
cies between the moral philosophies that were applied to humans
and non-humans. ‘Animal lovers’, he relates, were happy to express
their affection towards pets – but were equally happy to enjoy a ham
sandwich while doing so. Humans had developed moral frame-
works for the treatment of other humans; but moral considerability
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seemed to have reached a limit at the juncture between humans

and nonhumans. In his book Animal Liberation, Singer exposed the
hypocrisy and inconsistency of prevailing morality, arguing that
the same arguments which had led to women’s voting rights and
the abolition of slavery also applied to nonhuman creatures. At the
end of the eighteenth century, Jeremy Bentham had suggested that
if a creature can suffer, then it should be treated with moral consid-
eration, and that this applied equally to humans and non-humans.9
Following Bentham, Singer argues that sentience – that is, possessing
a sensory system which allows a creature to experience pain and
pleasure – is the criterion which demands that we accord them the
same moral consideration that we would accord another person.
Viewed from this perspective, industrial society – indeed, most
societies – is built on a foundation of exploitation, moral inconsist-
ency and denial. We unthinkingly eat our pork chops, buy toiletries
that have been tested on animals and buy shoes made from animal
skins, ignoring the suffering this entails and denying the continu-
ity between our own capacities for pleasure and pain and those of
other creatures. In his later work, Singer argues that during the
evolution of humanity there has developed a greater capacity for
altruism and empathy, and that speciesism therefore rests on the
repression of these evolved characteristics.
John Rodman and the Argument for Wildness

Singer’s work has been enormously influential in challenging con-
ventional attitudes towards animals; but other types of green theory
have deviated sharply from it. John Rodman’s unjustly neglected
paper ‘The Liberation of Nature?’ is of seminal importance in the
critique of animal liberation and the development of alternative
approaches. Rodman’s first problem with Singer’s approach is the
latter’s focus on sentient creatures and his subsequent background-
ing of other participants in the landscape such as plants, rivers or
insects:
I only need to stand in the midst of a clearcut forest, a strip-mined hill-
side, a defoliated jungle, or a dammed canyon to feel uneasy with . . .
the conclusion that no human action can make any difference to the
welfare of anything but sentient animals.10
An ecologist might add that, in any case, the sentient creatures are
dependent on the forest, the hillside, the jungle, or the canyon,
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David Kidner
and that focusing on the welfare of isolated components of an

ecosystem is unlikely to be effective. The essential context of any
consideration of animal welfare, therefore, has to be the health of
whole ecosystems or even of the entire biosphere. Enlarging the
‘circle of moral responsibility’ to include a few sentient creatures
will not really address the welfare even of these creatures, and even
less will it be an adequate response to the fundamental problems of
the relationship between humanity – especially industrial humanity
– and the rest of the natural world. As Rodman puts it, the animal
liberation approach ‘is not a revolution in ethics but something
analogous to the Reform Bill of 1832, when the British aristocracy
extended selected rights to the upper middle class’.11 By enlarging
the ‘circle of moral considerability’, we are not so much recognis-
ing the uniqueness of other species – and the diversity of life as a
whole – as inviting a few selected species to be associate members of
the human club. A danger in this approach is that the new members
will necessarily appear as deficient and inferior compared to human
beings, and that we fail to respect them ‘for having their own exist-
ence, their own character and potentialities, their own forms of
excellence, their own integrity, their own grandeur’.12
According to Rodman, then, the animal liberation project is
based not so much on opening our eyes to the marvellous diversity
of life which exists outside human societies as on a limited exten-
sion of current human ethical sensibilities towards those creatures
most like ourselves – an extension which ‘subtly fulfils and legiti-
mises the basic project of modernity – the total conquest of nature
by man’.13 So the issue, according to Rodman,
is whether contemporary philosophers accompany the advance of tech-

nological society the way missionaries once accompanied the march
of conquistadors, assimilating the conquered to the culture of the
conquerors and ameliorating (making more ‘humane’) the harshness
of the yoke, or whether they criticise the process of conquest in the
interest of liberation.14
Importantly, this points towards the conflict between our own

embodied nature and the industrial system we have been colonised
by; and Rodman comments that our
domestication of nonhuman animals and our division of ourselves into

a ‘human’ part that rules or ought to rule and a ‘bestial’ part that is
ruled or ought to be ruled are by now so hopelessly intertwined that
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it seems doubtful that we could significantly change the one without

changing the other.15
Thus the domestication of nature, for Rodman, goes hand in

hand with self-domestication and the generation of a particular sort
of personality structure – and both these processes have been pro-
gressing for so many generations that ‘undoing’ them is not possible
through any straightforward revolutionary change. Rodman agrees
with Marcuse that ‘revolutions fail when led by people who perpetu-
ate in their character the authority structure of the old regime’;16
and similar problems arise in the ‘liberation’ of external nature:
The buffalo herd in Stanley Kramer’s film ‘Bless the Beasts and
Children’ thunders out of the pen, released by the daring efforts of
a group of heroic boys, only to stop and graze peacefully on a nearby
hill, allowing themselves to be rounded up and imprisoned again. Elsa,
the Adamsons’ pet lioness, ‘born free’ and then tamed, must be labori-
ously trained [sic] to become a wild predator before she can be safely
released. Of such ambiguous stories is the mythology of the human
condition in the ‘post-industrial’ age composed.17
While the superficiality of such liberations are often fairly

obvious, deeper and more lasting resolutions require a more pro-
found interrogation of the ideologies that permeate industrial
society, and so are more elusive. Part of the problem is the idealist
‘notion that objectivity is projected upon the nonhuman world by
humans’,18 so that the only subjective beings in the universe appear
to be humans. Consequently, every nonhuman entity or creature
in the natural world appears as a ‘thing’ or a ‘natural resource’,
ready and waiting to be transformed by ‘human intelligence’ into
a commodity with ‘added value’. Just as cultural theorists may see
meaning as given by social structures, so the industrialist sees value
as commercial value rather than ‘intrinsic value’ – the value an entity
has in itself regardless of its usefulness to humans.
Many social theorists, through their exclusive focus on social and
cultural structures and their denial of ecological structures, as well
as their focus on human subjects and their denial of the subject-ness
of nonhuman creatures, collude in forms of oppression that are
widespread in industrial society. In this context, perhaps the most
important thing we can do is to recognise that theory that is not
clearly engaged with the natural world is part of the problem rather
than part of the solution, following the example of J. S. Mill,
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David Kidner
not so much the encyclopaedic philosopher whose Logic and Political

Economy became standard Victorian textbooks, or even the Utilitarian
who remained true to Bentham’s inclusion of sentient animals within
the sphere of morals and legislation, but the lesser-known mountain
climber, ‘botaniser’, and ‘lover of Nature’ who indignantly protested
the Royal Horticultural Society’s contest for the two best herbaria col-
lected in each county in England as an event that would make 1864
the last year that many already-rare species would exist. It was this same
Mill who . . . as autobiographer, recorded for posterity the classic case
study of a sensitive person trained to operate as an analytic thinking-
machine who ‘died’ and was then ‘reborn’ through rediscovering the
capacity for feeling, intuition, imagination, the enjoyment of poetry
and natural beauty, the ability to cry and to contemplate – without
losing the capacity for rational analysis or practical action.19
Much green writing would implicitly approve of such a ‘rebirth’ –

one which launches us out of an intoxication with language and,
especially, theory into a fully embodied participation in the world
outside ourselves.
Arne Naess and ‘Deep Ecology’

Much of what Rodman wrote resonates with the views of ‘deep
ecologists’. Deep ecology originated with Arne Naess’s 1973 paper
‘The Shallow and the Deep, Long-Range Ecology Movement’,20 in
which he distinguishes between two types of response to ecological
problems. The first, ‘shallow’ response deals with environmental
problems such as pollution and resource depletion as isolated
issues which have no wider significance, and has as its objective ‘the
health and affluence of people in the developed countries’.21 It is
therefore anthropocentric and is concerned with the health of the
natural world only insofar as it affects our own well-being.
In contrast, the ‘deep’ approach advocated by Naess sees
‘environmental problems’ as symptoms of something much more
profound – a disturbance in the entire ‘biospherical net’ of rela-
tions of which humans are a part. Nature is not something that
can be bracketed off from human life as a separate realm with its
own problems. As Alan Drengson notes, ‘For Naess, free nature
is critical to cultural flourishing, community health, and personal
Self-realization’.22 Like Rodman, Naess rejects the Cartesian – and
today widely accepted – view of the person as a largely autonomous
being defined mainly by the ability to think, and suggests that we go
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beyond such assumptions, asking deep questions about ourselves,

the character of society and the natural world. In Naess’s own words:
The essence of deep ecology – as compared with the science of ecology,

and with what I call the shallow ecological movement – is to ask deeper
questions. The adjective ‘deep’ stresses that we ask why and how, where
others do not. For instance, ecology as a science does not ask what kind of
society would be the best for maintaining a particular ecosystem – that is
considered a question for value theory, for politics, for ethics. As long as
ecologists keep narrowly to their science, they do not ask such questions.
What we need today is a tremendous expansion of ecological thinking
. . . deep ecology, then, involves a shift from science to wisdom.23
Naess’s own life was a testament to his belief that we are part
of a wider ‘biospherical net’. An accomplished mountain climber,
even in childhood he felt a strong connection to the Norwegian
landscape; and until his death at the age of 96, he still enjoyed
spending time in the stone hut he built in the mountains. He was
also strongly engaged in social issues and actions, once chaining
himself together with other protesters to prevent the construction
of a hydroelectric dam on the Alta River. There was a marked con-
tinuity and coherence between his philosophical views and the way
he lived; and, in keeping with this emphasis on the relation between
philosophy and lived experience, Naess was critical of the direction
taken by academic philosophy and cultural theory, suggesting that
‘the turn of philosophy in this century towards language rather than
cosmos, towards logic rather than experience . . . is a turn into a
vast blind alley’.24 He was equally critical of postmodernism, which
he regarded simply as ‘the latest philosophical fad’.25 In contrast to
such approaches, which often seem to have only the most tenuous
relationship with lived realities, the questions that Naess addresses
are quite down to earth, although not always easy to answer:
We need to ask question like ‘Why do we think that economic growth

and high levels of consumption are so important?’ The conventional
answer would be to point to the economic consequences of not
having economic growth. But in deep ecology, we ask whether the
present society fulfils basic human needs like love and security and
access to nature, and in so doing, we question our society’s underlying
assumptions.26
Just as Rodman saw the destructive domestication of wild nature

as inseparable from the taming of human life, so Naess rejected the
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David Kidner
commonly accepted assumptions that the ‘environment’ is more or

less separate from each of us, and that we are autonomous, egoic
individuals dominated by self-concern. Instead, Naess embraces
‘Self-realisation!’ – that is, a broadening and deepening of the
self as we identify with other life-forms and with other features of
the natural world. Naess believes that if we realise our own nature
as fully as possible, we will quite naturally be concerned with the
welfare of the ‘biospherical net’ of which we are part, recognising
other creatures’ right to flourish and develop in their own way – a
recognition that involves both empathy and intelligence, as the
title of his book Life’s Philosophy: Reason and Feeling in a Deeper World
implies.27 Following on from this, if we achieve a degree of Self-
realisation, we will naturally engage in ‘beautiful actions’, rather
than performing these out of a sense of duty or obligation (‘dutiful’
actions). Unlike ‘shallow’ approaches, then, deep ecology does not
simply take for granted the sort of self that happens to exist but
identifies industrialist forms of selfhood as part of the problem, sug-
gesting that we need to reawaken ourselves to extended forms of
subjectivity which can reach out to include the ecosphere.
In keeping with his respect for diversity, as exemplified by the
attitudes of his intellectual forebears Gandhi and Spinoza, Naess
is remarkably undogmatic, believing that each person will develop
their own understandings. While he was widely recognised as a
leading philosopher, and was clear about his own philosophy
(which he refers to as ‘Ecosophy T’), he does not regard this as
everybody’s truth, preferring to recommend some general princi-
ples which can be accepted widely. Naess’s approach is therefore
more inclusive than most critical theories, drawing on points of com-
monality with others rather than finding reasons to reject them, and
embracing thinking and feeling rather than leaning on one or the
other in a dualistic fashion. In keeping with this, the ‘deep ecology
movement’ is not a direct reflection of Naess’s personal philosophy
but has been developed by him and others such as George Sessions
and Bill Devall to include generally compatible views. The basic
principles of deep ecology have been summarised most recently in
Naess’s book Life’s Philosophy as follows:
1. All living beings have intrinsic value.

2. The richness and diversity of life has intrinsic value.
3. Except to satisfy vital needs, humankind does not have the right
to reduce this diversity and this richness.
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4. It would be better for human beings if there were fewer of them,

and much better for other living creatures.
5. Today the extent and nature of human interference in the vari-
ous ecosystems is not sustainable, and the lack of sustainability
is rising.
6. Decisive improvement requires considerable change: social, eco-
nomic, technological and ideological.
7. An ideological change would essentially entail seeking a better
quality of life rather than a raised standard of living.
8. Those who accept the aforementioned points are responsible
for trying to contribute directly or indirectly to the realisation of
the necessary changes.28
These basic principles, which constitute the ‘deep ecology

platform’, aim to incorporate the wisdom Naess found in a broad
range of sources, including Buddhism, Taoism, ecological science,
Ghandi’s teachings on nonviolence, and the philosophy of Spinoza.
The platform is not intended as a set of environmental command-
ments which are unchallengeable, but rather as a vehicle for bring-
ing together people from different backgrounds, nationalities
and religious preferences so that they can jointly work towards a
healthier and less destructive way of living. For example, what con-
stitutes a ‘vital’ need (number 3) will vary from culture to culture,
so that hunting might be essential to survival in one society, but not
in the industrialised world. Similarly, there will also be a good deal
of diversity in the particular contributions to change that each of
us are able to make, depending on our circumstances. Generally,
then, the deep ecology platform is not intended prescriptively but
rather as a guide and an invitation to enhance the welfare of all
members of the biosphere, including humans.
Ecofeminism
Ecofeminists see links between the patriarchal domination of
women and the patriarchal domination of the natural world, and so
explore the common cultural factors in these forms of domination.
This general insight has given rise to a large variety of ecofeminisms,
of which I will outline some of the more prominent ones. Evidence
for linkages between male exploitation of women and nature is not
difficult to find. In the sixteenth century, Francis Bacon, who was
both a leading populariser of the new scientific approach and Lord
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David Kidner
Chancellor of England, saw parallels between the interrogation of

‘witches’ and the scientific investigation of nature:
For you have but to follow and as it were hound nature in her wander-
ings, and you will be able when you like to lead and drive her afterward
to the same place again. Neither am I of the opinion that . . . sorcer-
ies, witchcrafts, charms, dreams, divinations, and the like should be
altogether excluded . . . a useful light may be gained, not only for a
true judgement of the offenses of persons charged with such practices,
but likewise for the further disclosing of the secrets of nature. Neither
ought a man to make scruple of entering and penetrating into those
holes and corners, when the inquisition of truth is his whole object.29
As Carolyn Merchant notes, Bacon’s ‘new man of science’ must

not think that the ‘inquisition of nature is in any part interdicted or
forbidden’. Nature must be ‘bound into service’ and made a ‘slave’,
put ‘in constraint’ and ‘moulded’ by mechanical arts. Bacon also
suggests that ‘there are still laid up in the womb of nature many
secrets of excellent use’.30 These statements express with the utmost
clarity attitudes towards both women and nature – attitudes which,
ecofeminists argue, now permeate science, technology and indeed
the entire structure of industrial society, albeit sometimes in more
subtle forms.
A scientific perspective on nature, with some exceptions such
as conservation biology, leans towards being dominant, control-
ling and reductionist. Reductionism refers to knowledge production
by means of dismantling nature into its component ‘bits’ – for
example, chemical analysis or the measurement of species’ popula-
tions. Science is also largely based on objectivity, which eliminates
personal feelings and empathy with other creatures in favour of
a rational, intellectual approach. Neil Evernden gives an example
from the work of the famous nineteenth-century French physiolo-
gist and vivisectionist Claude Bernard, who stated that a ‘physiolo-
gist is not a man [sic] of fashion, he is a man of science, absorbed
by the scientific idea which he pursues: he no longer hears the cry
of animals, he no longer sees the blood that flows, he sees only his
idea and perceives only organisms concealing problems which he
intends to solve’.31 Such ‘objectivity’, ecofeminists have suggested,
reflects a quintessentially masculine understanding.32 Whereas deep
ecology sees anthropocentrism as the key to environmental problems,
ecofeminism focuses on androcentrism.
These ideas provide a general background to ecofeminist
120

understandings; but today there is a diversity of feminist approaches,

and as much disagreement between ecofeminists as there is between
ecofeminists and deep ecologists. One of the main bones of
contention among ecofeminists, for example, is the question of
whether women have a greater degree of embodied connection to the
earth than men – a claim that has been justified on the basis of
women’s capacity for menstruation, childbirth and nursing. Any
such gender-based affinity for nature is something of a two-edged
sword, since it could be used to justify either women’s ‘inferior’ place
in the home raising babies or their ‘superior’ status as privileged,
ecologically-attuned ‘earth mothers’.
Many ecofeminists have moved away from this notion, viewing
it as reflecting ‘biological essentialism’ – the currently unfash-
ionable belief that our behaviour and experience are partly
determined by our innate physiology. The emphasis has shifted
towards culture as ‘constructing’ maleness and femaleness and
the relation of each of these to the natural world. For example,
Val Plumwood – who was also well known for fighting off a croco-
dile attack in Kakadu National Park – developed the critique
of dualistic cultural structures as determining attitudes towards
nature and gender roles. Among the more important dualisms
she identifies are:
Culture Nature
Male Female
Mind Body
Reason Matter
Rationality Emotion
Human Nonhuman
Such dualisms are imposed so as to exaggerate or manufacture

distinctions which allow the exercise of power over the natural
world. For example, as we have seen above, the sometimes slight
differences in, say, sentience between humans and other creatures
are exaggerated so as to allow us to view nonhuman animals as
expendable experimental subjects rather than as creatures akin
to ourselves. Likewise, rationality’s role is to ‘control’ the emo-
tions; and the female’s role is associated with subservience to the
‘leadership’ of the male. In each case, the first member of each
dualism is assumed to be superior and so fit to control the second
member, forming a web of instrumental and ethical imperatives
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David Kidner
which determine attitudes, behaviour and identity. Just as women

are brought up to be caring and subservient, so the argument goes,
men are brought up to dominate and lead – and both men and
women learn that nature is essentially mindless raw material for
human requirements.
Criticisms of Green Theory

There is, of course, a great deal of debate, criticism and counter-
criticism within and between the various types of green theory;
but here I will focus on criticism that comes from outside green
writings. As the reader will have gathered, green theory challenges
some of the most sacred assumptions of industrial society – that the
economy can grow indefinitely, that the natural world is an inex-
haustible cornucopia of ‘raw materials’, that humans have a right
to do what we want with the rest of the natural world. It is therefore
unsurprising that green theory has drawn vituperative responses
from those who have a vested interest in ‘business as usual’. But
putting aside those responses that are clearly ill-informed, in denial
and/or funded by corporate interests, I will focus on two currents
of criticism that have more substance.
First, the accusation of ‘romanticism’ is a well-founded one, as
the reader will have gathered from my introduction. Green theo-
rists generally believe that there is more to the world than either
‘common sense’ or traditional scientific explanations can accom-
modate, whether this ‘something more’ involves properties which
emerge from the complexity of the natural world, or empathy
with nonhuman aspects of nature, or simply an embodied intui-
tion that cannot be ignored. But all these qualities are difficult
to express scientifically, or even to express at all; and critics such
as Stephen Budiansky suggest that if ecosystems have properties
that are more than the sum of their parts, then ‘the study of these
systems should be carried out by theologians rather than scien-
tists’.33 Increasingly, however, science is expanding its boundaries
to include exactly the sort of emergent properties dismissed by
Budiansky – for example, in the work of Stuart Kauffman34 and
in the recognition of previously unrecognised forms of natural
order.35
Greens would argue that reality is larger than either science or
words – or even experience. When Aldo Leopold watched the death
of a wolf he had just shot, he thought so too:
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We reached the old wolf in time to watch a fierce green fire dying
in her eyes. I realised then, and have known ever since, that there
was something new to me in those eyes – something known only to
her and to the mountain. I was young then, and full of trigger-itch; I
thought that because fewer wolves meant more deer, that no wolves
would mean a hunters’ paradise. But after seeing the green fire die,
I sensed that neither the wolf nor the mountain agreed with such a
view.36
Related to the accusation of ‘romanticism’ is the claim that

green theory is ‘regressive’, looking back over the shoulder of
contemporary society towards a ‘golden past’ of simple, natural
living.37 Greens reply, however, that almost any challenge to
industrial growth and technological advancement is defined as
‘regressive’, and argue that the spreading colonisation and indus-
trialisation of the past several centuries has been enormously
damaging to the natural world and to the cultures of the native
peoples who inhabit it, and that we therefore need to rethink
some rather basic assumptions about what we and other species
require in order to flourish, or even to survive. Given the connec-
tions, recognised by all the theorists I have discussed, between
ecological and social issues, it may well be that we have lost not
only species, but also certain ways of thinking and experiencing –
and academia all too often seems intent on colluding with these
processes of loss rather than critiquing them. As Alf Hornborg
sardonically remarks, the ‘closely knit kinship group, locally
contextualised ecological knowledge, attachment to place, reci-
procity, animism: all of it is suddenly dismissed as myth . . . there
emerges the new but implicit message that we have always been
capitalists’.38
The challenge embraced by the majority of green theorists,
then, is to avoid both the ‘technological optimism’ of assum-
ing that scientific progress will solve all the environmental and
social problems of industrial society, and the opposite impulse to
reject all post-Enlightenment knowledge as irredeemably tainted.
Both these extremes lie on a single, dualistic continuum marked
‘progress – regression’, whereas green theorists would argue that
we need another kind of progress – one which acknowledges that
we are embodied, ecologically located creatures, not simply disem-
bodied minds. We can, in other words, be both thinking and feeling
creatures who are not only intelligent enough to think rationally
but also wise enough to know when to think rationally.
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David Kidner
Notes
1. Steven Kellert and Edward O. Wilson (eds), The Biophilia Hypothesis
(Washington, DC: Island Press, 1993).
2. John Livingston, quoted by Peter Hay, A Companion to Environmental
Thought, p. 3.
3. Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire, pp. 189–90.
4. René Descartes, Meditations on First Philosophy, trans. John Cottingham
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986 [1641]).
5. Julien de la Mettrie, Man a Machine, trans. Richard A. Watson
(Cambridge, MA: Hackett Publishing, 1994 [1748]).
6. D. H. Lawrence, ‘Apropos of Lady Chatterley’s Lover’, Preface to Lady
Chatterley’s Lover (London: Heinemann, 1961), p. 37.
7. Abbey, Desert Solitaire, p. xi.
8. Holmes Rolston III, ‘Mountain Majesties above Fruited Plains: Culture,
Nature, and Rocky Mountain Aesthetics’, Environmental Ethics, 30, 1,
2008, pp. 14–15.
9. Jeremy Bentham, Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1789).
10. John Rodman, ‘The liberation of nature?’, p. 89.
11. Ibid. p. 91.
12. Ibid. p. 94.
13. Ibid. p. 97.
14. Ibid. p. 98.
15. Ibid. p. 104.
16. Ibid. p. 104.
17. Ibid. p. 105.
18. Ibid. p. 108.
19. Ibid. p. 115.
20. Arne Naess, ‘The Shallow and the Deep, Long-range Ecology
Movements: A Summary’, Inquiry, 16, 1973, pp. 95–100.
21. Arne Naess, ‘Shallow and the Deep’, p. 95.
22. Alan Drengson, ‘The Life and Work of Arne Naess: An Appreciative
Overview’, The Trumpeter, 21, 1, 2005, pp. 5–43 (6).
23. Stephan Bodian, ‘Simple in Means, Rich in Ends: An Interview with
Arne Naess’, in George Sessions (ed.), Deep Ecology for the 21st Century
(Boston: Shambhala, 1995), pp. 26–36 (27).
24. Quoted by George Sessions, ‘On Being Fair and Accurate towards
Arne Naess’, International Society for Environmental Ethics Newsletter, 17,
4, 2006–7, p. 20.
25. Sessions, ‘On Being Fair and Accurate’, p. 20.
26. Bodian, ‘Simple in Means, Rich in Ends’, p. 27.
27. Arne Naess, Life’s Philosophy: Reason and Feeling in a Deeper World
(Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2008).
124

28. Ibid. pp. 108–9.

29. Merchant, Death of Nature, p. 168.
30. Ibid. p. 169.
31. Claude Bernard, quoted by Neil Evernden, The Natural Alien (Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 1985), p. 16.
32. See, for example, Vandana Shiva, Staying Alive: Women, Ecology, and
Development (Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Zed Books, 1989); Evelyn Fox
Keller, Reflections on Gender and Science (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1985).
33. Stephen Budiansky, Nature’s Keepers: The New Science of Nature
Management (New York: Free Press, 1995), p. 17.
34. Stuart Kauffman, At Home in the Universe: The Search for Laws of Self-
Organisation and Complexity (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995).
35. William M. Schaffer and Mark Kot, ‘Do Strange Attractors Govern
Ecological Systems?’ BioScience, 35, 6, 1985, pp. 342–50.
36. Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac, pp. 138–9.
37. Martin W. Lewis, Green Delusions (Durham, NC: Duke University Press,
1994).
38. Alf Hornborg, ‘Ecological Embeddedness and Personhood: Have We
Always Been Capitalists?’, Anthropology Today, 14.2, April 1998, pp. 3–5.
Major Works by Green Theorists

Leopold, Aldo, A Sand County Almanac (New York: Oxford University Press,
1968).
Merchant, Carolyn, The Death of Nature: Women, Ecology, and the Scientific
Revolution (San Francisco: Harper, 1990).
Plumwood, Val, Feminism and the Mastery of Nature (London: Routledge,
1993).
Ponting, Clive, A Green History of the World: The Environment and the Collapse
of Great Civilisations (New York: Vintage, 2007).
Rodman, John, ‘The Liberation of Nature?’, Inquiry, 20, 1977, pp. 83–145.
Singer, Peter, Animal Liberation: A New Ethics for Our Treatment of Animals,
2nd edn (London: Jonathan Cape, 1990).

Abbey, Edward, Desert Solitaire: A Season in the Wilderness (New York:
Ballantine, 1968).
Adams, Carole, The Sexual Politics of Meat: A Feminist-Vegetarian Critical
Theory, 2nd edn (London: Continuum, 2000).
Hay, Peter, A Companion to Environmental Thought (Edinburgh: Edinburgh
125

David Kidner
Nabhan, Gary P., Cultures of Habitat: On Nature, Culture, and Story

(Washington, DC: Counterpoint, 1997).
Sessions, George (ed.), Deep Ecology for the Twenty-First Century (Boston:
Shambhala, 1995).
Turner, Frederick, Beyond Geography: The Western Spirit against the Wilderness
(Piscataway, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1992).
Turner, Jack, The Abstract Wild (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1996).
126

8
Donna J. Haraway (1944–)

Situating Knowledges in Natureculture and Technoscience

Few American scholars can match the breadth and depth of Donna
Haraway’s contributions to diverse branches of the humanities
and social sciences over the last twenty-five years. As noted in the
introduction to her Robert and Maurine Rothschild Lecture in the
History of Science at Harvard University in 2002, Donna Haraway
has become ‘about as famous as an academic can be’ by authoring
key works in cultural studies, feminist theory and science studies.1
A leading figure in posthumanism and cyberculture studies, Donna
Haraway’s fame is attributable to the startling originality of the
theoretical concepts and critical insights her scholarship brings
to important conversations about feminism, environmentalism,
science and technology. These concepts and insights have enriched
the work of sociologists, literary critics, anthropologists, geogra-
phers, primatologists, biologists and scholars in many other disci-
plines. That Haraway’s writing performs a careful engagement with
recent philosophy, theory and method and evidences a deep com-
mitment to addressing asymmetrical power relations has added to
her substantial appeal.
Donna Jeanne Haraway was born in Denver, Colorado, in 1944
and studied zoology, English and philosophy as an undergradu-
ate before earning her PhD in biology at Yale University in 1972.
Although Haraway taught at the University of Hawaii, worked at
Johns Hopkins University and currently holds an appointment at
the European Graduate School in Saas-Fee, Switzerland, most of her
127

career has been conducted from the University of California, Santa

Cruz, where she is Professor of the History of Consciousness and
Feminist Studies. In her writing, Haraway often explicitly addresses
key elements of her biography that have shaped her scholarship,
crediting the Cold War-era Space Race with her access to (co)-
education, tracing her love of wordplay to her journalist father and
linking her affinity with queer politics to her own intimate networks
of kinship and affection. In addition, Haraway carefully considers
how social categories pertaining to race, gender, class, age, religion,
citizenship and sexuality position her as a subject in the twentieth
and early twenty-first centuries in the United States, a time and
place immersed in discourses of war and of global capital.
Indeed, situating knowledge production in cultural and histori-
cal contexts is a central principle guiding Haraway’s writing, which
gives the lie to claims of scientific detachment and challenges pre-
tences of philosophical abstraction by identifying the ideological
and political investments inherent in scholarship. In other words,
Haraway exposes how knowledge is produced from particular
positions that are always embodied, never ‘innocent’, and must
be seen as part of a complex web of power relations. By pointing
out how categorical truths depend on the categories that generate
them, Haraway consistently challenges basic assumptions guiding
research and cultural practice. Moreover, Haraway locates research
as cultural practice by illustrating how such factors as perspective,
narrative and metaphor shape the observations and arguments of
the scientist, philosopher or other arbiter of contemporary knowl-
edge. That Haraway’s own work is never exempted from such scru-
tiny is apparent in the way she consistently marks her own position
within intersecting discourses of race, gender, religion, sexuality,
nationality and class, even as she confronts and seeks to rewrite the
rhetorics and politics of these cultural texts.
Haraway’s commitment to locating and critically examining
where and how authoritative knowledges are produced makes her
scholarship particularly relevant to the discipline of science studies
and to debates concerning epistemology. The position Haraway
takes up in science studies is a cautious one that would be better
described as a careful encounter than a frontal assault. Committed
to marking what might be called the rhetorical character of sci-
entific discourse – that it is produced through ‘negotiation, stra-
tegic moves, inscription, translation’ – Haraway still views science
as a set of real practices and affective experiences that produce
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‘world-changing’ truths.2 For this reason, she resists adopting

social constructionism as the sole basis for critiques of science. For
Haraway, identifying scientific knowledges as socially constructed
might be the opening of a very specific critique of the implications
and investments of a particular set of texts and practices, but it is
certainly not enough. Simply pointing to the cultural and historical
character of science leaves important questions unanswered, and
this introductory move should never operate to exempt critics from
locating themselves as subjects with ideological and political inter-
ests. In Haraway’s estimation, the label ‘socially constructed’ can
function as an ad hominem attack rather than a careful and critical
engagement with scientific discourse, and when terms like ‘con-
structionism’ become too established they are no longer ‘doing the
work’ of substantive inquiry.3
So, although Haraway wants to complicate the discourse of
science by scrutinising how it is produced and shaped, she does
so with an eye toward improving the (necessarily partial and cer-
tainly cultural) stories that researchers tell. For Haraway, science’s
facts and fictions, when carefully crafted, are worth knowing.
Approaching scientific research as simultaneously material and
semiotic, a ‘mode of interacting with the world that is relentlessly
historically specific’, can help avoid tendencies to either enshrine or
to discard the knowledge science offers.4 Such an approach always
foregrounds the embodied and linguistic practices of researchers,
as limited and inflected and valuable nonetheless. Science studies
in her view, then, should concern ‘the behavioral ecology and
optimal foraging strategies of scientists and their subjects’.5
Haraway’s own work closely examines how researchers bring
their cultural practices into contact with the natural objects they
observe (and produce as such) in ‘naturecultures’, defined as
the ‘implosions of the discursive realms of nature and culture’.6
Thus, in viewing science as a set of socially constructed and nature-
constructing practices, Haraway complicates (rather than rejects)
scientific knowledge, calling for ‘politics and epistemologies of loca-
tion, positioning, and situating, where partiality and not universality
is the condition of being heard to make rational knowledge claims’
and scientific observation is produced through a ‘view from a body,
always a complex, contradictory, structuring and structured body,
versus the view from above, from nowhere, from simplicity’.7
It is from within this political and epistemological orienta-
tion that Haraway seeks to forward a ‘deeper, broader, and more
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open scientific literacy’ by investigating the dangers and gifts of

the interfaces between technology and science in the literal and
virtual (hyper)reality of life at the turn of the twenty-first century.8
Haraway’s work illustrates how technoscientific knowledges are
linked to new forms of war-making, global capitalism, environmen-
tal destruction and worldwide media saturation, and calls attention
to the national, racial, gender and class violences inherent in these
operations. However, she also considers the capacity of ‘technosci-
entific democracy’ to draw attention to inequalities and forward
social justice, and finds encouraging signs that this mode of politics
can be/is being built.9
Refiguring Kinships
In many ways, Haraway is a theorist of relations, examining the
interplay between concepts and categories previously treated as
distinct. She has an uncanny ability to blur established bounda-
ries (between object and subject, animal and human, nature and
culture, body and mind, flesh and machine), always attending to
the co-constitutive relationships obtaining between each concep-
tual category and its ‘other’. In Haraway’s analysis, the exclusions
constituting (post)modern Western Man, ‘gods, machines, animals,
monsters, creepy crawlies, women, servants and slaves, and nonci-
tizens in general’, may be kept ‘outside the security checkpoint of
bright reason’ but they nevertheless have the capacity to inspire
terror in ‘centers of power and self-certainty’.10 It is fair to say that
much of Haraway’s scholarship works to amplify these fears in the
interest of eroding the certainties undergirding patterns of social
privilege.
In addition to a penchant for making use of new composite words
(such as ‘natureculture’, ‘technoscience’ and ‘material-semiotic’) to
capture the complex relations between oppositional terms, Haraway
has a talent for illustrating particular historical and cultural junc-
tures wherein dualisms dissolve into emergent figures that trouble
established subjectivities: machine and woman become ‘cyborg’ in
Cold War America, biotechnology and scientist become ‘vampire’
in the racialised discourses surrounding the genome project, and
dog and human become ‘companion species’ in twenty-first-century
agility sports. Each new figure points to hazards while also opening
up new possibilities. Although cyborgs are plugged into military-
industrial capital, they offer an escape from traditional markers of
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gender. If vampires are narrative characters appealing to deeply

racist, sexist and homophobic anxieties, they also awaken unnatu-
ral impulses latent in naturalised culture. And, despite the history
of violent and exploitative practices that burdens dog–human
relations, they can bring bodily pleasures that unsettle humanist
hierarchies as well as heteronormative conceptions of intimacy.
Haraway’s tendency to rethink binaries as relations places her in
the company of deconstructionists, and her later work does engage
the writing of Jacques Derrida. Haraway’s gestures to Derrida are
measured and critical, however, as is the case with Michel Foucault
and Karl Marx, who figure much more prominently in her writing
and clearly inform her thought. Haraway shares Derrida’s focus on
textual complexity and irreducible difference, Foucault’s careful
attention to historical archives in tracing the emergence of new
terms, subjects and institutions, and Marx’s concern with material
relations, commodity forms and political allegiances. However, the
unique character of Haraway’s own analysis, as well as her close affin-
ities with feminist, postcolonial and anti-racist studies, mediates her
use of concepts or methods drawn from any of these theorists. Such
departures lead Haraway to charge Derrida with failing to theorise
(or even fulfil) the duties of companion species,11 to declare that
‘Foucault’s biopolitics is a flaccid premonition of cyborg politics’,12
and to reject key ontological, rational and teleological elements of
Marx’s thought, introducing the terms gender (and race) into the
Marxist lexicon and calling attention to the ‘commingled histories
of Marxism and of imperialism’.13
Haraway’s careful and copious reading practices are evident in
the way that she draws on a wide array of scientific research, cultural
studies, philosophical treatises, psychoanalytic feminism, literary
criticism, critical race theory, feminist scholarship and post-colonial
analyses in her own writing. In addition to conversing with key theo-
rists and researchers, Haraway also generously cites the work of her
former students, other junior scholars and even community activists
(both published and unpublished), explicitly crediting all of these
writers with shaping her thought as her work intersects with theirs.
In so doing, Haraway performs both her political commitment to
breaking down established status systems and her theoretical com-
mitment to ‘becoming with’ – thinking subjectivity and agency
through companions that merge to become new figures together.
The figure is a central concept in Haraway’s writing, and figura-
tion is her signature method. For Haraway, figures are both semiotic
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and material: they are narrative embellishments as well as lived

embodiments. As Haraway explains, figures, or tropes, ‘turn’ away
from the literal/factual/normative script, offering a ‘way of swerv-
ing around a death-defying and death-worshipping culture bent on
total war, in order to re-member – in material-semiotic reality – the
fragile, mortal, and juicy beings we really are’.14 Haraway argues that
the tropological character of many words is lost when they become
linguistically (and ideologically) sedimented. However, ‘the tropic
quality of any word can erupt to enliven things for even the most
literal minded . . . words trip us, make us swerve, turn us around’.15
Each new figure Haraway offers (cyborg, coyote, vampire, com-
panion species) works to theorise complex relations in ways that
capture both the problems and possibilities inherent in them. By
inhabiting the tensions between concepts or terms, Haraway’s work
opens up new spaces for critique and imagination. For example,
the cyborg figure rethinks the organism–machine opposition as an
intimate relation, one that becomes the basis for a (subtle) critique
of Cold War defence policies and a (direct) condemnation of the
kind of feminism that relies on a ‘natural’ and ‘essential’ concept of
Woman or ‘women’s experience’. The cyborg, then, also becomes
a way to re-imagine a socialist and feminist politics that can exploit
new technology and move beyond essentialist conceptions of
gender, embracing the messy complexity of diverse, impure and
shifting subjectivities. Such a politics is consistent with Haraway’s
‘gender-in-the-making’, which rejects the notion that gender can be
‘a performed category of beings or a possession that one can have’,
and redefines it as ‘the relation between variously constituted cat-
egories of men and women (and variously arrayed tropes), differen-
tiated by nation, generation, class, lineage, color and much else’.16
In passages that are widely cited, she claims that the hybridity of
the cyborg ‘is our ontology; it gives us our politics’ and declares she
‘would rather be a cyborg than a goddess’.17
Although Haraway’s cyborg is her best-known figure, it is only
one in a ‘whole kinship system of figurations’ for critical thinking.18
The coyote is another, one that she employs to assist in ‘revisioning
the world as coding trickster with whom we must learn to converse’
rather than becoming cynical or hopeless in the face of postmodern
technology. The coyote as trickster also illustrates Haraway’s effort
to think of bodies as realist fictions that are simultaneously natural
and ideological, material and semiotic.19 Her coyote figuration
is particularly important for the type of ‘feminist objectivity’ she
132

wants to promote as an alternative to the either/or dichotomy in

which both realist defenders and relativist critics of science seem
caught. By refiguring the world as ‘witty agent’, Haraway encour-
ages an approach that ‘makes room for surprises and ironies at the
heart of all knowledge production’, acknowledging that, instead of
controlling the world, researchers ‘just live here and try to strike up
non-innocent conversations by means of our prosthetic devices’,
hopefully producing better stories about their objects/subjects of
study in the process.20
In characterising her particular use of the coyote figuration,
Haraway performs her commitment to situate herself in discourses
of class, race and gender without becoming fixed or defined by
such locations in ways that would block the critical work she is
doing. Noting that her own effort to apply the coyote is in keeping
with a ‘middle-class, white feminist appropriation’, that exhibits
a ‘rather colonial’ attitude toward Native American religions,21
Haraway maintains that figures can exceed their origins to operate
in unexpected and unplanned ways. Figures exert their own agency,
escaping efforts to fix their meaning, and it is this refiguration that
Haraway finds useful. Positing the coyote as a trickster suggests
that the world may operate in ways that humans cannot predict or
control and requires rethinking it as a figure between subject and
object, culture and nature, something other than a romanticised
Gaia or raw resource for global capitalism.22
If Haraway’s coyote figuration hints at her attention to issues
of race in her feminist critique of technoscience, her use of the
vampire makes such concerns explicit. By using a figure that both
contaminates and feeds off humanity to examine the ‘vectors of
infection that trouble racial categories in twentieth century bio-
scientific constructions of universal humanity’, Haraway is able
to point to both the obsession with racial purity and the history
of racial violence that studies of genealogy and blood inherit.23
Vampires, those fascinating villains that walk between death and
life, both killing and reanimating those they touch, provide a means
for thinking about the perverse appeal of racial (im)purity.
The newcomer to Haraway’s kinship of figures is companion
species, although it is also a larger category under which cyborgs,
coyotes and vampires might fall. Like all of her other figures, com-
panion species merge previously distinct and oppositional catego-
ries, such as ‘human and non-human’ and ‘nature and culture’,
while carefully attending to the particular historical conditions
133

in and through which such unions take place.24 Companionate

figures are formed through an active engagement, an interrelation
to which both species make distinct contributions and are trans-
formed in the process. As Haraway explains through her examina-
tion of dog–human relations, companion species involve ‘human
and nonhuman animals’ intermingling and ‘becoming with’ each
other, as they are ‘messmates at table, eating together, whether we
know how to eat well or not’.25 Such relations are complex, chal-
lenging, and both life and world changing.
As a method, figuration operates at a conceptual level through
cultural analysis that generates new figures for re-envisioning the
corporeal and symbolic relations at work in embodied subjectivity,
but it is also performed in language practices that tend toward the
tropological. Shot through with metaphors, oxymoronic neolo-
gisms and ironies, Haraway texts productively turn cultural narra-
tives in ways that destabilise dualisms and then refuse to resolve
the resulting tensions with a coherent unified synthesis. As scholars
note, her writing style evidences a ‘strong feminist commitment to
the ethics and material consequences of playing with metaphor to
reimagine life itself’.26 Many of Haraway’s metaphors are drawn
from biology and, conversely, she illustrates how biology draws on
metaphor in her analysis of the linguistic formations biologists use
in their research.27 In addition, aesthetic features of her writing
subtly probe at sacred cultural taboos (examples include analogies
of infection and defilement in genetic science and erotic imagery
in human–dog relations), keeping readers off-balance in ways that
facilitate uncertainty and promote critical inquiry.
Kinship is another important concept in Haraway’s thought,
one that operates in at least three important ways: (1) as a tool
for analysing patterns of cultural logic; (2) as a means of theoris-
ing relations without dissolving differences; and (3) as a vehicle
for imagining new networks of affinity and affection. In Modest_
Witness@Second_Millennium, Haraway employs the notion of kinship
to create a chart elaborating on how three ‘key objects of knowl-
edge: race, population, and genome’ have shaped ‘biological dis-
course about human unity and diversity’ in American cultures of
affluence during specific historical periods.28 That the eleven-page
chart includes artifacts ranging from genetic databases to clothing
advertisements and includes drug testing as well as ecotourism gives
some sense of the breadth and detail characterising her cultural
analysis. Overall, Haraway illustrates how kin and kinship have been
134

constituted through blood ties that have a bloody history, including

such practices as slavery, eugenics and reproductive technology, in
order to show how ‘race is a fracturing trauma in the body politic of
the nation – and in the mortal bodies of its people’.29
When using kinship as a way of conceptualising non-identical
relations, Haraway applies it to depict linkages that do not absorb
their constituents into a unified whole. Indeed, the prospect that
‘human beings might encounter difference in ways that do not
seek to incorporate, tame, resource, or annihilate it’ has been
called a persistent concern in her scholarship.30 The figuration of
companion species helps to capture the view of kinship Haraway is
after. When analysing the ‘webbed bio-social-technical apparatuses
of humans, animals, artifacts, and institutions’ caught up in the
companion species relation between dogs and humans, Haraway
attends to the ‘thick and dynamic particularities of relationships-in-
progress’.31 While her affective investment in how dog-and-human
are becoming-subject together is evident, she resists the temptation
to imagine either component as capable of outrunning the very dif-
ferent (and violently unequal) histories attached to each. Despite
her own intimate (and loving) relation to the dog Cayenne Pepper
as they ‘make each other up, in the flesh’, she recognises that a
radical alterity makes them ‘significantly other to each other’.32
Theorising kinship offers her a way to dispel a fantasy played out
in both ‘science fiction and fictions of science’, as exemplified by
‘evolutionary biology’s bottom line on difference’: that it impedes
collaboration and can hasten extinction.33 For Haraway, difference
is the lifeblood and challenge of companionate relations.
Establishing new patterns of kinship is also an important politi-
cal principle for Haraway, not only because she prefers coalition-
building to identity as a basis for action but also because she is
invested in interrupting conventional narratives structuring familial
relations along the familiar paths of gender- and heteronormativ-
ity. Her own networks of kin extend to queer intimacies that locate
love and commitment outside the boundaries of reproduction, in
places wherein sexual (and species) identity are less relevant than
the obligations that cohabiting companions have to one another.
Affinities and Differences

In her scholarship, Haraway inhabits a series of paradoxical posi-
tions, embracing their internal tensions to establish new perspectives
135

that avoid problematic assumptions and open up new possibilities.

As a scientist who exposes particular fantasies of (pure) rationality
and (disembodied) objectivity and articulates a political agenda for
research, an environmentalist who finds radical potential in new
technology, and a feminist who rejects the essentialist and racist
strands underwriting a politics of ‘sisterhood’, Haraway’s approach
to conventional topics is anything but conventional. A brief over-
view of her critiques of primatology, feminism, capitalism, human-
ism and environmentalism helps to sketch some of the unique
stances she assumes.
Haraway’s critique of primatology brings to light how research-
ers project cultural narratives (starring white Western male heroes)
onto their subjects to produce particular conclusions about what is
‘natural’ in reproduction and survival strategies. Arguing that such
an approach (re)produces hierarchies of gender, race and sexual-
ity, she also points out how primatologist’s preoccupation with acts
of sex and violence causes them to overlook less dramatic (but more
efficient) practices that may not fit the narrative logic at work in the
literature of the field, but do help populations to flourish.34 That
Haraway wants to recover and highlight important research by femi-
nist primatologists that runs counter to traditional narratives, rather
than to dismiss all scientific knowledge as ideological, indicates that
her critiques are precise interventions rather than indiscriminate
attacks on entire branches of science. It is also worth noting that
the feminist contributions to primatology that she admires do not
simply replace masculine accounts of reproduction and survival
with feminine versions relying on broad assumptions about inher-
ently female characteristics and experiences. Eschewing such gyno-
centric correctives is consistent with her critique of (white, affluent
US) feminism.
Both a famous feminist scholar and the author of texts that are
sharply critical of some central tenets of feminist theory and politics,
Haraway has made some important contributions to conversations
about sex and gender. Deeply informed by feminist scholarship
and animated by feminist political aims, she argues that both have
often made investments in essentialism and identity politics that
undermine hopes for radical change. For example, her appraisal of
the approach that popular US feminist and legal scholar Catharine
McKinnon takes to activism is that it produces ‘a theory of experi-
ence, of woman’s identity, that is a kind of apocalypse for all revo-
lutionary standpoints’ in that it ‘does not so much marginalize as
136

obliterate the authority of any other woman’s political speech and

action’.35 Regarding the price of unity in the women’s movement
(a universal figure of Woman with essential and natural defining
characteristics) to be too high, Haraway declares that any ‘adequate
feminist theory of gender must simultaneously be a theory of racial
and sexual difference in specific historical conditions of production
and reproduction’.36
Heavily influenced by (and in conversation with) Marxian
thought, Haraway’s analysis of late capitalism is inflected through
her attention to its role in forwarding ‘neo-imperialism and the
technocratic actualization of masculinist nuclear fantasies’.37 Owing
to her commitment to address multiple vectors of difference and
her appreciation for post-structuralist theory and postmodern cul-
tural studies, her work tends to confront the modernist subject at
the centre of Marx’s historical narrative. Calling cyborgs the ‘ille-
gitimate offspring of militarism and patriarchal capitalism’ (as well
as ‘state socialism’), Haraway asserts that ‘illegitimate offspring are
often exceedingly unfaithful to their origins’ since ‘their fathers
are, after all, inessential’.38 Such an analysis can point to both the
problems and possibilities within late capitalist formations, while
reworking Marxist thought through the thematic of difference to
expose the ‘pre-eminently Western self’ at the heart of ‘Marxian
humanism’.39
The challenges that difference poses to unifying theories of sub-
jectivity also factor into Haraway’s critique of humanism. Although
uncomfortable with the transcendence implied in the term ‘post-
humanism’, she is committed to decentring the modernist liberal
subject that stars in humanist narratives by attacking the Eurocentric
and masculinist biases woven throughout these texts. Resisting the
temptation to dream of a unifying human condition between (or
even within) subjects, she instead insists on the radical difference of
the ‘I and we that is/are never identical to itself, and so has hope
of connection to others’.40 Hence, connections are not enabled
through stable identity categories of being but through ongoing
and shared practices of becoming. Condensing the ‘spiritual and
political meaning of poststructuralism and postmodernism’ into
the insight that ‘nobody is self-made, least of all man’, she explores
new ways of thinking humans in relation to organisms, technologies
and environments.41 In so doing, she refuses to reconstruct human-
ism’s inviolable boundaries between subject and object, culture and
nature. In her recent work on companion species, Haraway depicts
137

‘human exceptionalism’ and the ‘humanist doctrine that holds

only humans to be true subjects with real histories’,42 in a light that
renders humanism akin to other forms of bigotry, such as sexism
and racism.
Haraway’s rejection of the species bias implied in humanism
suggests an affinity with some strains in environmentalism, yet she is
also a critic of that movement’s technophobic tendencies and fond-
ness for romantic (humanist and sexist) narratives of nature, the
organic body and Mother Earth. In the essay entitled ‘Otherworldly
Conversations; Terran Topics; Local Terms’, she objects to common
views of nature:
[N]ature is not just a physical place to which one can go, nor a treasure
to fence in or bank, nor an essence to be saved or violated. Nature is
not hidden and so does not need to be unveiled. Nature is not a text
to be read in the codes of mathematics and biomedicine. It is not the
Other who offers origin, replenishment, and service. Neither mother,
nurse, lover, nor slave, nature is not matrix, resource, mirror, nor tool
for the reproduction of that odd, ethnocentric, phallogocentric, puta-
tively universal being called Man. Nor for his euphemistically named
surrogate, the ‘human’.43
Counter to such views, Haraway reminds us that nature is both topos

and tropos, a common topic that performs important rhetorical func-
tions in public discourse, as well as a figure for altering the human
environmental relations that discourse constructs by re-envisioning
them as co-constitutive operations within naturecultures.
Critics and Allies

It is not surprising that controversy follows on the heels of Haraway’s
scholarship, as the unique critical positions she creates make for
only partial and uneasy alliances. Cultural critics willing to abandon
terms such as science, objectivity, rationality and truth as hope-
lessly polluted by modernist (and masculinist) ideology may be
dismayed by her commitment to rescue such principles by demand-
ing ‘accountability and responsibility’ from researchers and locat-
ing their practices of knowledge production in specific times and
places.44 Her work has even been the occasion for vicious attacks on
her politics and on her person. Haraway herself acknowledges that
some feminist scholars have read her Cyborg Manifesto as the ‘ram-
blings of a blissed-out, technobunny, fembot’,45 and recounts how
138

environmental activists who objected to the ‘organic-technological

hybrids’ she describes symbolically ‘raped’ her in literature they
distributed at one of her lectures.46 Animal-rights advocates, whom
Haraway charges with depicting animals as ‘permanent dependents
(“lesser humans”), utterly natural (“nonhuman”), or exactly the
same (“humans in fur suits”)’,47 have called her work ‘extremely dis-
turbing’ and ‘dismissive’ in its treatment of the principles guiding
feminist vegetarianism.48
Haraway cites her use of subtle irony when making observa-
tions about features of late capitalism, imperialism and patriar-
chal culture as one possible reason that some see her as a foe
rather than an ally. A more generous reading of her work, one
that takes into account both stylistic elements and nuanced politi-
cal views, can appreciate how her texts appeal to audiences that
may be quite familiar with critiques of conservative ideologies but
less so with critiques of (white American) feminism, (masculine
Western) environmentalism and other politically liberal schools
of thought.
Although she has collected her share of critics, a wide array of
scholars who appreciate the concepts and positions in Haraway’s
writing have productively applied them in varied branches of the
humanities and sciences. A handful of examples illustrates the
diverse ways in which her work has influenced scholarship. In femi-
nist theory, Rosi Braidotti adapts Haraway’s account of figuration as
‘a style of thought that evokes or expresses ways out of the phallo-
centric vision of the subject’.49 Treating Haraway as both a political
and theoretical resource, Braidotti reads her work as advancing a
new ethics of affinity across difference and a revolutionary theory
of embodied female subjectivity. This reading is the basis for the
new figure Braidotti herself offers (the nomad) for reorienting
contemporary feminist philosophy and ethics. In literary theory,
N. Katherine Hayles borrows Haraway’s concept of ‘informatics’ to
analyse dramatic changes in how information technology relates
‘human and textual bodies’ through virtual reading practices.50
In anthropology, Arturo Escobar calls on Haraway’s identifica-
tion of ‘the postmodern reinvention of nature’ and her analysis of
the often-obscured connections between scientific knowledge and
social practice to consider the formation of the Third and First
Worlds (as such) in late capitalist geo-political relations.51 And in
cultural geography, Suzanne H. Steinmann uses Haraway’s complex
reading of located identities to examine ‘often-hidden gendered
139

environmental knowledges, resource management responsibilities,

and power relations that affect the creation or destruction of
cultural and ecological spaces’ in Moroccan villages.52 The theo-
retical and methodological paths that Haraway has taken in her
scholarship, travelling through evolutionary biology, primatology,
women’s studies and other territories, continue to lead the way for
scholars with critical impulses and interdisciplinary interests. Given
the character of her most recent writing, she is likely to continue to
prompt readers to re-examine and re-imagine themselves and the
social worlds they inhabit.
Notes
1. Donna J. Haraway. ‘From Cyborgs to Companion Species: Kinship
in Technoscience’, Robert and Maurine Rothschild Lecture in the
History of Science, Introductory remarks by Charis Thompson,
Harvard University, 2002.
2. Haraway, Primate Visions, p. 6.
3. Schneider, Donna Haraway, p. 155.
4. Haraway, How like a Leaf, p. 133.
5. Haraway, The Haraway Reader (New York: Routledge, 2004), p. 200.
7. Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs, and Women, p. 195.
8. Haraway, Modest_Witness, p. 11.
9. Ibid. p. 95.
10. Haraway, When Species Meet, p. 10.
11. Ibid. pp. 22–3.
12. Haraway, Haraway Reader, p. 8.
13. Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs, and Women, pp. 127–8.
15. Ibid. p. 201.
17. Haraway, Haraway Reader, pp. 8 and 39.
18. Ibid. p. 327.
20. Ibid. p. 199.
22. Ibid. p. 328.
24. Haraway, The Companion Species Manifesto, p. 4.
26. Bartsch, DiPalma, and Sells, ‘Witnessing the postmodern jeremiad’,
Configurations, 9, 2001, pp. 127–8.
140


28. Haraway, Modest_Witness, pp. 218–30.
29. Ibid. p. 213.
30. Schneider, Donna Haraway, p. 75.
32. Ibid. p. 16.
34. Ibid. especially pp. 307–11.
36. Ibid. p. 57.
39. Ibid. p. 17.
40. Ibid. p. 48.
41. Ibid. p. 49.
42. Haraway, When Species Meet, pp. 32, 66–7.
45. Haraway, Companion Species Manifesto, p. 3.
47. Ibid. p. 67.
48. Tom Tyler, ‘An Animal Manifesto: Gender, Identity, and Vegan-
Feminism in the Twenty-First Century, an interview with Carol J.
Adams’, Parallax, 38, January–March 2006, pp. 120–8 (124–5).
49. Rosi Braidotti, Nomadic Subjects: Embodiment and Difference in Contemporary
Feminist Theory (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), p. 1.
50. N. Katherine Hayles, How We Became Posthuman: Virtual Bodies in
Cybernetics, Literature, and Informatics (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1999), p. 29.
51. Arturo Escobar, Encountering Development: The Making and Unmaking
of the Third World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), p.
204.
52. Suzanne H. Steinmann, ‘Changing Identities and Changing Spaces
in Village Landscapes of Settled Pastoralists in Eastern Morocco’, in
Ghazi-Walid Falah and Caroline R. Nagel (eds), Geographies of Muslim
Women: Gender, Religion, and Space (New York: Guilford Press, 2005),
pp. 91–125 (96).
Major Works by Haraway

The Companion Species Manifesto: Dogs, People, and Significant Otherness
(Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press, 2003).
Crystals, Fabrics, and Fields: Metaphors That Shape Embryos (Berkeley: North
Atlantic Press, 1976).
141

‘Ecce Homo, Ain’t (ar’n’t) I a Woman, and Inappropriate/d Others:

The Human in a Posthumanist Landscape’, in J. Butler and J. W. Scott
(eds), Feminists Theorize the Political (New York: Routledge, 1992), pp.
295–337.
The Haraway Reader (New York: Routledge, 2004). A good place for initi-
ates to start, as it contains a selection of key essays and book excerpts in
a single volume that opens with an introduction by their author.
How like a Leaf: An Interview with Thyrza Nichols Goodeve (New York:
Routledge, 2000). The explanations Haraway offers in this volume of
the personal motives, ethics and sentiments that have driven her schol-
arly development provide a helpful overview of her thought.
‘Manifesto for Cyborgs: Science, Technology, and Socialist Feminism in
the 1980s’, Socialist Review, 80, 1985, pp. 65–108.
Modest_Witness@Second_Millennium: FemaleMan_Meets_Oncomouse™: Femi-
nism and Technoscience (New York: Routledge, 1997).
‘Otherworldly Conversations; Terran Topics, Local Terms’, Science as
Culture, 3, 1, 1992, pp. 59–92.
Primate Visions: Gender, Race, and Nature in the World of Modern Science (New
York: Routledge, 1989).
‘The Promise of Monsters: A Regenerative Politics for Inappropriate/d
Others’, in L. Grossberg, C. Nelson and P. Treichler (eds), Cultural
Studies (New York: Routledge, 1992), pp. 295–337.
Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature (New York: Routledge,
1991). Her essay ‘Gender for a Marxist Dictionary: The Sexual Politics
of a Word’, succinctly addresses the complex ways in which her work
intersects with Marxist and feminist thought, illustrating how and why
the former needs to be radically retooled to address the problematic of
difference.
‘Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism as a Site of
Discourse on the Privilege of Partial Perspective’, Feminist Studies, 14,
1988, pp. 575–99.
‘Teddy Bear Patriarchy: Taxidermy in the Garden of Eden, New York City,
1908–1936’, Social Text, 11, 1984/85, pp. 19–64.
When Species Meet (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008).

Bartsch, Ingrid, Carolyn DiPalma and Laura Sells, ‘Witnessing the
Postmodern Jeremiad: (Mis)understanding Donna Haraway’s Method
of Inquiry’, Configurations, 9, 2001, pp. 127–64. This article devotes
attention to Haraway’s method as a performance of her feminist poli-
tics. Particularly useful for those interested in the unique rhetorical
character of Haraway’s writing.
Bell, David, Cyberculture Theorists: Manuel Castells and Donna Haraway (New
142

York: Routledge, 2007). Focuses on Haraway’s contributions to cyber-

theory and relates her work to that of other pioneering scholars in the
field of cyberculture studies.
Schneider, Joseph, Donna Haraway: Live Theory (New York: Continuum,
2005). An excellent secondary source on her theories, methods and
contributions that provides a good introduction and helps to place her
work in scholarly contexts.
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9
Ernesto Laclau (1935–) and

Chantal Mouffe (1943–)
Simon Tormey
Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe are the principal figures asso-
ciated with the emergence of ‘discourse analysis’, ‘post-Marxism’
and ‘radical democracy’ as key theoretical interventions in contem-
porary critical theory. Their best-known joint work, Hegemony and
Socialist Strategy published in 1985, became emblematic of a certain
brand of left progressive thought that sought to reconceptualise
radical politics ‘after’ Marx.1 Since writing Hegemony and Socialist
Strategy, Laclau and Mouffe have published widely under their
own names. Laclau’s works such as Emancipations and On Populist
Reason continue the exploration of the theoretical and conceptual
basis of radical democracy. Mouffe’s works such as The Return of the
Political and The Democratic Paradox engage directly with debates in
contemporary political thought, and in particular with democratic
theory in which she has articulated a distinct position, ‘agonistic
democracy’.
Both Laclau and Mouffe have strong connections to social
movements and political campaigns. Laclau was born in Argentina
and maintains a deep interest in the politics of Latin America
and with populism as a political form and strategy. He has held a
variety of posts over the past three decades, most notably at Essex
University where he has been the leading figure in the ‘Ideology
and Discourse Analysis’ programme which forms an important insti-
tutional locus for work in this area. Mouffe was born in Belgium and
was a student of Laclau’s at Essex before herself assuming a number
of academic affiliations, including most recently at the Centre for
Democracy at the University of Westminster. She is also active in
144

Ernesto Laclau (1935–) and Chantal Mouffe (1943–)
various movements, including the Social Forum process and the

international global justice network, Association pour la taxation
des transactions pour l’aide aux citoyens (ATTAC).
Laclau and Mouffe’s intellectual legacy can be usefully captured
in terms of a couple of key problematics. How does one remain a
radical after the basic tenets that informed Marxist radical politics
became an irrelevance over the course of the latter half of the twen-
tieth century? How in particular can the ‘anti-essentialist’ insights of
those working at the cutting edge of human enquiry such as Lacan,
Derrida, Wittgenstein and Foucault come to inform a politics that
escapes the narrow sectarianism of Leninism, the party form and
‘democratic centralism’?
Marxism in Question
The animating problematic of Laclau and Mouffe’s work is situated
in the specific context of the crisis of Marxism and the collapse of
communism as the locus for radical theory and politics after 1968.
The inability of communist parties in western Europe to develop a
politics consonant with ‘new times’ led to the collapse of support for
communism in previous strongholds such as France and Italy and
thus the need to re-examine the expectations that had informed
Marxist radical politics since the late nineteenth century.2 These
expectations concerned the relationship between the economic
base and the ideological and political superstructure. To Marx it
was developments in the base that determined to greater or lesser
extent the extant political forms, whether considered as the values,
morals, laws or institutions of a given society. Changes in these
forms were precipitated by changes in the material base, so that as
new forms of technology emerged and became part of the repro-
duction of society so new classes, forces and ideas emerged to facili-
tate the passage from one form of society to another. Revolutions
are in this sense the product of an ‘exogenous’ imperative that
creates the conditions in which social change becomes not merely
desirable but necessary. Radical politics is in this sense propelled by
forces that lie outside the domain of politics itself.
To be Marxist was on these terms to be committed to a teleologi-
cal conception of social change. Given the inevitable lag between
the development of the base and the development of the requisite
class consciousness needed to overthrow an anachronistic social
order, Marx posited the need for a party that would represent the
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Simon Tormey
interests of the exploited mass. The party would be composed of

‘leading’ elements of the working class and intellectuals such as
himself who understood the unfolding historical narrative and
who could guide the class to the desired outcome: revolution and
thence communism. This sets up a ‘Jacobin’ dynamic familiar to
students of radical politics in the early twentieth century in which
the capture of the state and the transition to a state-governed form
of socialism becomes imperative. However, as Laclau and Mouffe
argue:
What is now in crisis is a whole conception of socialism which rests

upon the ontological centrality of the working class, upon the role of
Revolution, with a capital ‘r’, as the founding moment of a transition
from one type of society to another, and upon the illusory prospect
of a perfectly unitary and homogenous collective will that will render
pointless the moment of politics.3
In particular Laclau and Mouffe contest the idea that capitalism

contains irresolvable ‘contradictions’ which necessitate a final
crisis and overthrow of the system. Capitalism may be antagonistic
in the sense that, as a class system, there are clashes of interest
and ideology to contend with; but capitalism is not doomed to
collapse as orthodox Marxists insist. Capitalism demonstrates a
resilience and adaptability that means that it could stave off crisis,
and which means that radicals had to enter the arena of the
political to make progress. More than this, capitalism had given
witness to the unfolding ‘democratic revolution’ that it was the
task of radicals to promote and nurture rather than to contest
and overthrow.
Finally, contemporary political mobilisation gave the lie to the
notions of agency preferred by Marxists. The radicalism of the late
twentieth century was not necessarily ‘class’ in character, but rather
one propelled by specific injustices, oppressions and exclusions
that pointed towards an amelioration of the system, rather than its
overthrow. It was the ‘new social movements’ who provided politi-
cal energy and impetus to change, not the working class, which
was merely one among a number of political actors who had to be
addressed by radical theorists. Progressive thought could not turn
its back on these challenges or deny their existence (as they thought
many more orthodox Marxists were prone to do), but needed to
rethink radical politics under conditions that made old orthodoxies
irrelevant. How?
146

Rethinking Hegemony
In their own terminology Laclau and Mouffe are ‘post-marxist’,
insisting that they work within the broader expectations that Marx
had himself articulated: the insufficiency of liberalism; the persist-
ence of deep inequality and exclusion; and thus the necessity to
further radicalise the ‘democratic revolution’. Two figures were
of particular importance in this rethinking: Antonio Gramsci and
Louis Althusser. From Gramsci they take the idea of ‘hegemony’
and the necessity for thinking social change as a consequence
of forming political alliances as a ‘historical bloc’, as opposed to
waiting for social change to be generated from without in the form
of economic crisis. From Althusser they take the idea of society as a
complex totality that is ‘overdetermined’, meaning that it has to be
reproduced ideologically to make up for an absent ‘fullness’. There
is always an insufficiency or lack that requires the operation of the
state and other agencies to cover over the antagonisms and fissures
that complex entities manifest.
Gramsci was a thinking person’s revolutionary – a hero of the
Italian communist party who wrote much of his best-known work
in the 1920s while a prisoner of the Italian state. Following the dis-
astrous experiment of the Bolshevik Revolution, Gramsci sought to
reconstruct Marxism by paying attention to the different modali-
ties of political struggle and contestation. Famously, Gramsci con-
trasted the approach of the Bolsheviks, which he characterised as an
embrace of a ‘war of manoeuvre’, with the more subtle radicalism
needed under contemporary capitalist conditions, which he charac-
terised as ‘war of position’.4 The point emphasised a minor refrain
in Marx’s own thinking: that culture and historical tradition were
important determinants of political structure and action; that small
movements needed to join up with larger movements in order to
challenge dominant forces; and that progressive politics needed an
alternative vision in order to succeed. Sometimes challenging the
stock of norms, values and assumptions that permitted the ruling
class to maintain legitimacy as consent, which Gramsci refers to
as the ‘common sense’ nostrums that underpin social orders, was
more sensible than confronting it head on. The inference was clear:
if radicals wanted to bring about lasting change (as opposed to
mere political upheaval), then they needed to critique, undermine
and supplant the common-sense ideas that maintained the present
in being.
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Simon Tormey
Gramsci’s approach, however, still privileged the working class

as a primary identity, not seeing that ‘unfixity becomes the condi-
tion for every social identity’.5 The emergence of new social move-
ments showed that identity could be constructed in many ways with
many different effects and demands attached to them. The missing
link in Gramsci’s approach was the idea of the ‘equivalence’ of con-
trasting, even conflicting, political demands, and thus the neces-
sity to find ways in which the different goals attached to different
subject identities (race, class and so on) could be knitted together
(‘sutured’) so that both the particularity and universality of these
demands could be respected and built upon. ‘Working-class’ iden-
tity was increasingly weak as far as the populations of advanced
industrial societies were concerned, so a notion of hegemony could
not privilege it.
Hegemony after Gramsci

To reformulate hegemony in new times, Laclau and Mouffe revis-
ited the orthodox Marxist notion that an external cause (the base)
acts upon an interior superstructure. They conjoined Althusser’s
ruminations on the ‘relative autonomy’ of the ideological super-
structures with insights from post-structuralism and the psycho-
analytic approach associated with Lacan and his followers. These
approaches share an ‘anti-essentialism’ or a hostility towards the
idea of an ‘outside’ of an extra-discursive kind that determines
who we are and how we think about the world. Laclau and Mouffe
insist that this world is constructed in and through ‘discourse’ that
is never complete or self-present. Language, as Saussure showed, is
composed of signifiers whose sense is determined through the play
of difference with other signifiers. Discourse is constituted not in
relation to ‘reality’, posited as an ‘exteriority’ which it is language’s
function to reveal, but in relation to an evolving system of meaning
that searches constantly for anchors or point de capiton to fix itself.
Discourse is based on a lack of access to an underpinning reality, to
the world, to meaning – or, as Lacan puts it, to the Real. It is this
‘unfixity’ that must govern our thinking about how to construct
a new hegemonic project – or to put the same matter differently,
‘plurality’ must be ‘the starting point of the analysis’.6
Laclau and Mouffe do not merely invert Marx’s materialism in
favour of neo-idealism. Their point is that the social is a discontinu-
ous terrain in which concepts are fixed and unfixed, and in which
148

there is a permanent struggle of interpretation and meaning.

There is nothing that determines the social from the outside, and
no teleology that guarantees an overall evolutionary path that
society must follow. There are no extra-historical or extra-social
‘essences’, but rather only the appearance of essence, fixity, truth,
which reflect the hegemonic understandings that happen to be in
a position of temporary or contingent power. Recognition of the
social construction of narratives and the interplay of myth, sym-
bolism and imagery in support of normative or political schemas
implies that bourgeois liberal myths should be displaced not by
the Truth, but by more progressive myths that serve the need for
something to fill the void.7
Essential to Laclau and Mouffe’s approach is the dispelling of
the story of the left’s inevitable or necessary coming to power. The
left cannot rely on capitalist crisis, which at best only evinces an
antagonism and thus a political opening in which hegemony can
be contested. It cannot rely on the development of class conscious-
ness because identity is not formed in and through the extra-social
operation of economic antagonism, but through the ceaseless shift-
ing of the social terrain in response to all manner of contingencies
and events, some of which have their origin in economic causality
– but many of them not.
The success or failure of progressive movements thus depends
on their ability to articulate a counter-hegemonic vision that reso-
nates sufficiently to effect a mobilisation, which may in turn lead
to a challenge to the dominant value system. ‘Articulation’ is thus
a key concept for Laclau and Mouffe, helping to provide the link
between social groups, social structures and change. Discourse
analysis shows how these articulations come about, how they evolve
and engage the wider public.8 It shows how successful movements
link generally discrete demands that would otherwise founder for
lack of popular support, creating a political dynamic leading to
change. For Laclau and Mouffe, change can only be understood
as a function of articulation, rather than the other way round. This
is a crucial gesture for cultural theorists who seek to valorise the
role of art, the media and politics – considered as a broad field of
contestation – in thinking about the dynamics of social change.
Ideas matter, so do many other kinds of cultural products, in the
on-going struggle to produce a critique of the dominant norms
and values that will in turn mobilise people behind progressive
projects.9
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Simon Tormey
Towards a Radical and Plural Democracy

Laclau and Mouffe’s analysis is informed by attachment to a norma-
tive project: ‘radical democracy’.10 The novelty of their approach
is that it proceeds not by stating what the essential constituents of
such a democracy might be (the traditional ‘leftist’ approach) but
by telling us what democracy must not be or become: totalising,
utopian, ahistorical, acontextual. ‘Democracy’ is a free-floating
signifier and thus needs to be defined and redefined by progres-
sive movements in contradistinction to elite-driven understandings.
‘Radical democracy’ is in this sense the collective enactment of
the ontological and epistemological contingency embraced in dis-
course analysis. It is democracy freed from the limited understand-
ings of the use and legitimacy of power deployed by dominant social
groups. Discourse analysis renders visible the ‘hegemonic’ claims of
distinct interests and identities. It shows how these claims are his-
torically and contextually situated and thus emphasises how matters
might otherwise be constructed or established on the basis of differ-
ent, yet equivalent claims. Democracy is a specially privileged term,
at the heart of which are the animating principles of contingency
and uncertainty.
Radical democracy embraces the contingent nature of power in
modern society, seeing the task of the radical as the creation and
perpetuation of a progressive alliance of forces able continually to
enlarge the realm of representation and the sphere of democratisa-
tion. In this sense Laclau and Mouffe reject the ‘Jacobin’ legacy that
posits the need for a ‘break’ before the reconstruction of society
according to a utopian blueprint. Such an understanding is in their
view implicitly totalitarian. It fails to see that the condition of pos-
sibility of a democratic politics is the recognition of the contingency
of subject positions, overlooking the necessity to reaffirm progres-
sive positions through alliance and the contest of power. As they
put it, ‘The task of the Left therefore cannot be to renounce liberal-
democratic ideology, but on the contrary, to deepen and expand it
in the direction of a radical and plural democracy.’11
Notwithstanding the rejection of teleology and indeed of nor-
mative politics per se, Laclau and Mouffe’s own position is thus
itself quite strongly teleological. Their hostility towards redemptive
schemas is owing partly to their explicit anti-utopianism, partly to
their belief that the democratic form enacts an institutionalised
‘anti-essentialism’ of a kind that makes more radical transformation
150

of the basis of contemporary society unnecessary. Utopias, whether

of the left or the right, represent the end of politics, antagonism
and conflict. They cannot cope with pluralism, and with the neces-
sity for the active construction of an identity in opposition to
other identities, forces and positions. ‘Radical democracy’ is thus
an avowedly anti-utopian project that seeks to build on the forms
of contestation to which modernity gives rise. In this sense their
politics follows in the footsteps of other critical theorists such as
Jean-François Lyotard, Jacques Derrida and Agnes Heller.12 These
figures reject the traditional leftist insistence on pursuing a certain
image of human rationality and thus rejecting the inevitably political
dimension of processes of social change.
Trajectories of Radical Democracy: Laclau

Hegemony and Socialist Strategy was a bold, demanding marker for
debates concerning the future of progressive politics at a point
in time when conservatism was very much in the ascendency and
neo-liberalism the ‘hegemonic’ articulation of choice. The realist
‘mood’, pessimistic overview and pragmatic conclusions matched
the times and provided a handy theoretical backdrop to the unfold-
ing drama of the collapse of communism in Europe, and the emer-
gence of new, and sometimes unsightly, identities in ex-Yugoslavia,
the Middle East, Africa and elsewhere. The world of the late 1980s
and early 1990s seemed at one level to confirm Laclau and Mouffe’s
analysis more fully than they could conceivably manage themselves.
Laclau’s ensuing work unpacks the theoretical basis outlined
earlier, particularly by attending to the tension intrinsic to the ‘post-
Marxist’ venture between universalism and particularism. This is
otherwise expressed in terms of the opposition between the mod-
ernist ambition to comprehend the totality as a prelude to changing
or transforming it and the postmodernist imperative to abandon
‘metanarratives’ and with it the alleged totalitarian impulse to recre-
ate society according to a redemptive blueprint. In a series of essays
published as Emancipations, in the exchanges with Slavoj Žižek and
Judith Butler in Contingency, Hegemony, Universality, and latterly in
On Populist Reason, Laclau offers an analysis that mediates between
these poles, or which keeps in play the universalist dimension with
a recognition of the inevitable plurality and difference that attends
modern existence, in turn informing the proliferation of identities,
subject positions and political causes. How in short to maintain a
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Simon Tormey
progressive ‘political logic’ among the kaleidoscopic character of

modern society which seems to make something as singular as a
logic meaningful and politically effective?
The key to unlocking the point of mediation is the notion
of equivalence touched on above. In Laclau’s view, even the
most ‘particularist’ of demands contain a universalist dimension,
whether it be in terms of the assertion of the need for a ‘right’ to
something, or for recognition of a specific entitlement or injus-
tice. Thus the feminist demand for the same rights and privileges
as men not only pertains to women; it is also universalist in the
sense that it uses the language of equality to further the par-
ticular demands. In this sense feminism, even while built on the
premise of a fundamental ‘difference’ between women and men,
is nonetheless ‘equivalent’ to the demands of myriad other groups
seeking to be included in extant definitions of equality.13 They all
exceed current definitions, and their success in bringing about
change equates to an enlarging of equality in society and thus a
broadening of the democratic revolution. Difference is not itself
a barrier to the development of a universalist political project.
On the contrary, difference can only be promoted and protected
as part of a universalist project whose function is to preserve and
enhance different identities and subject positions. The problem in
contemporary settings is identifying the vehicle that can mediate
between these different facets of political life. For Laclau the mass
party is an anachronism standing for universalism at the cost of
particularity. What vehicle might be used then to ensure that
both the universalist and particularist elements of contemporary
demands are translated into an effective politics?
Interestingly, Laclau reaches back into his own Argentinian past
for the solution: populism. Populism, Laclau argues, is incorrectly
understood if by the term we mean a politics that only operates at
the level of the emotions or symbolism. Equally, it misses the point to
reduce populism to a particular kind of movement – often of course
right wing or nationalist. The success of populism is as a political
logic that recognises the necessity to evoke the universal as a means
of securing support or, more technically, hegemony. Particularistic
demands are by definition advanced by a section of the population;
universal demands constructed as demands of ‘the people’ have as
their ambition a wide base of support and thus give hope that dis-
crete demands are met. In this sense populist movements embrace
the notion of mediation articulated by Laclau. The self-conscious
152

appeal to ‘the People’ as the subject of political change is a recogni-

tion of the need to forge that sense of greater purpose and identity
without which any movement will founder. This would be by con-
trast to universalist movements such as communism which, as Žižek
reminds us, transcend particularity altogether through grasping an
essential Truth or Universality that is exterior to the process of polit-
ical struggle itself.14 As Laclau explains: ‘“Peoples” are real social
formations, but they resist inscription into any kind of Hegelian
teleology.’15 ‘The People’ is not a passive pre-existing identity, but
rather the object and subject of the political battle otherwise known
as the war of position – or hegemony.
For Žižek, Laclau’s politics panders to the preciousness of par-
ticularistic identities (race, sexuality and so on) thereby guarantee-
ing that liberal-capitalism is never identified as the enemy and the
proper subject of a transformative politics. Populism is, on this
reading, just a political logic – and does not describe an end goal to
be realised as constitutive of a properly populist politics. To Laclau,
however, the privileging of the universal as working class effectively
ignores the transformation of capitalism over the course of the
twentieth century, and the supplanting of the working class as the
primary agent in contemporary social struggles. The message is
clear enough: if progressives want to be effective then they need to
ensure that they do not ghettoise themselves through alienating or
antagonising groups who might not otherwise be attracted to their
message. They need to see that populism is the political form of the
struggle for hegemony, and a necessary component of progressive
struggles that seek to change or transform existing conditions in a
socialist direction.
Trajectories of Radical Democracy: Mouffe

The nature of politics as an aspect of democratic contestation pre-
occupies Mouffe in her recent work. As we noted, one prong in the
criticism of orthodox Marxism was the idea of the goal of progres-
sive politics as the realisation of ‘transparency’ or ‘self-presence’
(‘the sutured society’). Another way of putting this would be that
Laclau and Mouffe are critical of the idea that the goal of trans-
formative politics should be a world without conflict, divisions or
antagonisms. As Mouffe puts it: ‘Instead of shying away from the
component of violence and hostility inherent in social relations,
the task is to think how to create the conditions under which those
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Simon Tormey
aggressive forces can be defused and diverted and a pluralist demo-

cratic order made possible.’16
Fundamental to Laclau and Mouffe’s ontology is the idea of indi-
vidual and collective existence as marked by ‘lack’ – lack of ‘fixity’,
‘essence’ or any other exteriority that can anchor identity and
meaning. It follows that we are forever searching for meaning, for
life’s prime wants, for collective cohesion. The problem, as Mouffe
sees it, is that political theorists are in denial about the primordial
nature of lack and thus dismissive of the need to generate norma-
tive and conceptual schema that embrace ‘lack’ and reject the siren
call of redemptive schemas. This goes even for contemporary liber-
alism which embraces plurality as intrinsic to human flourishing.
The problem is that liberals have seen their task as setting out the
normative basis for a just society, which in turn negates the ‘politi-
cal’ as a distinct site or activity, and democracy as a necessary com-
ponent of a properly plural society. The influential liberal theorist
John Rawls – with whom this approach is most readily associated
– is determined to delineate the universal determinants of the just
society allowing, paradoxically, liberalism to withdraw from think-
ing about the constituents of a properly political life. Justice has
become a theoretical holy grail to the exclusion of thinking about
how power and the state are to be configured so as to preserve and
enhance pluralism. As Mouffe intones:
Every pretension to occupy the place of the universal, to fix its final
meaning through rationality, must be rejected. The content of the uni-
versal must remain indeterminate since it is this indeterminacy that is
the condition of existence of democratic politics.17
It is not only liberals who have a problem coping with the politi-
cal, however, but much of the contemporary left as well. Figures
such as Jürgen Habermas are, in Mouffe’s view, still in thrall to
enlightenment universalism as reconciliation and the end of the
political. The idea of, for example, democratic deliberation as
a process of consensus formation (arriving at a decision that is
acceptable to all participants in a discussion) misses the point of
contestation, namely, that it expresses the ‘agonal’ quality of fully
functioning plural societies. The task of a properly radical agonistic
politics is not to deny the necessity for contestation but to promote
and nurture it in institutional forms that are productive of commu-
nity and collectivity even while they enshrine difference. What has
154

to be avoided is the antagonism that emerges from a fractious poli-

tics of particularism, fundamentalism and dogmatism of the kind so
prevalent in the twentieth century, and which is equally complicit
in the emptying out of politics as communal-collective process.
Particularism induces private certainty, not public deliberation. It
renders politics a sub-set of morality, and reduces political dilem-
mas to questions of right and wrong. This moralising of the realm of
the political, very characteristic of politics in the United States (and
increasingly so in Europe), is just as damaging to on-going public
discourse as the pursuit of larger ideological projects that claim the
mantle of universalism for themselves.
Mouffe’s project is less orientated towards a counter-hegemonic
or transformative project than Laclau’s, as indicated by her exten-
sive deployment of figures such as Carl Schmitt and Thomas Hobbes
in her recent work.18 The use of Schmitt in particular is controver-
sial given his associations with the Nazi regime. Yet, Mouffe’s resort
to these figures underlines the point that mainstream political
theory has been much more ready to embrace the dimension of
the utopian, the reciprocal and redemptive, than admit the need
to make space for contestation, plurality and difference. She resorts
to figures such as Schmitt in order to recover what she feels to have
been lost in the contemporary obsession with consensus and unity,
whether deliberative or intuitive, as in the Rawlsian design. Political
theories that do not signal the need for a space of contestation lose
touch with what democrats should in her view embrace: a willing-
ness to celebrate the indeterminacy and contingency of politics and
thus of collective life.
By contrast with Laclau, Mouffe’s vision of the good life empha-
sises the cut and thrust of politics and its ability to create and
maintain divisions. Mouffe leaves us with the impression that we
need to reach back to civic-republican themes in order to reinvigor-
ate democracy, in common with liberal-conservative figures such
as Michael Oakeshott and Hannah Arendt. Mouffe’s would be a
robustly ‘agonistic’ democracy in which difference and plurality are
considered virtues in themselves, and where the absence of consen-
sus and harmony are taken to be signs of the health or vigour of the
community, as opposed to perhaps a ‘lack’ indicating the failure of
institutional design or stunted deliberation. It is a classical model
of competitiveness and individualist striving, one that in evoking
Schmitt as intellectual precursor valorises the idea that politics is
about decision-making and the necessity for winners and losers.
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Simon Tormey
Laclau’s project remains within a more recognisably Marxist or

post-Marxist frame, seeing the task of progressive politics as incipi-
ently ‘counter-hegemonic’, if not anti-capitalist. Like Mouffe, it is
a politics of us-and-them, but it is one in which the ‘us’ is always
framed collectively. It is the ‘us’ conceived as the mass, the non-elite
or, in populist guise, ‘the people’ – and less ‘us’ qua individuals
pursuing our distinctive agendas in a pluralist atmosphere. As the
embrace of populism is intended to maintain, Laclau’s politics is
still a politics of large-scale movements, mobilisations and ‘histori-
cal blocs’ competing for power to pursue universalist agendas.
Conclusion: Difference/Identity?
Whether the differences between Laclau and Mouffe are seen to
outweigh the similarities is very much a question of the position
from which one is observing the unfolding of these intellectual tra-
jectories. To classical Marxists such as Norman Geras, Laclau and
Mouffe appear as two manifestations of the same species: post- or
non-Marxist radicals who have abandoned the basic ontological and
epistemological coordinates that inform a critical, socialist perspec-
tive.19 On his reading, the abandonment of the idea of the primacy
of production in structuring social life equates to the embrace of
a liberal or bourgeois perspective in which the muscularity of class
struggle recedes into the background to be displaced by an effete
postmodern concern with pluralism, diverse subject positions and
rainbow alliances. In the meantime, as other left critics such as
Žižek and Townshend argue, capitalism becomes a vanishing refer-
ent that cannot be approached or criticised in the abandonment of
the terrain from which such a critique would be mounted.20
It is certainly true as these critics point out that it is difficult to
find the resources to generate a transformative politics in Laclau
and Mouffe’s ruminations on the fate of universalism and particular-
ism. Mouffe has avowedly embraced liberal presuppositions regard-
ing the structure of political contestation, which is a short step to
embracing liberal presuppositions tout court. Laclau, while main-
taining a recognisably Marxian language of counter-hegemonic
struggles and historical blocs, is arguably more interested in the
formal properties of ‘radical’ politics than in the substantive or
normative conclusions that such a language traditionally gener-
ated. Laclau’s concern is essentially Machiavellian, if not Leninist,
in orientation. His interest is in the question of power: how it is
156

captured, maintained, reproduced. What substantively this power

is to be used for is it seems a ‘contingent’ question – a question
of the particular form that ‘universalist’ demands manifest under
the particular hegemonic-populist struggle that is being pursued.
‘Universalism’ is curiously unexamined in the sense that we seem to
lack the coordinates needed to judge between competing images of
the universal.
Even to non-Marxists, the similarities between these positions
are more marked than the differences. Andrew Robinson for
example, offers a pungent critique of Laclau and Mouffe’s common
ontological presuppositions, informed by what he terms a ‘lackist’
framework.21 For Robinson and others, this amounts to the con-
secration of a new essentialism – albeit in ‘anti-essentialist’ garb.
Far from doing away with foundations, Laclau and Mouffe merely
exchange Marxian foundations for post-structuralist (non)founda-
tions, losing in the process the reservoir of humanist values that
insist on the availability of non-alienated, non-exploited forms of
life based on reciprocity and solidarity. ‘Lack’ here becomes the
ideological underpinning for a politics that is expressly anti-utopian,
anti-idealistic and anti-humanist, one that in turn consecrates strug-
gle, competition, winners and losers – and the liberal-capitalist
status quo.
If we judge a theoretical intervention on the basis of its ability
to generate a group of self-identifying followers and practitioners,
it is undeniable that Laclau and Mouffe have had a very signifi-
cant impact. The Essex programme has produced a generation of
younger scholars wedded to the framework and analysis associated
with their work – so much so that it is now common to read about
the ‘Essex School’ of theory. Moreover, as a cursory glance at text-
books on ‘methods’ reveals, discourse analysis has become a stand-
ard approach in social science research and critical theory more
broadly.22 Whether the political baggage that Laclau and Mouffe
think comes with the method is acknowledged or not, there are a
great many academics and students who deploy a theoretical arsenal
informed by if not actually dependent upon the claims Laclau and
Mouffe articulate in Hegemony and Socialist Strategy and elsewhere.
More substantively, there is a sense in which Laclau and Mouffe
reshaped the terrain for debates on the left concerning in particu-
lar the appropriate response to the triumph of liberal-capitalism
and the fall of the Berlin Wall. Even those who disagreed with them
have had to acknowledge the importance of the intervention, even
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Simon Tormey
if it is in terms of trying to disarm the analysis it offers. Laclau and

Mouffe offered a concrete alternative to classical Marxism from a
position they characterised as radical, in turn forcing Marxists to
re-examine the terms and conditions of their own attachments. At
the same time, they provoked post-structuralist theorists into a reas-
sessment of their own ‘radicalism’ in the realm of politics. Theorists
such as Judith Butler had to address the possibility that their own
‘particularist’ concerns, whether driven by issues of gender, sexual-
ity or ethnicity, left the world around them intact, or whether there
was a universalist dimension and broader political relevance to their
work.23 Whether one agrees with them Laclau and Mouffe indi-
vidually and jointly have provoked debate across otherwise ghet-
toised communities and between academia and the wider activist
community.
Notes
1. See Tormey and Townshend, Key Thinkers from Critical Theory to

Post-Marxism.
2. See Laclau, New Reflections, Chapter 2.
3. Laclau and Mouffe, Hegemony and Socialist Strategy, p. 2.
4. Ibid. Chapter 2.
5. Ibid. p. 85.
6. Ibid. p. 140.
7. Ibid. Chapter 1.
8. See D. R. Howarth, J. Torfing et al., Discourse Theory in European Politics:
Identity, Policy, and Governance (Basingstoke, Hampshire; New York:
Palgrave Macmillan, 2005).
9. See J. Gilbert, Anticapitalism and Culture: Radical Theory and Popular
Politics (Oxford; New York: Berg, 2008).
10. Laclau and Mouffe, Hegemony and Socialist Strategy, Chapter 4.
11. Ibid. p. 176.
12. See J. Derrida, Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning,
and the New International (London: Routledge, 1994); F. Feher and A.
Heller, Eastern Left, Western Left: Totalitarianism, Freedom, and Democracy
(Cambridge: Polity Press, 1987); J. F. Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition:
A Report on Knowledge (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
1984).
13. Laclau, Emancipations(s), pp. 28–30.
14. S. Žižek, ‘Have Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri Rewritten the
Communist Manifesto for the Twenty-First Century?’, Rethinking
Marxism 13, 3/4, 2001, pp. 190–8.
158

15. Laclau, Populist Reason, p. 226.

16. Mouffe, Return of the Political, p. 153.
17. Ibid. pp. 146–7.
18. See Mouffe, The Challenge of Carl Schmitt and Democratic Paradox.
19. See N. Geras, ‘Post-Marxism’, New Left Review, 163, 1987, pp. 40–82.
20. See Butler, Laclau and Žižek, Contingency, Hegemony, Universality; T.
Brockelman, ‘The Failure of the Radical Democratic Imaginary: Žižek
Versus Laclau and Mouffe on Vestigial Utopia’, Philosophy and Social
Criticism, 29, 2, 2003, pp. 187–212; J. Townshend, ‘Laclau and Mouffe’s
Hegemonic Project: The Story So Far’, Political Studies, 52, 2, 2004, pp.
269–88.
21. A. Robinson, ‘The Political Theory of Constitutive Lack: A Critique’,
Theory & Event, 8, 1, 2005.
22. J. Townshend, ‘Discourse Theory and Political Analysis: A New
Paradigm from the Essex School?’, British Journal of Politics and
International Relations, 5, 1, 2003, pp. 129–42.
23. See Butler, Laclau and Žižek, Contingency, Hegemony, Universality.
Major Work by Laclau and Mouffe

Hegemony and Socialist Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics (London:
Verso, 1985).
Major Works by Laclau

Butler, J., E. Laclau and S. Žižek, Contingency, Hegemony, Universality:
Contemporary Dialogues on the Left (London: Verso, 2000).
Emancipation(s) (London: Verso, 1996).
New Reflections on the Revolution of Our Time (London: Verso, 1990).
On Populist Reason (London: Verso, 2005).
Major Works by Mouffe

The Challenge of Carl Schmitt (London: Verso, 1999).
The Democratic Paradox (London: Verso, 2000).
The Return of the Political (London: Verso, 1993).

Geras, Norman, Discourse of Extremity, Radical Ethics and Post-Marxist
Extravagance (London: Verso, 1990). Critique of Laclau and Mouffe’s
intervention from a classical Marxian perspective.
Howarth, David, Discourse (Buckingham: Open University Press, 2000).
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Simon Tormey
Useful account of the nature and applications of discourse theory in

contemporary political analysis.
Smith, Ann-Marie, Laclau and Mouffe: The Radical Democratic Imaginary
(London: Routledge, 1998). Sympathetic advanced overview of the tra-
jectory of Laclau and Mouffe’s work.
Tormey, Simon, and Jules Townshend, Key Thinkers from Critical Theory to
Post-Marxism (London: Sage, 2006). Situates Laclau and Mouffe’s work
in relation to Post-Marxism and contemporary political theory.
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10
Bruno Latour (1947–)

Ilana Gershon
Introduction
Bruno Latour is one of the leading figures in an approach ambiva-
lently called Actor-Network Theory (ANT).1 Actor-Network Theory
originally was developed by sociologists of science in response to
methodological and theoretical dilemmas these scholars encoun-
tered as they explored how scientists produced and circulated scien-
tific facts. ANT has transcended its science and technology studies’
origins and is now deployed by scholars in anthropology, geogra-
phy, economics, organisational studies, history, literature, media
studies and other disciplines. Other theorists who have played a
significant role in the development of ANT are Madeleine Akrich,
Michel Callon, Donna Haraway, John Law, Anne Marie Mol, Michel
Serres and Susan Leigh Star.
In Latour’s words: ‘I am from the typical French provincial bour-
geoisie, from Burgundy where my family has produced wine for
generations, and my only ambition is that people would say ‘I read
a Latour 1992’, with the same pleasure as they would say, ‘I drank
a Latour 1992!’2 He was trained as a philosopher at the University
of Tours, but began to be interested in science studies during his
military service in Cote d’Ivoire. There, he was encouraged to
pursue a sociological project on how the French export their indus-
trial education to their former colony, Cote d’Ivoire, by ORSTOM
(Institut français de recherche scientifique pour le développement
en coopération). He was asked to focus on why African executives
appeared to have such difficulties adapting to modern industrial
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Ilana Gershon
life. The only form of explanation available at that time in the

sociological and anthropological literature would have compelled
Latour to argue that Africans simply had a different mentality, that
their mental capacities were fundamentally different from that
of Europeans. Latour rejected this style of explanation, especially
when he turned to the education system in place in Cote d’Ivoire.
He noticed that the French teachers often required African stu-
dents to diagram engines before they were ever shown an actual
engine. They were, understandably, not terribly adept at imagining
engines based only on these black-and-white diagrams, which led
French educators to suspect that African students lacked the capac-
ity to visualise objects in three dimensions.3 Latour argued that
it was the schools’ techniques for circulating knowledge, not the
African students’ mental capacities, that were causing the problems.
Even in his first post-doctoral research, Latour focused on how one
creates and relates to an elite form of knowledge, a concern that he
has pursued since.
Early Ethnographies of Science Studies

While Latour was strongly influenced by anthropology during
his time in Cote d’Ivoire, and in particular his conversations with
anthropologist Marc Augé (then director of ORSTOM), when he
returned to France he did not continue studying non-Western
cultures. Instead, in 1973, he met Roger Guillemin, a neuroendo-
crinologist working at the Jonas Salk Institute for Biological Studies
in San Diego, who granted Latour complete access to his labora-
tory. Latour spent two years at the Salk Institute, participating in
and observing the daily routines of Guillemin’s laboratory. At the
time, he thought he might be observing what is often described as
‘normal’ science, the day-to-day operations of a scientific labora-
tory. Yet what he was in fact observing was Guillemin and Schally’s
competition to isolate the peptide TRF(H), which occurred during
his stay. They jointly received the Nobel Prize in medicine two years
later, in 1977, for this discovery. Latour wrote an account of this
discovery with Steve Woolgar, a sociologist of science, in Laboratory
Life, which was the first ethnographic study of a laboratory. In this
account, Latour and Woolgar focus on how TRF(H) is produced as
a scientific fact, focusing on citation practices, and, in particular,
how experimental actions are transformed into various forms of
inscriptions that circulate in patterned ways.
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This study was Latour’s first venture into science studies. Upon
returning to France, Latour began to carve out a space for science
and technology studies, which had no institutional backing in the
French academic system at the time. Along with Michel Callon and
John Law, he began to develop the methodological and philosophi-
cal armature of ANT, summarised below. In addition to various
theoretical books on the contours of ANT,4 he has written The
Pasteurization of France, a historical exploration of how Pasteur’s
success was fashioned by refiguring various networks. He has also
authored Aramis, an account of the failure of a personal rapid
transit system in Paris, and Politics of Nature, a treatise on how envi-
ronmental movements could, but are not, transforming assump-
tions about the connections between nature and society.
Actor-Network Theory
When Latour gives an account of his theoretical perspective he
often starts by explaining the dichotomies he rejects, in part because
of his unease about his work being turned into a theoretical move-
ment. To clear an analytical space, he rejects dichotomies between
self/other, material/semiotic, nature/culture, agency/structure,
knowledge/power, active/passive, human/non-human and truth/
falsehood. By rejecting these dualisms, Latour presumes that every-
thing and everyone is profoundly relational – that entities only
have qualities, attributes or form as a result of their relationships
with other entities. This is a familiar claim for people who analyse
how words acquire meanings. One cannot attribute meaning to the
word ‘hat’ without presuming distinctions in sound (‘hat’ versus
‘cat’, ‘sat’ and ‘mat’), as well as distinctions in reference (‘hat’
versus ‘cap’, ‘shirt;’ ‘hair’ and ‘wool’). ‘Hat’ exists as a word with
meaning because it exists in a web of oppositional relationships to
other words and other referents. Latour takes this a couple of steps
further, and suggests that a hat condenses historical relationships of
manufacture (How was the material made? How did someone learn
the necessary skills to operate the tools to make the hat? From when
did the tools for hat-making come?), relationships of exchange
(what money, trucks, roads, stores, traders had to exist to move the
hat from hat-maker to hat-purchaser?), relationships of use (What
other hats are possible? When does one wear this particular hat?
What signs of wear will this hat have over time because of how the
shape of the head and this hat interact?) and so on.
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Ilana Gershon
Hats, people, trains, everything in the world condenses a specific

set of heterogeneous relationships, and then interacts with other
condensations of different sets of heterogeneous relationships.
Actors are condensed bits of a network; networks are fashioned
through the interactions of actors. The hyphen in Actor-Network
Theory is a trickster placeholder, separating what really can only be
spoken in the same breath, representing the constant flow between
these two nouns. Actor-Network Theory is fundamentally a theory
of relationality, with the analytical task of figuring how these rela-
tionships condense in various people and objects. This radical com-
mitment to relationality has four major conceptual consequences.
First, everyone and everything contributes to how interactions
take place – in this sense, microbes are participants, or actants, as
much as people. Latour coined the term actant to describe anything
that has agency (and for Latour, everything does). ANT scholars are
unwilling to attribute agency only to humans. Rather, every node in
the network, or web of relationships, shapes the ways in which inter-
actions in the network will occur, be the node a microbe, a sheep,
a test tube or a biologist. In Pasteurization of France, Latour describes
how Louis Pasteur’s success hinged on his ability to turn microbes
into a very particular type of ally. Microbes were invisible until
Pasteur’s techniques of isolating and growing bacteria made them
visible. Outside the laboratory, microbes mixed with other beings
willy-nilly, not only invisible to the human eye but so intricately
entangled with other life that they were difficult to isolate. Pasteur,
however, removed them from their concealing context. He took
them into isolated spaces – petri dishes – where he provided them
with a feast that encouraged them to multiply until they betrayed
their existence and became visible to the human eye (and hence
potentially destructible). For Pasteur to turn microbes into allies
that helped build his reputation, he had to have some knowledge
of how the microbes act on the world. He had to find some way to
isolate them as agents, and doing so required complicity with what
is peculiar to the microbes’ appetites and ways of navigating the
world.
Because Latour wants to distribute agency as broadly as possible
as an initial premise, he must then address the question: what labour
goes in to allocating responsibility and agency only to some actants
and not to others? Part of the work of being an Actor-Network
theorist is to figure out why people in a particular context will
attribute responsibility and agency to certain actants in a context
164

and not others. When do mobile phones actively seem to thwart

what one attempts to do, and when do these mobile phones appear
to be seamless extensions of one’s body? When are the microbes
understood to act, and when Pasteur? The analyst uses variants of
this question to map out the power relationships enacted in a given
context. In practice, this means that the ANT analyst refuses to
determine who the relevant actors are before beginning analysis.
Instead, one pays careful attention to how people and objects inter-
act, and how their interactions unfold. By doing so, Latour is able
to explore what social practices contribute to the labours of division
that produce the aforementioned dualisms, dualisms that often
seem to dominate scientific and other contexts.
The second consequence is that not all actants are the same, and
it is important to pay attention to the historical and material bases
for these differences. In part, the differences are a result of the
unique social and historical trajectories that shape the people and
objects that comprise a network. Yet as importantly, the differences
lie in the forms that the actants have – the microbe is a different
actant than the sheep because of the differences in each actant’s
physicality. The form in which someone or something exists in the
world matters – that is, matter really matters. One’s material form
helps determine connections to others in a network: the physical
simultaneously shapes and limits the ways in which interactions
can occur and unfold. Latour describes how European hotel keys
are designed to affect how their customers will store them. Hotel
managers want their customers to leave room keys at the hotel
lobby to prevent their hotel keys from wandering through the city
in neglectful and forgetful hotel guests’ pockets. Simply posting
a sign encouraging guests to leave their keys turns out not to be
effective. So an innovator encouraged hotel managers to tie a heavy
weight to the key. ‘Customers suddenly become only too happy to
rid themselves of this annoying object which makes their pockets
bulge and weighs down their handbags: they go to the front desk
on their own accord to get rid of it. Where the sign, the inscription,
the imperative, discipline, or moral obligation all failed, the hotel
manager, the innovator, and the metal weight succeeded.’5 Where
a hotel key should be placed is a social assumption; hotels in other
countries have taken to creating disposable and recodable keys as
those hotel managers anticipate careless and forgetful hotel guests.
Matter condenses social assumptions, and thus the material limita-
tions shaping how networks form are also always social. It is in this
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Ilana Gershon
sense that Latour rejects the dualisms of the material/semiotic or

technology/society.
Third, Actor-Network Theory insists that performance creates
the relations and the objects/people/actants constituted by these
relationships. Networks and actors do not exist prior to perform-
ance but are constituted by performance. Sometimes particular
actants become visible only when others can observe them clearly
contributing to a network. As I mentioned, Latour talks about how
important it became for Pasteur to be able to isolate microbes.
He removed them from one network filled with farmers, soil and
animals. He then put the microbes into sterilised dishes, into con-
texts that Pasteur could control to a relatively high degree. When
Pasteur isolated microbes, making them visible to the human eye,
he also made visible that microbes were in a relationship with other
objects. Only when the agency of the microbe became visible could
one say that the microbe exists. After Pasteur made the microbes
visible, they existed in a form that people could interpret in retro-
spect as timeless; only after 1864 did the microbe always exist.
If all relationships fundamentally emerge out of performance,
then for Latour everything and everyone is uncertain. Relations and
qualities are in principle reversible. In this sense, performance is
key to Actor-Network Theory, in that durability only exists because
something is repeatedly performed in familiar, patterned ways. In
science, this takes on a peculiar form, since what scientists seek
to do is create stable referents to objects that can be moved from
context to context (from test tube to graph) and back again. No
matter the medium in which something is represented, it is always
supposed to be traceable; one is always supposed to be able to trace
precisely the labour that went into producing a graph.
In Pandora’s Hope, Latour describes how scientists collect and
circulate soil samples from the Brazilian rainforest. Latour is inter-
ested in how the meaning of soil samples is made stable. He explores
how certain signs keep their referents the same as they move from
context to context. To understand this process, Latour follows a
team of scientists as they take soil samples in the Brazilian forest. He
explores in great detail how they remove bits of soil, recording each
location with enough markers so that ideally anyone could return
to that site and locate from where the soil was removed. The infor-
mation on the soil is then transformed into numerical data, again
through techniques that should allow anyone to ‘read’ the infor-
mation back into the soil samples. As the scientists bring the soil
166

and its descriptions into each new context, they attempt to ensure
that the referents can be traced through each context back to the
original location in the Brazilian forest. In analysing this example,
Latour argues that scientists construct reversible indexicalities,
defining indexicalities as Peircean signs that point to aspects of a
context or state of affairs. According to Latour, for signs to be able
to represent truth in a scientific network, the referents must exist
as a stable chain that point in both directions as the referents move
between contexts. He argues: ‘For this network to begin to lie – for
it to cease to refer – it is sufficient to interrupt its expansion at either
end, to stop providing for it, to suspend its funding, or to break it
at any other point.’6 To keep a scientific network from producing
scientific facts, all one must do is find a way to keep the scientific
inscriptions from referring backwards through all the previous con-
texts, or pointing forwards to other recontextualised referents. In
short, what is important for Latour is recognising the labour that
goes into constructing reversible indexicalities.
If instability is the given condition, one must labour to create
consistency and coherence. For Latour, durability is always an
achievement and needs to be analysed as such. One of his primary
analytical questions is: how are actants performed and how do
they perform themselves into relations that are relatively stable?
This focus on durability shapes his theoretical lens for under-
standing power relationships, which from this perspective become
indistinguishable from sustaining relations that last.
Fourth, not all actants are equal. Every actant is heterogeneous,
condensing disparate relationships. As a result, not all heterogene-
ous actants have the same abilities to navigate networks or to move
between different networks. In his study of Pasteur, Latour points
out that Pasteur was able to use the laboratory to cross many net-
works. Farmers and sheep were not so privileged. Pasteur affected
the network between farmers, sheep and microbes to such a degree
that if farmers wanted to change the ways the anthrax microbe
was affecting their sheep they had to interact with Pasteur and his
laboratory. Farmers were restricted to their network in a way that
Pasteur, as a scientist interacting with politicians, public hygien-
ists and military physicians, was not. Some actants are privileged
in particular networks, and able to cross networks, others are
not. This is another way in which ANT can make power relations
visible, by addressing the costs of particular networks for the actants
navigating them.
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Ilana Gershon
Towards a Typology of Actants

Focusing on how actants circulate within a network draws attention
to the ways certain actants move within and between networks. In
the course of his work, Latour has called attention to three ways
actants can engage with networks that reveal how they circulate: as
intermediaries or mediators, immutable mobiles and black boxes.
In Re-Assembling the Social, Latour discusses the distinction between
intermediaries and mediators in terms of how actants can have a
network circulate through them. Intermediaries are actants who
do not reconfigure the network at all as it flows through them.
They are transparent, able to transmit without leaving traces of
their presence. While Latour suggests that many people in differ-
ent networks believe intermediaries exist, Latour himself is scepti-
cal. Instead, he argues that every node in a network is a mediator,
contributing and shaping the networks as networks flow through
each node. Mediators always affect whatever flows through them or
whatever network to which they contribute. For Latour, networks
are chains of mediators, in which knowledge and networks alter a
little through every node through which they flow.
As Latour began to specify precisely how mediators circulate and
affect circulation, he came up with two other types of actants: immu-
table mobiles and black boxes. Immutable mobiles are, for Latour,
actants that remain stable enough to retain their shape or configura-
tion as they circulate through and across networks. Or, put another
way, these are actants that can be reproduced throughout a network
without being altered (examples include maps, photographs and
graphs). Many actants as they circulate seem unstable. Farmers saw
anthrax as a dangerous disease with unpredictable causes. Pasteur
saw anthrax as a puzzle, potentially but not necessarily isolatable.
Sheep experienced anthrax as death, swift and painful. It was not
until Pasteur’s successful laboratory trials that anthrax could be
described through various techniques of inscription. Only after
Pasteur found ways to inscribe anthrax’s form and circulate these
inscriptions did anthrax become an immutable mobile as a deadly
bacteria. Through depictions which were reproducible, anthrax
stabilised, not only in the context of the lab. Its form stabilised ini-
tially throughout Pasteur’s network, then across other networks as
well. Immutable mobiles circulate with a high degree of stability,
being resistant to many (not all) of the transformations with which
networks refigure the actants that condense them.
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A different type of actant, a black box stands for and condenses

an actively engaged and complex network. This is a particularly
useful concept for analysing how scientific practices move through a
network. I turn to how proofs circulate in mathematics as an example.
First, a relatively famous mathematician, a geometer, suggests a
conjecture – something that the geometer thinks is likely to be true
and may lead to further interesting mathematics. Because this math-
ematician is relatively well known, other geometers pay attention to
this conjecture, which has perhaps been introduced to a group of her
closest mathematical colleagues at a conference’s problem session
(a session where people propose mathematical problems for others
to solve) funded by the US National Science Foundation. Several
mathematicians try on and off to prove this conjecture to no avail.
Seventeen years go by, proving that this conjecture is widely under-
stood to be difficult – skilled people have tried and failed. Certain
mathematics could be done, if only this conjecture were proven.
This conjecture is very much an active part of a lively network. Then
a young geometer, with a penchant for talking to scholars in many
branches of mathematics, notices in conversation that a technique
some topologists have known about for years could be used to prove
this conjecture. After the illuminating chat, he goes to a nearby
coffee shop and outlines the proof, vindicating yet again the saying
that mathematicians are machines for turning caffeine into theo-
rems. He spends the next six months writing the proof and giving
talks about it in conferences and at various mathematics depart-
ments – his theorems have begun to circulate. He posts the paper on
the ArXiv, a website for distributing pre-reviewed scientific articles,
then submits the paper to a journal. Once the paper is reviewed by
a fellow geometer and accepted by the journal, the most significant
theorem in the paper gains the author’s name, in part because it
solved a seventeen-year-old conjecture – Fisher’s theorem. People
stop reading the paper with the theorem, and Fisher stops speaking
about the proof at conferences. Fisher’s theorem has become black
boxed. The name ‘Fisher’s theorem’ is now a dense node and a
shorthand that stands for and conceals all the complex networks that
contributed to the theorem’s existence and circulation.
Latour’s initial theoretical intervention was to provide the arma-
ture for thinking about how truths and facts are constructed, both
through scientific practice and elsewhere. The ANT perspective
turns to knowledge circulation as the process through which the
social construction of truths takes place. Information becomes facts
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Ilana Gershon
by travelling through networks in patterned ways that imbue the

piece of knowledge with authority and relevance. Latour and other
ANT scholars discuss how scientists have used public demonstra-
tions, citations, styles of publication, among other strategies, to
circulate information as facts.7 The methodological question is to
determine how a particular network circulates information as fact
or truth, which requires analysing the structures of a network as
well as how a network allocates authority and certainty. The ANT
perspective insists that circulation is at the heart of how the network
functions. As a consequence, to understand how information
comes to be interpreted as facts entails understanding the processes
of circulation underpinning how facts are made. Latour argues that
all beings and objects, whether constructed as volitional or not, are
actants that actively contribute to the network. This involves refus-
ing to take people, animals and objects as simply standing for par-
ticular symbolic meanings or information, but rather viewing all as
structuring engagements in their own right.
The Usefulness of Rejecting Dualisms

While rejecting dualisms such as subject/object opens the door
to new perspectives on how actants influence flows of knowledge,
Latour has also explored what other analytical possibilities are
enabled, by refusing to adopt dualisms. Latour’s accounts of how
to analyse the ways people produce dualisms from a theoretical
standpoint that rejects dualisms has proven especially influential
in other fields. In this section, as an example, I discuss Latour’s
take on a particular dualism – the local/global divide – and then
turn to Latour’s approach to interpreting people who are prone to
incorporating dualisms in their visions of the world.
Latour points out that accepting the local/global dichotomy
involves taking rather too seriously the effects of an actor-network,
especially when the local is taken to be a specific bounded place
often filled with face-to-face interactions and the global is the unlo-
catable sum of all these bounded contexts. From an ANT’s perspec-
tive, it is perhaps easier to dismiss quickly the illusion of the global.
After all, the global evokes precisely the type of generalisation that
Latour argues against, a generality devoid of materiality and specific
actants producing the global. The minute one begins to turn to
those actants who produce the global – all that goes into the World
Bank or the United Nations – the particularities of the ways that
170

specific actor-networks create the effect of globality undercuts any

claims to truly being global. It is precisely these particularities to
which Latour recommends ANT scholars pay attention. Thus ANT’s
methodology is useful for revealing that the global is always already
the effect of how a specific and locatable actor-network functions.
Yet Latour points out that the local too vanishes when examined
through an ANT lens. When one begins to investigate those scenes
labelled local, all of a sudden other places, other times and other
actants become crucial for this ‘local’ moment to exist. As Latour
points out about a lecture hall, which may seem like a quotidian
local site:
If we wanted to project on a standard geographical map the connec-

tions established between a lecture hall and all the places that are
acting in it at the same time, we would have to draw bushy arrows
in order to include, for instance, the forest out of which the desk is
coming, the management office in charge of classroom planning, the
workshop that printed the schedule that helped us find the room, the
janitor that tends the place, and so on. And this would not be some idle
exercise, since each of these faraway sites has, in some indispensable
way, anticipated and preformatted this hall by transporting, through
many different sorts of media, the mass of templates that have made it
a suitable local – and that are still propping it up.8
Latour continues by discussing how diachronic the local is in fact

– composed by materials and designs fashioned not only in other
places but also at other times. The local is always composed of the
results of actions that took place elsewhere and elsewhen, undercut-
ting it as ‘local’. Latour explains:
In most situations, actions will already be interfered with by hetero-

geneous entities that don’t have the same local presence, don’t come
from the same time, are not visible at once, and don’t press upon
them with the same weight . . . Stretch any given inter-action and, sure
enough, it becomes an actor-network.9
For Latour, the local is as much an effect of an actor-network as

the global, both sides of the dualisms being misrepresentations or
misrecognitions of the historical trajectories that lead to the ‘local’
or ‘global’ interactions.
While dualisms may distort, many people still invoke them with
conviction and dedication when interpreting the world. This raises
an interesting question for ANT scholars – how best to engage with
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Ilana Gershon
all these actants whose interactions in various networks depend

upon assuming precisely the dualisms that Actor-Network Theory
rejects. Latour tackles this issue in We Have Never Been Modern, where
he explores the effects of certain dualisms on how those in the West
carve up the world. He argues that people in the West often invoke
dualisms to create an analytical tension that they find particularly
compelling. Westerners will distinguish terms from each other –
traditional/modern, nature/culture, terms that point to actants
that have artificially been purified and separated from each other.
Once this dichotomy has been successfully imposed, Westerners’
analysis entails the surprise of uncovering this dualism, followed by
the additional surprise of its inadequacy. Western thinkers will then
try to combine precisely what they themselves distinguished in the
first place.10 A good example of this is Latour’s slightly ironic use of
the term ‘hybrid’ in We Have Never Been Modern. For Latour, hybrid-
ity points to an illusion of combination. The term hybrid as a refer-
ent claims to combine two already pure entities, as though there
were actants who were not hybrid, precisely the illusion that Latour
writes against. In rejecting these analytical moves, Latour advocates
that one should embrace every actants’ mixtures instead of trying
continually to purify and recombine.
Criticism
While some critics of Latour will take on board ANT characterisa-
tions that all actors are condensed networks, they still have much
to say about how Latour depicts networks. For example, Donna
Haraway points out that Latour invokes only a few narrow and sus-
piciously agonistic narratives to account for how networks emerge.
She explains:
The action in science-in-the-making is all trials and feats of strength,

amassing of allies, forging of worlds in the strength and numbers of
forced allies. All action is agonistic; the creative abstraction is both
breathtaking and numbingly conventional. Trials of strength decide
whether a representation holds or not. Period. To compete, one must
either have a counter laboratory capable of winning in this high-stakes
trials of force or give up dreams of making worlds.11
As Haraway argues, this is an impoverished set of narratives to

draw upon for understanding alliances and their persuasiveness.
Latour does not offer multiple ways of understanding how networks
172

interact; in his accounts it all revolves around competing shows of

strength, with clear-cut and (for Latour) easily discernible successes
and failures.
Latour’s simplified set of narratives opens the door to another
critique by Susan Leigh Star. In her article, ‘Power, Technology and
the Phenomenology of Conventions’, Star delineates how much
one’s perspective as an advantaged or disadvantaged actant in a
network shapes one’s understandings of how networks function.
She begins by using her own allergy to onions as a point of depar-
ture for revealing the exclusion and inequities in some standardised
networks. Different networks emerge out of these varied patterned
sets of interactions. Some networks privileged actants who were
actively excluded or isolated in other networks. Star encourages
people to move beyond Latour’s centre-of-the-network perspective
and ask about the exclusions and their prices.
Marilyn Strathern, in her article ‘Cutting the Network’ suggests
that Latour’s focus on how networks expand does not take into
account an equally important aspect of networks – how they are cut.
She argues that networks are often cut or stopped for reasons that
have little to do with the intrinsic techniques the network deploys
to incorporate others and expand. Instead, networks are often
curtailed for external reasons that reveal how power is distributed
and enacted by forces such as law or putative property rights. She
discusses how culturally specific concepts of ownership cut net-
works differently. She suggests that to understand more fully how
actants are linked or disconnected from each other, one has to pay
attention to two issues. First, one should take into account the epis-
temological assumptions embedded in network exchanges about
how relationships are formed. Second, one must pay attention to
the techniques for cutting networks as much as the techniques for
expanding networks, especially since disconnections often reveal
the relationships of power shaping the network.
Lastly, Donna Haraway also criticises Latour’s focus on those the
networks favour. She argues that identity categories are all network-
effects, that class, race, gender are not a priori to but created by
networks.12 In Latour’s analysis, these categories appear as given,
as qualities that actants appear to bring to their interactions, rather
than emerging from these encounters. Haraway urges Latour and
other ANT scholars to be sensitive to how the networks they study
have social effects beyond those effects most apparent when one
focuses on the production of scientific facts.
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Ilana Gershon
Conclusion
Latour and Actor-Network Theory in general have become popular
outside of the original disciplinary confines of science and tech-
nology studies as scholars are increasingly committed to moving
beyond the dichotomies of the material versus the social, or agency
versus structure. Actor-Network Theory offers a new methodo-
logical and theoretical approach to studying how ideas and objects
travel, which scholars of democracy, organisations, markets and
media have found helpful. In addition, it provides techniques for
analyzing the social construction of facts and truth which go beyond
studying the discourses shaping what counts as truth. Latour has
cleared a space so that scholars can begin asking new questions of
topics that have become perhaps a little too familiar.
Notes
1. Latour renounced Actor-Network Theory in his article, ‘On Recalling
Actor-Network Theory’. He has since retracted his rejection in Re-
Assembling the Social, p. 9.
2. T. Hugh Crawford, ‘An Interview with Bruno Latour’, Configurations,
1, 1990, p. 248.
3. Laboratory Life.
4. Science in Action; We Have Never Been Modern; Pandora’s Hope; Re-
Assembling the Social.
5. Bruno Latour, ‘Technology Is Society Made Durable’, in John Law
(ed.), A Sociology of Monsters (London: Routledge, 1991), p. 104.
6. Pandora’s Hope, p. 76.
7. Laboratory Life; Steven Shapin, A Social History of Truth (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1995), pp. 355–407.
8. Re-Assembling the Social, p. 200.
9. Ibid. p. 202.
10. We Have Never Been Modern, p. 78.
12. Ibid. pp. 23–48.
Major Works by Latour

Aramis, or, The Love of Technology, trans. Catherine Porter (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1996).
Laboratory Life: The Construction of Scientific Facts, with Steve Woolgar
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986 [1979]).
174

Pandora’s Hope: Essays on the Reality of Science Studies (Cambridge, MA:

The Pasteurization of France, trans. Alan Sheridan and John Law (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1988).
Politics of Nature: How to Bring the Sciences into Democracy, trans. Catherine
Porter (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004).
Re-Assembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network Theory (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2005).
Science in Action: How to Follow Scientists and Engineers through Society
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987).
We Have Never Been Modern, trans. Catherine Porter (Cambridge, MA:

Akrich, Madeline, ‘The De-scription of a Technical Object’, in W. A. J. L.
Bijker (ed.), Shaping Technology/Building Society: Studies in Sociotechnical
Change (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1991), pp. 205–24. This article
discusses the tension between the implied user and actual user in a
designed object, which becomes most visible when the object travels
across cultural contexts.
Callon, Michel, ‘Some Elements of a Sociology of Translation:
Domestication of Scallops and the Fishermen of St. Brieuc Bay’, in John
Law (ed.), Power, Action and Belief: A New Sociology of Knowledge? (London:
Routledge, 1986), pp. 196-229. An early ANT discussion of how even
scallops have agency.
Haraway, Donna, Modest_Witness@Second_Millennium.FemaleMan©_Meets_
OncoMouse™ (London: Routledge 1997). Chapter 1 offers a good
summary of critiques of Latour.
Latour, Bruno, ‘On Recalling Actor-Network Theory’, in J. Law and J.
Hassard (eds), Actor Network and After (Oxford: Blackwell, 1999), pp.
15–25. In this article Latour renounces ANT, claiming that all elements
of the name, from actor, network to hyphen, are nonsensical.
Law, John, and John Hassard (eds), Actor Network Theory and After (Oxford:
Blackwell, 1999). A collection of articles by ANT scholars. The introduc-
tion is a cogent overview of Actor-Network Theory.
Leigh Star, Susan, ‘Power, Technology and the Phenomenology of
Conventions: On Being Allergic to Onions’, in John Law (ed.), A
Sociology of Monsters: Power, Technology and the Modern World (London:
Routledge, 1991), pp. 26–56. Star points out that networks privilege
some actants and disadvantage others, even along unlikely lines such as
allergies to onions.
Leigh Star, Susan Griesemer and James Griesemer, ‘Institutional Ecology,
Translations, and Boundary Objects: Amateurs and Professionals in
175

Ilana Gershon
Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, 1907–1939’, Social Studies

of Science, 19, 1989, pp. 387–420. This article adds to Bruno Latour’s
various discussions of different kinds of actants, such as the immutable
mobile or black boxes. This article suggests that actants can also be
boundary objects, which are objects that are underdetermined enough
to move easily across networks.
Strathern, Marilyn, ‘Cutting the Network’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological
Institute, 2, 1996, pp. 517–35. This article offers an engaging critique of
Latour’s focus on network expansion and recruitment using ethno-
graphic examples from the Solomon Islands and US patent history.
176

11
Antonio Negri (1933–)

Arianna Bove
Antonio Negri’s work ranges from philosophical exegesis and

Marxian political economy to political pamphleteering and play-
writing, spanning a period of fifty years. If anything connects this
vast differentiated body of work, it would be the search for the logic
of social ontology. This chapter focuses on Negri’s political and
historical reworking of the notions of class, the economy, power
relations and conflict; his critique of dialectics and transcendental
philosophy; and the location of an affirmative subjectivity in the
creative power of historical subjects, while also charting his own
involvement in practices of resistance and liberation.
Born in Padua, Northern Italy, in 1933, Negri was a child during
the Second World War. In the early 1950s, as a student of philoso-
phy, Negri travelled to Paris where he was taught by Jean Hyppolite,
the French translator of Hegel’s Phenomenology, and witnessed the
debate on Hegel that was to influence a whole generation of criti-
cal thinkers.1 Later, in Germany he read Franz Rosenzweig and the
Frankfurt School. Immersed in the traditions of postwar radical
humanism, the critique of alienation, reinterpretations of dialec-
tics and historical materialism, Negri returned to Italy determined
to bring this new theory to bear on political practice. He joined
the mass working-class movement of the North and the new wave
of resistance that spread from Turin in 1962, where thousands of
workers protested against the trade unions’ compromises with the
car manufacturer FIAT. This was the first of a number of the con-
flicts, retaliations and betrayals that would come to characterise
the turbulent relationship between the left and its representative
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Arianna Bove
bodies and eventually give rise to autonomous Marxism. The years

between 1960 and 1977 saw a long series of different anti-capitalist
uprisings against trade unions, the communist party and industry
that met with violent police repression. In the absence of postwar
de-fascistisation, society had remained sharply divided along politi-
cal lines; the permanent class conflict that marked these two
decades saw Italy in a state of simmering civil war.2
A New Mode of Marxist Inquiry

Fully engaged in these struggles of the 1960s and 1970s, Negri
wrote numerous essays and pamphlets on state theory, the juridical
history of constitutionalism, state administration in times of crisis,
as well as Karl Marx and capitalism, where he developed the notions
of class composition and the state form. Many of these appeared
in journals and were distributed outside factories before being
unceremoniously pulped by the police.3 Negri argued for a form of
Marxism conceived of as an open materialist theory with a changing
real referent and no internal continuity: a philosophy of praxis for
a changing subject. In the midst of widespread social antagonism,
debates on workers’ forms of organisation and the failure of suc-
cessive workers’ revolutions, from the Spring of Nations in 1848 to
the Council communism of the early twentieth century, were gener-
ally framed by two alternatives: phenomenological critiques of the
commodity form and materialist analyses of productive cycles and
crises from the standpoint of capital. The former resulted in more
or less optimistic prescriptions about the level of class consciousness
and the need for ideology critique; the latter described the objec-
tive tendencies of capitalism to subsume and overcome its internal
contradictions. Dissatisfied with both approaches, Negri champi-
oned a political perspectivism that moves from the standpoint of
workers’ subjectivity and from the assumption (against Hegelian
forms of dialectical recuperation of negativity) of an irreconcilable
asymmetry in the relationship between labour and capital.
As part of what became known as the current of operaismo,
which used sociological inquiry as an ethical and political research
device to organise social antagonism, Negri began to investigate
class composition, the political, economic and social characters
of this changing subject and the expressions of its insurgent prac-
tices. ‘The concept of asymmetry (of proletarian power versus
capitalist development) means that the autonomy of class is not
178

recognisable if one looks for it through the categories of capital.’4

By class autonomy Negri refers to all moments of auto-valorisation
that characterise ‘living labour’ in its struggle against exploitation
and subsumption under capital, as opposed to the dead labour
embodied in the commodity form. Negri sees auto-valorisation as a
continuation of Marx’s method of the critique of political economy
with an emphasis on subjectivity and the critique of labour. The
latter, he claims, ‘is always an analysis of the mode of production
of a society (its base and substance) against the value-form it uses
(its mystification)’.5 Against objectivist interpretations of Marx that
emphasised continuity and synthesis, Negri speaks of ruptures and
metamorphosis.
Class Struggle, Class Composition and the State

Negri charts a genealogy of the productive forces and relations
of production in three main ruptures of capitalist development,
corresponding to metamorphoses in the forms of political sover-
eignty. In his genealogies, the insurgent subjectivity of the side
of labour in the capital–labour relation is the main driving force
of social change: for Negri, ‘every innovation is a failed revolu-
tion’.6 During the nineteenth and the early twentieth century, the
working class emerged as a strong political subject, headed by the
figure of the skilled worker whose privileged position in relation to
the means of production afforded the worker a prominent role in
struggles against exploitation and for control over the productive
process. The existence and resistance of this particular section of
the working class affected a metamorphosis of the mode of capital-
ist production as a whole. After the Russian Revolution, the threat
presented by this new political subject – the self-styled vanguard –
demanded that class antagonism be taken seriously and accounted
for in the process of capitalist accumulation. Frederick Taylor’s
methods of scientific management and Henry Ford’s introduction
of the moving assembly line, standardisation and mass production
responded to this threat by forcibly severing the link between the
political and the economic, the vanguard and the masses. These
methods restructured the productive forces and their technical
composition through deskilling and, by the discipline imposed by
assembly lines, broke down the energy and vitality of the workers,
creating a docile labouring class.
At the level of state theory, Negri’s critique of labour extends
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Arianna Bove
to the direct involvement of the state in production not only as

the guarantor of the smooth workings of capital but also as the
organising force of the exploitation of labour. In his writings on
John Maynard Keynes and the New Deal, Negri traces the state’s
response to the communist threat in western capitalist countries in
its introduction of welfare services and the use of public spending.
For Negri, Fordism in production was matched by the governmen-
tal form of the planner state. The state is the representative of what
Engels called the ‘ideal collective capitalist’, striving towards stabil-
ity through the creation of social surplus value and the overcom-
ing of ‘frictions between individual capitalists’.7 Laissez-faire and
unregulated markets were remnants of the ideology of the early
bourgeoisie: the planner state recognises the dangers presented by
the working class and so it ‘continuously recreates the sources of its
legitimacy in a process of permanent adjustment of the conditions
of equilibrium’.8
Though speaking in the interests of capitalists, Keynes had
registered the need for balancing social forces and in so doing
recognised the autonomy of the working class as an ‘independent
variable’. In contrast, those who claimed to adopt the standpoint
of labour either made socialist demands for self-management as an
alternative to unregulated markets or plotted to seize the power of
the state. Negri insists that the left have wrongly underestimated
the role of the state, because they think it can be merely ignored
or that by seizing its power they can end capitalist contradictions.
Rather, the state form changes in response to developments in class
subjectivity, developments that need to be charted in a work of
inquiry that recognises the subversive position of the working class,
its agency and forms of expression.
Refusal
Negri investigated class subjectivity in the hidden spontaneous
forms of antagonism in factories during the 1960s and 1970s
while adopting the subjective standpoint of labour. He found that
beyond wage demands, class struggles were taking place in the
form of refusal, wild cat strikes, sabotage, absenteeism and moving
from one employer to another, all of which occurred autonomously
from the political exigencies and programmes of the representative
structures of trade unions, the communist party and the planner
state.9
180

The refusal of labour is the immediate synthesis of struggle and innova-

tion, life and productivity. It is the potency of the negative, obviously,
what the bosses call the negative in so far as it negates their rationality.
But their rationality is the expropriation of the power of innovation,
of workers’ productive power; it is the command over the working day;
whereas workers’ rationality is the augmentation of labour productivity
for the benefit of all, from the factory, to society.10
According to Negri, with Fordist production, rather than follow-

ing a logic of appropriation (of means of production and govern-
ment structures), the insurgent forces of labour adopt refusal, or
the expenditure of social energies and surplus outside the factory
walls, as the practice of alternatives to capitalism. Importantly, this
is not always a self-conscious operation of those who struggle; it is
also present as an unconscious social power, a desire with its own
irreducible logic. Consequently capitalist economics ‘defines its
production no longer in a determinate relationship to individual
labour but with the whole of the social productive forces’.11
In this period, termed the ‘real subsumption of society under
capital’, the distinctions between the particular and the general, the
economic and the political, the private and the public, no longer
apply.12 Negri distinguishes between the function of the planner
state and that of the state as enterprise: while the former reforms
itself and the make-up of the working class, restructuring social
relations to control productive cycles and maintain economic equi-
librium in the context of a general social belief in the progressive
potential of the realm of production, the latter also imposes new
class divisions and a new regime of command. Negri argues that
restructuring in times of crisis is not only an effort to reform capital-
ism internally but also, and more importantly, to present productive
power as belonging to capital rather than labour.13
In this context, Negri draws on Marx’s Grundrisse to argue that
crisis is determined and affected by class struggle. However, when
capital begins to organise society as a whole rather than discipline
a section of the working class, it directly contributes to the produc-
tion of subjectivity, one that it strives to control. As the professional
worker’s demands were absorbed by Keynesian schemes, antago-
nism shifted towards demands of liberation of work and a separa-
tion of income from labour. A new class combination emerged
when workers engaged in new practices of auto-valorisation outside
and despite the negotiation of socialist and communist political
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Arianna Bove
parties and trade unions with the state and industry. This new
composition included the figure of the ‘socialised worker’ or the
‘affective labourer’, whose struggles took place outside the factory
at the level of the production of subjectivity and alternative forms
of life. We shall return to this genealogy in the last section, after a
discussion of the philosophical foundations of Negri’s materialist
ontology.
The Critique of Dialectics: Modernity and Anti-modernity

As antagonism spread outside the factory walls, the Italian govern-
ment tried to bring it to a close in 1977 with a large clampdown on
social movements and the arrest of over 10,000 people from the
extra-parliamentary left. Negri was one of them. He spent four and
a half years in various special prisons awaiting trial for a string of
charges that kept changing, during which time he wrote his most
dense philosophical essays. In the face of escalating levels and
changing forms of social antagonism, Negri declared the theoreti-
cal and political inadequacy of radical humanist interpretations of
dialectics as a philosophy of praxis. As a method, dialectics were
trapped in a particular historical development and could no longer
describe the basic characteristics of the relationship between labour
and capital: not only had working-class conflict been subsumed
and profitably utilised in capitalist restructuration but also it con-
tinued to change the places and terms of its engagement with it.
Negri exposes Hegelian dialectics as self-defeating in practice: ‘The
Hegelian working class movement recognises itself as slave and as
slave it organises itself in front of the master. Organisation emerges
as substitutive will, as compensation, as tension on the negative, of
the negative.’14 Dialectics sees negation as a moment to be over-
come to achieve the fullness of being, whereas for Negri resistance
is immediately productive. In his view, dialectics describes the
capture of the dynamism of social relations of production from
the standpoint of capital and portrays the workers’ movements for
the liberation of labour as the moment of negativity in progress.
But for Negri, far from negation, antagonism is self-affirmation
and valorisation: the real motor of innovation and progress. In so
far as the relation between capital and labour is asymmetrical and
heteronomous, it cannot be resolved or overcome; it can only be
replaced by a social revolution. ‘Dialectics, in as much as it forms
transcendental thinking, denies the decision the power to generate
182

ex nihilo and to produce plenitude, fullness of being in the void,

against the void’.15
Negri paints the theoretical landscape as an involution of
modernity and its values. Modernity’s promise of progress, freedom
and democracy was a mask for bourgeois sovereignty and tran-
scendent power. From prison, he traced the emergence of another
modernity, found not in the apologetics of René Descartes, Jean-
Jacques Rousseau and Georg W. Friedrich Hegel, but in immanent
materialism, a legacy left by Nicolo Machiavelli, Baruch Spinoza,
Giacomo Leopardi and Karl Marx. This opposition between imma-
nent materialism and a transcendental view of sovereignty (both
ontological and epistemological) has informed all of Negri’s philo-
sophical writings, which often take the form of deep, close political
readings and intellectual histories. The tracing of the emergence of
this other modernity is also an application of the immanent materi-
alist method, one that does not formalise the workings of reason in
order to impose them on reality, but intervenes critically in the real
to identify its potential. Much as Negri’s treatment of class composi-
tion sought to reveal the dynamics of actual conflicts, he explores
theoretical tendencies to uncover their emancipatory logic.
In Political Descartes, Negri situates the thought of the father of
modern rationalism in the first historical crisis of the bourgeois
project.16 Living in the aftermath of the Reformation and Counter-
Reformation movements, involved as a soldier in the Thirty Years
War (1618–48), Descartes supported the political development of
absolutism and divine right theories of sovereignty. Negri interprets
Descartes’s rationalism and dualism politically to show how philoso-
phies of transcendence emerge as a reactionary response to crisis;
in this case, to the failure of the humanist project of the Renaissance
to free humankind from religious dogma and authority and assert
its power to make history and give meaning to its own affairs.
Descartes’s ambiguous adherence to anti-libertine polemics and his
critique of epistemological scepticism are seen by Negri as a protest
against the cynicism ensuing from this crisis. Libertinism signalled
an involution of the humanist civic and political hopes, where ‘the
ideal is freed from the temptation of becoming collective . . . In the
words of the libertine motto: within as you please, without accord-
ing to custom’.17 On the one hand, the libertine rebellion regis-
tered the separation of civil society from the state and the retreat
from utopias of collective freedom into the inner self and private
life; on the other hand, the sceptics’ response to the impossibility
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Arianna Bove
of matching reality with reason in the pursuit of science epitomised

the epistemological crisis of the Renaissance. These two questions
of politics and epistemology were attempts to confront the his-
torical separation of the bourgeois ideal of universal progress of
science from the experience of diversity and multiplicity. Descartes
resolved both of these problems through mediation: the former,
by accepting absolutism as the only guarantor of peace; the latter,
with a retreat into metaphysics, mathematical formalisation and the
mistrust of the senses. In doing so, he neutralised the immediacy of
experience and the contradictory nature of the relation between
the individual and the world into the pacified and controlled de-
realised world of a solitary thinking subject that avoids collision with
it. The mind takes precedence over experience in the search for a
fictitious unity; there, and only there, can Descartes discover the
bourgeois subject.
In Negri’s view the dynamics of appropriation of the world of
things, nature and history characterised the utopianism of the
Renaissance but were not resolved in a philosophy of praxis: this
was the failure of the first liberal bourgeois project to give itself
a political form. Descartes, the ideologue of the bourgeoisie par
excellence, resorted to rational theology and transposed the relation
between the world and the individual onto his or her relation to
God. Finding no correspondence to ontological individualism in
reality, Descartes fictionalises it in an abstraction. A factor that is
outside, over and above reality, is called upon to mediate the exi-
gencies of the real and provide the justification for fictitious dual-
isms such as the juxtaposition of productive forces and relations of
production. For Negri, the betrayal of the bourgeoisie consists in
this politics of mediation, falsification and transcendence, in hiding
the violence of mechanisms of appropriation and presenting the
realm of circulation and the market as a universal, and undivided,
second nature.
The utopia of productive force, which is the indestructible legacy of the

humanistic revolution, is shattered and reproduced: shattered in the
illusion of a social and collective continuity of a process of appropria-
tion of nature and wealth; reproduced, at first, as the idea of command
and, subsequently, as the hypothesis of an abundant and progressive
appropriation in the form of profit. This is the idea of the market: a
(mysterious and sublime) duplication of labour and value. Progressive
optimism, rational direction and faith in the results of optimisation all
extend across the relationship exploitation-profit.18
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Negri finds a critical alternative to the bourgeois project of

transcendence in Baruch Spinoza’s materialist philosophy of imma-
nence.19 For Spinoza, the elucidation of connections in logic does
not merely serve the purpose of clarity of thought. Spinoza believes
that the order and connections of ideas can be treated as the order
and connections of things. For a philosophy of immanence, there
is no external cause to the world. The world contains its own expla-
nation. From the dark margins of seventeenth-century philosophy,
Spinoza renewed the Renaissance humanist project and found a
way to integrate a theory of political power into the development
of social forces and refuse their mediation in a separate and tran-
scendental function of command.20 Negri’s intellectual history
unravels the concrete practices and determinations of society in
relation to and often in conflict with the ideological alternatives of
the historical period, showing that in Spinoza’s immanent materi-
alism the antinomies of bourgeois thought implode. In Spinoza’s
metaphysics, liberation is a necessity. Science does not irremediably
command; on the contrary, science can be a machine of liberation.
Science is not subordinated to development and domination; it is
the expression of consecutive moments of cumulated acts of collec-
tive liberation. In this and other respects, Spinoza is an anomaly of
the seventeenth century. The prevailing philosophies of the time
reproduced the antinomies of bourgeois thought in metaphysics
and politics, limited to ‘the discovery of the antagonistic character
of capitalist accumulation with respect to the unitary utopia that
had been set in motion’.21 But for Spinoza productive power is only
subordinated to itself.
Following this ontology, in so far as production is the constitu-
tion of being, for Negri the critique of labour goes beyond the
immanent critique of the contradictions of capital; the negative
aspect of critique is not isolated but only one movement of the
desire for emancipation and self-expression on the part of social
subjects. Yet this movement is incommensurable, unstoppable and
non-teleological: ‘the desire for liberation has an irreducible ontological
logic of its own’.22 Throughout his philosophical work, Negri’s mate-
rialism is characterised by an unrelenting attack on the dialectics
and dynamics of resolution and pacification of political resistance.
The tension of the negative is rejected and an ontology of potenti-
ality asserted against all tendencies of critical thought to dwell on
negation as a stage of progress.
From his earlier Marxian analysis of the changes in the
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Arianna Bove
capital–labour relation, Negri develops a political theory of con-

stituent and constituted power based on the distinction between
potentia and potestas as found in Spinoza. Power is never presented
solely from the perspective of limitation; power is equally possibil-
ity and capacity. The form of domination of constituted power, or
potestas, is always contextualised in the possibilities of resistance that
are open and never reduced to the mask that power itself wears.
The formal exercise of power as potestas is only ever set in motion
in response to the creative energy it tries to contain. In Spinoza’s
political theory, Negri finds the tools to describe the subject of a
radical, direct and immanent democratic form of government, the
embodiment of this desire for liberation.
Continuing in this trajectory of alter-modernity, Negri dedicates
a book to the Italian poet and essayist Giacomo Leopardi, who was
steeped in the turbulent years of the early nineteenth century.23
Negri reinterprets Leopardi as a thinker of the crisis of formal
subsumption of society under capital, as capitalism establishes its
hegemony over the social order in the name of progress and posi-
tivism. Working in the tradition of the Enlightenment sensualism
of Condillac, a particular variant of empiricism and materialism,
and living in the aftermath of the French Revolution, Leopardi was
witness to a radical change and its suppression, a revolution and the
restoration of order, to which he responded with his own version of
open materialism that is ‘as powerful as it is disenchanted’.24
Comparing it with the Renaissance, Negri sees the Enlightenment
as a social revolution that was betrayed. Leopardi showed the collec-
tive side of European Romanticism that embraced a cosmic view
of the world instead of retreating to variants of aesthetic individu-
alism in search of the absolute. Here Negri returns to a problem
that recurs in his intellectual histories of this period: the inability
of society to give itself forms of organisation that remain true to its
political ideals and the spirit in which social revolutionary subjects
are formed, the transitions from constituent to constituted power.
Throughout these writings, Negri bears witness to the social and
political aspirations of generations repressed or betrayed yet unable
to constitute themselves into long-lasting political organisational
forms. The difference between constituent and constitutive power
is crucial not only to an analysis of dynamics of appropriation and
reappropriation but also to the realisation of the political power of
revolutionary subjects.
In 1983, elected to the Italian government as a member of the
186

Radical Party, Negri was released from prison on grounds of par-

liamentary immunity, but the Parliament rescinded his immunity.
Rather than be returned to prison, Negri fled to Paris where he
remained in exile for fourteen years. There he deepened his analysis
of the ‘socialised worker’ and immaterial labourer in various studies
on the sociology of work in collaboration with Maurizio Lazzarato.
In this period he came closer to the thought of Michel Foucault,
Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari. With the latter, he published
Communists like us,25 a strong intervention in the debate about the
new social subjects of the 1980s, referred to as the age of defeatism,
cynicism, opportunism and fear. Negri also developed his critique of
the labour theory of value and corresponding forms of sovereignty
that would culminate in the thesis of Empire. In 1997 Negri returned
to Italy to argue for an amnesty for all the political prisoners and
exiles of the 1970s, but after Parliament rejected the proposal he
served the last six years of his sentence until his release in 2003.
New Class Composition, Immaterial Labour and Empire

Empire was published in 2000, bringing together much of the work
by Negri in previous years in an introductory form and accessible
prose. Negri and his co-author Michael Hardt updated the analysis
of class composition and the ‘socialised worker’ by introducing the
notion of immaterial labour, which they identify as an emerging
figure of labour that becomes increasingly dominant with the infor-
matisation and globalisation of the economy. The quality of labour
and class composition had changed in the shift from Fordist mass
production to Toyotist lean production, a model in which, prior
to being manufactured, a product must be sold. Lean production
required the establishment of a system of communication between
production and consumption, factories and markets. Here the
social factory is made profitable and an increasing proportion of
capital must be invested to develop the possibilities of communica-
tive techniques, corresponding to the increasingly cerebral nature
of labour. The refusal of labour of the mass worker had initiated the
development of labour saving technologies. Negri talks about the
tertiarisation of industry and the spread of the service sector where
knowledge, affects and subjectivity itself is made productive.
Robert Reich calls the kind of immaterial labour involved in compu-

ter and communication work ‘symbolic-analytical services’- tasks that
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Arianna Bove
involve problem-solving, problem-identifying, and strategic brokering

activities. This type of labour claims the highest value, and thus Reich
identifies it as the key to competition in the new global economy.26
The idea that immaterial labour directly produces the capital–labour

relation changes the configuration of power and the possibility of
refusal and auto-valorisation. Immaterial workers are primarily pro-
ducers of subjectivity. This aspect of immaterial labour constitutes
its ‘affective’ character. Affective labour is ‘embedded in moments
of human interaction and communication’. It acts wherever human
contact is required and is essentially involved in the production
of ‘social networks, forms of community and biopower. What is
created in the networks of affective labour is a form-of-life’.27
In Negri’s view, with the emergence of affective and immate-
rial labour, it is no longer possible to measure value according to
the time necessary to produce a commodity and to reproduce the
worker. The ‘labour theory of value’ was only appropriate to the
time when labour was outside capital and needed to be reduced
to labour power. But when production is directly involved with
the production of social relations, it becomes coextensive with
social reproduction. Negri and Hardt adopt Foucault’s notion of
biopower to describe this new mode of production. ‘Empire’ is the
process representing the corresponding command over this form
of labour: since actual work is different in Empire, mechanisms of
social control directly affect subjectivities. The biopolitical notions
of life and body are determined in the political constitution and in
the real daily affirmations of social subjectivity.
The emergence of Empire as a global mode of governance
responds to the crisis of disciplinary modes of control that erupted
in the refusal of the mass worker. The traditional centres in which
discipline is deployed (class, party, school, nuclear family, factory)
undergo a crisis, as a result of which disciplinary rationality is substi-
tuted by more efficient, economic, discrete and implicit procedures
aimed at governing people. Biopower takes life as its object. For Hardt
and Negri real subsumption of society under capital operates at the
level of biopolitical production because production tries to subsume
life itself. The mode of governance of Empire takes the form of pre-
ventive control: from a predictive medicine where society is treated as
a reserve of diseases and individuals as carriers of pathologies; to an
education that is transformed into life-long learning where everyone
is compelled to remain productive throughout their life; and a
188

surveillance that is used not to discover crime but as a preventive tool

for recognising, inserting into databases and scanning human bodies
and behaviour. Individuals are carriers of calculable risks.
Negri and Hardt endorse much of Foucault’s analysis of
biopower, regarding biopolitical production under Post-Fordism
as the apex of a process of struggles to dominate the social body.
In Post-Fordism, the body is fixed capital and the instruments of
labour are the brain-machines of social cooperation.28 As the insti-
tutions of disciplinary power break down so does the function of
representation, negotiation and delegation. Insisting on the dif-
ference between constituent and constitutive power, Negri is able
to highlight the role of social movements and dynamics as arising
from the grassroots and affecting responses. The irreducible and
heterogeneous antagonist of Empire is the multitude.
Multitude
The concept of multitude is derived from Spinoza’s political theory.
Negri and Hardt see it as the constituent subject in the age of
Empire that forces a shift in power relations. As a political subject,
the multitude refuses the functions of representation and exer-
cises its right to disobedience in the practice of exodus, constantly
reconfiguring the places and scope of antagonism. The multitude
is the political expression of a new social composition that uses
technology, machines and social cooperation as instruments of
liberation, thus constantly changing the possibilities of its capture
in capitalist valorisation.29 In Negri’s view, government, or govern-
ance, becomes a flexible machine of recuperation and disavowal
of social value, while capitalism is increasingly dependent on the
innovations of the social factory. The value created by subjectivities
in social cooperation is beyond measure. Attempts to subsume it
under the exploitative mechanisms of capitalist valorisation appear
as increasingly parasitical and abusive.
Today there is no longer any measure, and hence there is no longer
any reasonable appropriation either. Today, we are outside measure
and that is so because we are in a state of productive surplus. We could
easily satisfy all the needs of the populations in the world: this is not a
potentiality; this is a calculable, economic possibility.30
This productive surplus of subjectivity is the object of the last

volume of the trilogy of Empire, Multitude and Commonwealth. In
189

Arianna Bove
Commonwealth, Negri and Hardt conceptualise the common as

the realm of constitution of the multitude that lies beyond the
distinction of public and private. They develop an analysis of the
current composition of capital, and the forms of its accumulation
in finance and rent, that responds to new processes of biopolitical
production concommitant with the creation of scarcity and the
insecurity of labour, to which Negri refers as the ‘precarisation
of labour’. ‘Capitalist accumulation today is increasingly external
to the production process, such that exploitation takes the form
of expropriation of the common.’31 To the republic of property, they
oppose the multitude of the poor in a genealogy that charts the
struggles between those who have no part in the management of
the common and those who control it, those who produce common
wealth and those who de-socialise it.
Negri has come under heavy criticism from both the left and the
right. The right portrays him as a ‘dark and evil guru’.32 Most of the
left critically engaged with his writings from Empire onwards.33 Some
accused him of Euro-centrism: the notion of immaterial labour as
a tendency is said to underplay the current role of factory workers
in the global economy and a-critically bypass questions of race and
gender. Others dismissed Empire as an analysis of the ‘Clinton era’
that can hardly be applied to the new Neo-Con-inspired global
order emerging after the fall of the Twin Towers. The concept of
multitude has been seen as a weak sociological category that is not
fit to replace the category of the working class. These criticisms
have largely been addressed in the second and third volume of the
trilogy: the authors discuss anti-colonial, anti-racist and feminist
struggles in the context of the tradition of alter-modernity, define
recent US policy as the last gasp of a waning hegemony, and reassert
a definition of the multitude as a class concept, both ontologically
and politically. The multitude is also the protagonist of Negri’s
recent theatre plays, a Trilogy of Resistance on the relationship
between the production of the common and violence.
Negri’s contribution to critical theory cannot be underesti-
mated. His writings on ontology, his lineage of revolutionary think-
ers otherwise forgotten, the productive encounter of Marxism and
post-structuralism, and his intervention on the politics of theories
of modernity bred new life in the otherwise stale and cynical
debate on the postmodern. His affirmative politics has been influ-
enced by and has in turn influenced two generations of militants,
from worker autonomists to the anti-capitalist movement, and this
190

symbiotic relationship has undoubtedly contributed to a revival of

critical theory as a production of knowledge that is also an ethical
and political task.
Notes
1. ‘Hegel was a funnel: he gathered everything the history of thought
had produced after him. Like an Egyptian pyramid, everyone, slaves
and masters, had put their own brick on it, it was impossible to move it
so everyone was climbing it.’ Antonio Negri, Pipeline. Lettere da Rebibbia
[Pipeline. Letters from Rebibbia – Special Prison] (Turin: Einaudi,
1982), p. 41. Jean Hyppolite was a reader and commentator on Hegel,
whose teachings played a crucial role in the philosophy of Gilles
Deleuze, Jacques Deridda and Michel Foucault amongst others.
2. See N. Balestrini and P. Moroni (eds), L’orda d’oro (Milan: Feltrinelli,
1988), for a rich collection of documents from this period.
3. Some of these are collected in Books for Burning.
4. Negri, ‘20 Theses on Marx: Interpretation of the Class Situation
Today’, in S. Makdis, C. Casarino and R. E. Karl (eds), Marxism beyond
Marxism (New York: Routledge, 1996), pp. 149–80.
5. Ibid. p. 165.
6. Negri, Pipeline, p. 83.
7. This was informed by the notion of social capital, further analysed by
Mario Tronti in ‘Social Capital’, Telos, 17, Autumn 1973, pp. 60–85.
8. Negri, Revolution Retrieved, p. 13.
9. Negri, ‘Logic and Theory of Inquiry’, trans. Arianna Bove and Nate
Holdren <http://www.generation-online.org/p/fpnegri20.htm>.
11. Negri, La Fabbrica della Strategia, 33 Lezioni su Lenin (Padua: Collettivo
Editoriale LibriRossi, 1976), p. 162; The Factory of Strategy. 33 Lessons on
Lenin (New York: Columbia University Press, forthcoming).
12. The term is derived from the unpublished Chapter 6 of volume 1 of
Marx’s Capital: see ‘Appendix’ to Capital, vol. 1 (London: Penguin,
1992).
13. Hardt and Negri, Labor of Dionysus.
15. Negri, Time for Revolution, p. 251.
16. Negri, Political Descartes, p. 116.
17. Ibid. p. 119.
18. Negri, The Savage Anomaly, p. 218.
19. For more on the revival of Spinoza, also influenced by Pierre
Macherey, Gilles Deleuze and Louis Althusser, see W. Montag and T.
Stolze (eds), The New Spinoza (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
Press, 1998).
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Arianna Bove
20. Negri, The Savage Anomaly, pp. 136–43.

21. Ibid. p. 18.
22. Negri, Time for Revolution, p. 134.
23. Negri, La Lenta Ginestra (Milan: Sugarco, 1987).
24. Negri, ‘The European Leopardi’, trans. Timothy Murphy, Genre, 33, 1,
Spring 2000, p. 18.
25. Felix Guattari and Antonio Negri, Communists Like Us: New Spaces of
Liberty, New Lines of Alliance (New York: Semiotext(e), 1990).
26. Hardt and Negri, Empire, p. 289.
27. Michael Hardt, ‘Affective Labour’, boundary2, 26, 2, Summer 1999, p.
92.
28. Negri, ‘Back to the future’, in J. Bosma, P. van Mourik Broekman, T.
Byfield, M. Fuller, G. Lovink, D. McCarty, P. Schultz, F. Stalder, M.
Wark and F. Wilding (eds), Read me! Ascii Culture and the Revenge of
Knowledge (New York: Autonomedia, 1999), p. 182.
29. One example of this is how the practice of file sharing online has
prompted the introduction and enforcement of intellectual property
regimes, affecting the whole of the information economy.
30. Negri and Casarino, In Praise of the Common, p. 77.
31. Hardt and Negri, Commonwealth, p. 112.
32. Brian C. Anderson, ‘Brothers in Marx’, Wall Street Journal, 7 October
2009.
33. A useful collection of criticisms and reviews can be found in a special
issue of Rethinking Marxism, 13, 1, 2001. For a comprehensive list, see
<http://multitudes.samizdat.net/The-discussion-about-Empire>.
Major Works by Negri

Books for Burning: Between Civil War and Democracy in 1970s Italy, trans.
Arianna Bove, Ed Emery, Tim Murphy and Francesca Novello (London:
Verso, 2005 [1971–7]).
Commonwealth, with Michael Hardt (Cambridge: Harvard University Press,
2009).
Empire, with Michael Hardt (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2000).
In Praise of the Common: A Conversation on Philosophy and Politics, with Cesare
Casarino (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008).
Insurgencies. Constituent Power and the Modern State, trans. Maurizia Boscagli
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999 [1992]).
The Labor of Dionysus: A Critique of the State Form, with Michael Hardt
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994).
The Labor of Job: The Biblical Text as a Parable of Human Labor, trans. Matteo
Mandarini (Duke University Press, 2009 [2002]).
Marx beyond Marx: Lessons on the Grundrisse, trans. Harry Cleaver, Michael
Ryan, and Maurizio Viano (New York: Autonomedia, 1991 [1979]).
192

Multitude: War and Democracy in the Age of Empire, with Michael Hardt (New
York: Penguin Press, 2004).
Political Descartes: Reason, Ideology and the Bourgeois Project, trans. Matteo
Mandarini and Alberto Toscano (London: Verso Books, 2007 [1970]).
Revolution Retrieved: Selected Writings on Marx, Keynes, Capitalist Crisis and
New Social Subjects, trans. Ed Emery and John Merrington (London: Red
Notes, 1988 [1968–83]).
The Savage Anomaly: The Power of Spinoza’s Metaphysics and Politics, trans.
Michael Hardt (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991
[1981]).
Time for Revolution, trans. Matteo Mandarini (London: Continuum, 2003
[1982–2000]).

Murphy, Timothy S., and Abdul-Karim Mustapha (eds), The Philosophy of
Antonio Negri: Resistance in Practice (London: Pluto Press, 2005).
Murphy, Timothy S., and Abdul-Karim Mustapha (eds), The Philosophy of
Antonio Negri: Revolution in Theory (London: Pluto Press, 2007). Each
of these volumes, the first English-language collections of essays about
Negri, considers the major themes of his work such as labour, capital,
power, the state and revolution.
193

12
Jacques Rancière (1940–)

Samuel A. Chambers
Jacques Rancière may perhaps best be described as a ‘contemporary

critical theorist’ precisely because his work crosses so many areas
of inquiry, in the light of its thoroughly interdisciplinary nature,
and given that he himself consistently resists any categorisation of
his thought. That is, the broad title that brings together the writers
in this volume serves to capture much of the flavour of Rancière’s
thought – which is no doubt thoroughly critical and theoretical –
without limiting his project to any particular disciplinary domain.
Unlike many of his contemporaries – whose thought was often
pigeonholed – Ranciére’s work has ‘elude[d] classification’,1 prob-
ably because his writings span so many domains: stretching from
labour and intellectual history to aesthetics, from democracy to
literature, from politics to cinema. Rancière’s education and early
training followed well-worn paths. Like both Althusser and Derrida,
Rancière was born in Algeria, in 1940; like both Derrida and
Foucault, Rancière went on to study under Althusser at the École
Normale Supérieure in Paris. Rancière contributed to Althusser’s
Reading Capital, but his essay was excluded from English translations
of the work. The events of May 1968 proved to have a profound and
longstanding impact upon his thought but, unlike better-known
French critical theorists of his time, Rancière’s turn away from
Althusser led him to archival work. Rancière’s so-called historical
work did not receive the same attention in the Anglophone world
of critical theory, and these texts were not translated into English
until the very end of the 1980s. Despite Rancière having published
works over five decades, Gabriel Rockhill, writing in 2004, could still
194

properly describe him as someone whose voice has ‘yet to be heard

in full force in the English-speaking world’.2 Nevertheless, his voice
is growing louder: over the past decade Rancière’s writings have
quickly become one of the more important resources for rethinking
politics and for extending the project of ‘aesthetics’ well beyond the
domains of ‘mere art’.
The Break with Althusser

The events of May and June 1968 are nothing if not nuanced and
complex, but we can safely say this: the student protests and general
uprising that they sparked neither were predicted by the so-called
‘scientific’ Marxism of Althusser nor were they led by the PCF
(French Communist Party) of which he was a committed member.
Indeed, the students whose actions eventually led to a general strike
by almost two-thirds of the French workforce3 were surely not the
proletariat as described by Althusser’s Marx. Rancière conceived of
the May 1968 student revolt as necessitating a rejection of Althusser,
and in formulating that critique in essays written between 1969
and 1974 Rancière also planted the seeds for much of his future
thought. Rancière’s turn away from Althusser pivoted on his cri-
tique of Althusser’s insistence on the purity of Marxist thought, par-
ticularly on the purity of the category of the proletariat. Althusser
criticised the student movement precisely because, in his terms, it
was a ‘petty bourgeois’ movement. The development of Rancière’s
independent (non-Althusserian) thought emerges out of his insight
and his instinct that the category of the political subject (the
worker, in this case) cannot and must not be sanitised by the work
of the intellectual. Most importantly, Rancière contends that the
effort to maintain the unalloyed categories of the worker and the
intellectual make Althusserianism into ‘a philosophy of order’.4
In refusing this approach, Rancière turns away not only from
Althusser but also from Marx and Marxism. He looks instead to the
archive, in the form of an intellectual history of labour. Rancière
attempts not to recover the virtue of the worker or the workers’
thought, but rather to refute definitively the distinction upon which
Althusser’s critique of the student movement rested. Rancière
writes: ‘history shows us that the workers have never ceased to act
like these “petty bourgeois”’.5 In The Nights of Labor, his first major
work to be published in English – a work whose homonymic link
to the American labour movement, fittingly, only exists in the
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Samuel A. Chambers
translation of the title – Rancière gives his readers a glimpse of

workers who do not necessarily identify first as workers, who do
not necessarily take pride in their work, and who do not necessarily
want to be (only) workers. And Rancière shows that workers resist
not merely the hardships of work; they resist the very system that
confines them to the role of ‘workers’ in the first place. In his archi-
val work Rancière discovers the ‘disorder’ of nineteenth-century
French workers, their refusal to play only the part they have been
given, their insistence on breaking the central Platonic rule, ‘one
man, one art’.
The Critique of the Platonic Order

It is thus essential to see Rancière’s critique of Plato’s systematic
thought (and all the other later philosophies that Rancière will
describe as Platonic in their insistence on philosophical ordering),
neither as a departure from his archive work nor as a shift to some
other sort of project. It is precisely the impropriety of nineteenth-
century workers that Rancière wishes to bring to bear against Plato.
The uneven and erratic process of translation has helped to obscure
the centrality of Rancière’s challenge to the Platonic/philosophi-
cal order (for Rancière, Plato is, above all, a philosopher). While The
Philosopher and His Poor was published in French only two years after
The Nights of Labor, the former work did not appear in English until
fifteen years after the latter. This may have encouraged the view
that Rancière’s earlier, ostensibly ‘historical’ works belong to a dif-
ferent theoretical trajectory than his ‘political’ works of the 1990s;
it surely has led to the relative neglect of those early works within
Anglophone critical theory. However, the central argument of The
Philosopher and His Poor proves to be an essential development of the
earlier writings and a fundament of Rancière’s later thought.
There is nothing confusing or contentious about Rancière’s
description of Plato as a philosopher of order, but Rancière sets
out the baseline account of the ‘ordered city’ in Plato’s Republic so
that he can go on to ask how Plato establishes and maintains that
order. The noble lie provides a key part of this answer, but Rancière
argues further, and crucially, that the ‘order of the city’ can only be
maintained through an ‘order of discourse’. Thus, Rancière turns
to those passages of the Phaedrus made famous by Derrida’s decon-
struction of them.6 However, Rancière sees here not merely a privi-
leging of speech over writing but rather a preference for the ‘living
196

dialectic’ to ‘fabricated rhetoric’. For Plato, written discourse must

be criticised and banished because it does not know when to remain
silent; it fails to play its proper role.7 Thus, the threat that the sophist
poses to the ordered city is the threat of writing, or what Rancière
will later call ‘literarity’.
‘Literarity’ serves to identify that dangerous possibility of an
excess of words; it illuminates the possibility that not just the phi-
losopher but anyone at all might have access to the contaminating
power of these words. In other words, Plato must contain the order
of discourse so as to maintain the order of the city. And thus, on
Rancière’s reading, the greatest threat to the city is the worker who
philosophises. All role-mixing is bad, for Plato, because it violates
the first rule of the city – ‘one man, one art’ – but none can be
worse than trying to play the highest role (philosophy) when your
nature is not the highest.8 Above all, Plato wants the worker kept in
his place; he wants, says Rancière, a ‘pure proletarian’ as Plato con-
structs him in the Meno.9 And this means that the order of discourse
must be preserved and protected; therefore writing, rhetoric and
sophistry must be banished from the city.
Nonetheless, it is precisely the ‘problem’ with writing – that
it can never shut up – that makes it impossible to vanquish. The
excess of words means that writing will always return. Rancière calls
Plato’s critique of rhetoric ‘reassuring’, since it seems to have put
writing back in its proper place, and thereby to have (re)established
the order of the city. But writing has no proper place. Writing, like
those nineteenth-century workers who spent their nights compos-
ing and writing poetry, is scandalously improper. And Rancière
insists, against Plato, that the impropriety of writing, of literarity,
will always undo the philosophical order. Proper order will always
be interrupted by impropriety. In this early work Rancière refers
metaphorically to writing as an ‘uncontrolled democracy’;10 such
an account sets the stage for his better-known and thoroughly pro-
vocative conception of politics – and for his insistent defence of
democracy as scandalous.
Politics and ‘Police’

With Rancière, we might be tempted to sum up the last ten years or
so of the twentieth century as simultaneously the ‘end’ of politics
and the ‘return’ of political philosophy. Two phenomena appear at
roughly the same time: on the one hand, the end of the Cold War,
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Samuel A. Chambers
the prominence of ‘third way’ solutions, the emergence of consen-

sus democracy and the rise of neo-liberalism all seemed to diminish
politics to mere bureaucratic engineering; on the other, theorists of
a ‘pure politics’ grew in popularity as interest resurged in the idea
of taking up political philosophy as ‘a noble pursuit’.11 Rancière’s
writings from the 1990s implicitly connect these two threads, as
he both depicts and challenges the dominant vision of political
philosophy by revealing its commitment to the very elimination of
politics. Rancière must therefore struggle against mainstream con-
ceptions of politics, in terms not only of popular understandings
of politics but also in relation to formulations of ‘politics’ and ‘the
political’ by other theorists. Put more bluntly, Rancière redefines
politics in a way that cuts significantly against the grain of almost all
other approaches.
To rethink politics so radically (conceiving it anew, from the
root) requires Rancière to throw off a large number of previously-
accepted understandings of politics. Thus we must start with nega-
tive definitions. First, politics does not refer to any form of regime.
While we will see below that democracy for Rancière proves to be
the very essence of politics, he repeatedly declares that democracy is
not a regime, not a system of governance, and not a type of State.12
Politics, therefore, does not refer to any set or system of institutions.
Rancière thus distances himself from most social science and legal
approaches to politics that would take it as an empirical object of
study, embodied either in constitutions and laws or in parliaments
and presidencies. But Rancière also seeks to separate his approach
to politics from methodologies more familiar within contemporary
critical theory. Rancière rejects what he sees as a Foucauldian tactic,
one that would associate politics with power relations, identify the
latter as ubiquitous and thus conclude that politics is everywhere.
But, as many others have already noted, if politics is everywhere it is
nowhere. ‘If everything is political, then nothing is.’13
Rancière is not naive; he understands what politics is typically
taken to be about and he recognises that he cannot simply ignore
such phenomena. This is what makes Rancière’s novel definition of
politics different in both form and substance from that of Hannah
Arendt: Rancière does not wish to reconstitute politics in a sealed
space that would be preserved from contamination by other spheres
of activity (in Arendt’s case, economic and social). In an important
passage that highlights his common-sense grasp on the everyday
meaning of politics, Rancière writes: ‘Politics is generally seen as
198

the set of procedures whereby the aggregation and consent of col-

lectivities is achieved, [it denotes] the organization of powers, the
distribution of places and roles, and the systems of legitimizing this
distribution.’14 Rancière’s entire politico-theoretical project hinges
upon the next move that he makes, when he suggests the follow-
ing with respect to this distribution system: ‘I propose to call it the
police.’15
The word police typically calls to mind what Rancière refers
to as ‘the petty police’: officers on the street, armed with sticks or
guns, whose job it is to carry out the force of the law. But Rancière
argues that the petty police proves to be a particular and concrete
manifestation of a larger order that he here names the police. The
police order is a regime that distributes proper roles, that allocates
the particular parts that make up a society: it is that ‘distribution
of places and roles’ that serves as the fundamental structure at
any given time or place. The police order determines the realm of
intelligibility: ‘it is the order of the visible and the sayable’.16 Thus,
it requires no leaps in logic to see clearly that the Platonic order as
built in the Republic proves to be a police order par excellence, but,
for that matter, so does the philosophical order produced by a
structural or scientific marxism – one that would insist on a base/
superstructure model or one that would not tolerate the adultera-
tion of the primary marxist category, the proletariat. By identifying
the police order (and by renaming familiar phenomena in order
to do so), Rancière manages with one swift conceptual move to
capture the link between the contemporary enervation of politics
and the concomitant shift in critical theory toward a ‘pure politics’.
If most of what we typically take to be politics today is actually a
matter of policing – of shoring up the allocation of roles, the dis-
tribution of bodies – then theory will be forced to search for a non-
contaminated form of politics.
By imaging the police order so starkly, Rancière makes it pos-
sible to pursue a completely distinct approach to politics. If the
police order determines the distribution of parts, then politics will
name that insurrectionary force that disrupts this order and chal-
lenges this distribution. Rancière argues that politics occurs, and
only occurs, when the logic of domination intrinsic to any police
order (since all police orders are hierarchical orders) finds itself
confronted with a different logic, the logic of equality. Politics
therefore proves to be the demonstration of the assumption of equality.
In other words, politics happens – and Rancière stresses that it does
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Samuel A. Chambers
not happen frequently – when a confrontation is staged between

the disparate logics of equality and domination. Politics occurs
when these logics come into contact and conflict. This meeting of
the heterogeneous occurs because of an assumption of equality,
and when it occurs that equality is demonstrated. Equality, then,
is neither a substantive good nor an ideal telos. In other words,
politics does not occur because of equality, nor does politics achieve
equality; instead, politics challenges and thwarts the police order.
The regime of the police determines the distribution of parts; it
determines who has a part or who counts. It renders them intelligi-
ble just as it renders some other sphere unintelligible. This concep-
tion of the police can again throw politics into relief: politics is the
taking part of those who have no part; it is the emergence of a party
that is not a party. Politics comes about when those who do not
count make some claim to be counted; hence, for Rancière, politics
names ‘a fundamental miscount’.17 At its root, politics is dissensus.
It is the rending of the police order by a subject that does not exist
prior to the scene of politics. This explains Rancière’s otherwise
cryptic claims that democracy is not a regime, and it deepens our
understanding of his assertion that we do not live in democracies but
rather in regimes of oligarchic law.18 A claim like this should not be
reduced to a cynical comment on the plutocratic elitism of ‘actually
existing democracies’, but taken rather as a sharper reconceptuali-
sation of what the democratic moment must entail – most impor-
tantly, that it can only ever be a moment. This argument brings into
focus Rancière’s account of the relation between democracy and
politics: ‘there is politics . . . because there is democracy’.19 Without
democracy there would only ever be police. Democracy names the
taking part of those who have no part, that is, politics.
Politics can never be pure precisely because politics names a
fundamental impurity, an essential impropriety that renders all
essentialism futile. This is why Rancière can describe the logos, that
‘reasoned speech’ that Aristotle says distinguishes ‘man’ as a politi-
cal animal from all other animals, as tainted from the start.20 Contra
Aristotle, politics is not founded upon the difference between phone
(mere voice, the ability to make sounds) and logos; rather politics
is that which stages a conflict over the interpretation of phone and
logos. After all, when confronted with a creature that makes sound,
only politics can determine whether we hear in that sound phone (a
decision that would lead us to treat the creature as a ‘mere’ animal)
or logos (which would grant that creature a part in the political
200

community). Like Aristotle, Rancière thinks the question of lan-

guage or speech is a fundamentally political question. But Aristotle
makes language a predeterminant for politics: ‘man is a political
animal’. In important contrast, Rancière subjects the human being
to the excess of words: man is ‘a literary animal’, not in the sense of
having an explicit interest in literature but in being exposed to that
literarity from which Plato – and every other philosopher of order –
had hoped to shield us.21
Because he conceives of the human animal as a ‘literary’ animal
in this exact sense, Rancière’s thinking of politics distinguishes itself
from not only Aristotle but also Habermas. Because he rejects the
project of philosophical order, he separates his work from not only
Plato but also Marx. And because he refuses any purity of politics, he
tries to detach his project from not only Arendt but also Foucault.
In this last case, the difference hinges on Rancière’s argument that
‘nothing is political in itself’.22 Nonetheless, anything at all could
become political if it staged the confrontation between the logics
of domination and equality. Politics then does not have to do with
power relations for Rancière. Politics concerns itself instead with
world relations. To elaborate: what a police regime does is order the
world; what politics does is break up that ordering. Therefore while
he might resist the idea of labelling it as such, Rancière’s ‘funda-
mental ontology’ deals with the way the world is ordered and reor-
dered. This ontology links those writings of his that seem explicitly
concerned with politics to the work that seems more concerned
with literature, cinema and art. He calls this, Le Partage du sensible.
Le Partage du sensible
Although ‘police’, for Rancière, specifies a hierarchical distribution
of roles, places and bodies, and thereby names a system of domina-
tion, Rancière insists that ‘police’ is not inherently pejorative.23 This
claim becomes more cogent when we notice that the police is but one
particular form that le partage du sensible, ‘the partition of the sensi-
ble’, can take. As Rancière explains in the seventh of his ‘Ten Theses
on Politics’, police is a partition of the sensible that insists there be
neither a void in that partition nor a supplement to it. That is, ‘police’
is a partition of the sensible that is complete, totalising, without
remainder. But ‘partition of the sensible’ refers not simply to a given
empirical order; it points more generally and more fundamentally to
the intelligibility of that order. Rancière says that the partition of the
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Samuel A. Chambers
sensible is what ‘define[s] the modes of perception’ that make that

order visible and sayable in the first place. Any configuration of the
world depends upon an ontologically prior partition. ‘The partition
of the sensible is the cutting-up of the world and of “world”’.24 This
definition has two distinct elements. First, the ‘cutting-up’ points to a
partition (of the world) in that it simultaneously separates and joins; it
excludes and, at the same time, it ‘allows participation’. Secondly, the
‘cutting-up’ refers to the sensible (the ‘world’) in that it determines
what can be seen and what can be heard.
The idea of le partage du sensible appears to capture and rede-
scribe a great deal of Rancière’s earlier thinking. The relation
between world and ‘world’ in the partition of the sensible can be
traced back to Rancière’s critique of Plato’s attempt to sustain the
order of the city through the order of discourse. This argument
also helps to frame the deconstructive reading of Aristotle in which
the difference between phone and logos can only be determined by
what it was supposed to be based upon: namely, politics. The parti-
tion of the sensible is the ‘general law’ that structures this account
in the first place. In other words, one partition of the sensible will
make logos audible where another will only produce phone. And poli-
tics occurs only when these distinct partitions come into conflict.
Rancière therefore insists that politics has no proper object, since
‘its form is that of a clash between two partitions of the sensible’.25
And we can extend this logic further: in their stubborn insistence
on trying to philosophise, the artisans in Plato’s city disrupt the
given partition of the sensible. Hence Plato must banish them as
well as the poets and sophists who would let writing circulate freely
(thereby tempting anyone and everyone to philosophise). And, in
their curious dabbling in the arts, those nineteenth-century workers
(like those twentieth-century students who will follow them) chal-
lenge the given partition of the sensible just as they undermine the
philosophy of order proposed by the structural marxists.
Just as the notion of a ‘partition of the sensible’ serves to draw
together the threads of Rancière’s earlier writings, so also it acts as
the lynchpin of what some would call his recent ‘turn to aesthet-
ics’.26 Yet Rancière has not so much shifted as he has broadened his
central philosophical project. Just as politics has no proper object
to which it would ‘apply’, so aesthetics does not name some new
field to which Rancière could ‘turn’. Instead, Rancière argues that
‘aesthetics’ proves fundamental to politics. We find ‘aesthetics at
the core of politics’, an aesthetics ‘that has nothing to do with’ what
202

we typically refer to as the aestheticisation of politics.27 Aesthetics,

for Rancière is another name for the partition of the sensible.
He defines a ‘primary aesthetics’ as: ‘a delimitation of spaces and
times, of the visible and the invisible, of speech and noise’.28 This
logic explains the choice to translate Rancière’s book, Le Partage du
sensible into English as ‘The Politics of Aesthetics’. The English title
refers to the idea of a ‘core’ aesthetics within politics as Rancière
defines it. But this should not be taken to reduce aesthetics to a
philosophical concept, as if to suggest that it had nothing to do with
art. As Rancière explains, ‘artistic practices’ are ‘forms of visibility’
that can themselves serve as interruptions of the given partition of
the sensible. And therefore work on aesthetics in this fundamental
sense – that is, work on politics, work on the partition of the sensible
– must also be taken up in the form of work on ‘aesthetics’ in the
sense of Rancière’s specific writings on ‘literature’, ‘the arts’ and
‘film and television’.
The inverted commas around these terms serve to specify them
as objects of Rancière’s discourse, but they also call attention to the
unique if not eccentric ways in which Rancière reconceptualises
them. Rancière’s earliest works in this broad area of inquiry deal
with the question of literature.29 Literature must be distinguished
from ‘literarity’. The latter, as discussed above, always refers to a
particular status of impropriety of the written word: its capacity to
escape systems of legitimation, its ability to travel where it ought
not to travel, to wind up in the hands of those who should not,
by all rights, have access to it. Yet literature can itself partake of a
certain literarity, since literature ‘lives’, says Rancière, by its refusal
and evasion of incarnation.30 Nonetheless significant differences
remain, and Rancière seeks more often to mark the differences – to
highlight the specificity of ‘literature’ – than to draw connections:
‘literature’ refers to ‘an historical system of the art of writing’.31
However, it does not refer to just any such system, and it does not
refer to a certain ‘literary quality’, as if anything written down would
be literature. Instead, Rancière severely circumscribes the realm of
literature: it points specifically to a system of writing that emerges
both in a particular time and place and in response to that which
precedes it. In this particular understanding, literature is marked
out as distinct precisely because it ‘no longer recognizes “rules of
art” or boundaries’.32 Rancière associates literature in this precise
sense with a particular regime of the arts, which he calls ‘aesthetic’.
The aesthetic regime arises as a rejection of the poetic regime.
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Samuel A. Chambers
The poetic regime, in turn, emerged in contradistinction to the

ethical regime. Rancière thereby argues that there have been three
historical ‘regimes of the arts’. Starting at the beginning, then,
Rancière characterises the ethical regime as, properly speaking, a
regime of ‘images’ rather than of art. This regime is the one in
which Plato works. It focuses wholly on the origin and use of images
in relation to the ethos of individuals and communities. Thus, in this
regime one asks: how does the image affect ethos? Plato’s tirade
against the imitative arts, argues Rancière, has nothing to do with
‘politicising art’ and everything to do with the ethics of images.
‘Art’ as a discrete entity only emerges with the poetic regime which
‘breaks away’ from the ethical regime.33 This regime identifies the
core of art with the mimetic principle, but this principle is not an
artistic process or technique but a ‘regime of visibility’ – yet another
partage du sensible. The arts, under this regime, are ‘ways of doing
and making’, and the central question here is ‘which are the better’
ways of making and doing. Finally, then, the aesthetic regime separates
itself from the poetic regime by marking a much more fundamen-
tal partition. This regime first identifies a singular art (as opposed
to ‘the arts’). It frees art from operating under any other ordering
principle – frees it of rules. At the same time, the aesthetic regime
refuses the distinction between an artistic mode of making and any
other. Rancière writes: ‘the aesthetic regime asserts the absolute
singularity of art and, at the same time, destroys any pragmatic crite-
rion for isolating this singularity’.34 Literature, in the sense defined
above, operates within the paradoxes of this aesthetic regime – the
regime that interests Rancière the most. Film operates here as well.
Rancière’s most recently translated works centre on ‘the image’
and on film, topics that have become increasingly popular for
critical theory. But when it comes to the question of film, Rancière
refuses all the usual academic celebrations of this medium. Rancière
argues that the history of cinema, and particularly the history of
film criticism, has been both marked and marred by an effort to
celebrate cinema only by first splitting cinema into two. ‘Pure
cinema’ has repeatedly been extracted from: (1) everything that
would distort it by linking it to previous genres and (2) everything
that would debase it by connecting it to popular culture. The effort
to make cinema entirely new – a mark of film criticism since the
invention of the moving image – has wrested the project of distin-
guishing the cinematic art of the sensation, the image, the moment,
from the old process of storytelling (from narrative and drama and
204

all the rest). Rancière not only, and repeatedly, calls this a bogus
move on the part of critics (since cinema constructs and depends
upon all those same old techniques of plot and narrative) but also
goes on to show that everything critics wish to celebrate about
cinema actually depends upon that which the critic would reject. This
problem plagues not just film criticism; it thwarts the efforts of the
most well-known academic theorists of cinema. About Deleuze and
Godard, for example, Rancière argues: ‘they both extract, after the
fact, the original essence of the cinematographic art from the plots
the art of cinema shares with the old art of storytelling’.35 But if this
is a post-hoc extraction, then surely there is no ‘original essence’
of cinema. The drive to find one probably owes something to the
effort to maintain a dichotomy between ‘principles of art and those
of a popular entertainment’.36
It almost goes without saying that for Rancière there is no pure
plasticity of art, and no pure cinema either. This means that he
rejects any effort to distinguish cinema by its particular techniques
or technology, and it entails his refusal of the common distinction
between film and television. Since there can be no pure cinema that
would free us from the banality of popular storytelling, and since
there can be no special status to cinema (because, for example,
the cinema screen is lighted from a distance while the television
screen is lighted internally – all nonsense for Rancière),37 then Film
Fables, the title of his most important work on cinema, names both
the effort by critics and academics to tell fables about film and also
the particular nature of the fables that film tells. Film fables are,
for Rancière, foiled fables. Rancière writes: ‘the art and thought of
images have always been nourished by all that thwarts them’.38
Rancière’s common refrain, that aesthetics names a partition/
distribution of the sensible, remains central to these arguments. This
explains why ‘cinema aesthetics’ could never be reduced to tech-
nique and why Rancière argues that a cinema aesthetics, ‘cinema as
an artistic idea’, emerges well before we have the technical means
necessary to make a movie.39 As with literature and art, what is impor-
tant about cinema is its aesthetics in this sense – its potential, even if
unrealised, to produce a new partition of the sensible.
Rancière and Critical Thinking

Rancière’s writings have had an important impact on debates
concerning education, particularly in France but now also more
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Samuel A. Chambers
broadly. He has attracted the attention of literary theorists and those

working in cultural studies. But his rethinking of politics/police,
and his linking of politics to aesthetics – thought broadly as the parti-
tion of the sensible – has probably been Rancière’s most important
contribution to date and will likely constitute the signal influence
of his work in the future. He offers a critical defence of democracy
and a thinking of the relation between ‘art’ and politics that stands
apart from other critical writings in these areas. Rancière makes
politics distinct without making it pure; he makes aesthetics ‘politi-
cal’ without aestheticising politics. Above all, and aside from any
particular disciplinary influences his work might have, Rancière’s
writings prove profound precisely because they offer an argument
for equality that cannot be reduced to any philosophy of order.
While liberalism and Marxism both give equality a central place
within their theory, they make equality into an organising principle,
a given or a goal that in either case serves as the spoke out of which
they spin their philosophical system. But Rancière turns to equality
as only someone who is first and foremost a democrat can, seeing
in it the disorder that calls any system of domination into ques-
tion. Equality manifests itself in such a way as to thwart even those
politico-theoretical systems that would make equality fundamental.
The particular form of his turn to equality and the democratic
gives Rancière’s work a productive promise for critical thinking. By
making equality an ‘axiom’, rather than a starting principle or end
goal, Rancière offers the hope of a different kind of politics. But
this also makes Rancière’s a different kind of critical theory. In a
very recent lecture given in English, he describes the fundamental
mechanism of a critical ‘apparatus’ (dispositif) as identifying a reality
that lies hidden behind mere appearance.40 Such critical thinking
comes coupled with an ‘interpretive suspicion’: that is, critical think-
ing is ‘guided by the idea that words always hide something profound
below’.41 Critical thinking therefore consists of unmasking the secret,
where the secret is usually some form of domination. Rancière goes
on to show that those authors who would identify the so-called aban-
donment of either critical thinking or enlightenment rationality,
far from rejecting the critical apparatus, actually depend upon it for
their very argument. They have not rejected the critical turn, but
merely conducted one more twist within it. Yet, for Rancière, in stark
contrast with Jürgen Habermas, rather than proving the truth of the
appearance/reality dichotomy, the replication of this logic indicates
instead the very hollowness of the critical apparatus in the first place.
206

Whereas critical thinking saw emancipation in the effort to reveal the

truth beneath appearances, so-called postmodern thought argues
that all is appearance – it disconnects the mechanism of the critical
apparatus from the emancipatory perspective.42
Rancière does not wish to abandon all insights of critical think-
ing, but he insists on a radical approach to ‘emancipation’. After all,
emancipation was supposed to produce equality, but Rancière says
equality can only ever be assumed and/or demonstrated – it can
never be materialised. Rancière’s understanding of both equality
and of language means that he must maintain a certain essential
distance from critical theory as it has typically been understood. He
overturns much of the common-sense understanding of ‘critical
thinking’ by refusing to take up a critique of ‘appearances’ in the
name of an underlying ‘reality’, and by rejecting the hermeneutics
of suspicion that accompanies this method. Here we see Ranciere’s
most recent writings circle back to his fundamental critique of
Plato, since Platonic metaphysics depends precisely upon discover-
ing the underlying reality beneath mere appearance. Hence we also
glimpse the vast gap that separates Rancière’s thought from that of
Alain Badiou, another well-known French critical theorist who is
also today’s best-known Platonist.
A critical thinking for today, first, will require a genealogy of
critical theory’s terms and, second, it will depend upon a different
set of starting assumptions. What if we refuse both the assumption
that appearance is not reality (that secret domination lies below
everything) and the assumption that all is appearance? Rancière
argues provocatively that to do so would mean taking up an utterly
different assumption: ‘that the disabled are able, that there is no
hidden secret of the machine’.43 Rancière himself calls this ‘a
foolish assumption indeed’, but if it seeks to remain vibrant and rel-
evant, this may be an assumption that contemporary critical theory
cannot afford not to make.
Notes
1. Kristin Ross, ‘Translator’s Introduction’, in Rancière, The Ignorant

Schoolmaster, pp. vii–xiii (viii).
2. Gabriel Rockhill, ‘Translator’s Introduction’, in Rancière, The Politics
of Aesthetics, pp. 1–6 (1).
3. Kristin Ross, May ’68 and Its Afterlives (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 2002).
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Samuel A. Chambers
4. Donald Reid, ‘Introduction’, in Rancière, The Nights of Labor, quoting

Rancière, pp. xv–xxvii (xvi).
5. Ibid. p. xxii.
6. Rancière, The Philosopher and His Poor and The Ignorant Schoolmaster.
7. Rancière, Philosopher, p. 39
8. Ibid. p. 31.
9. Ibid. p. 38.
10. Ibid. p. 40.
11. Rancière, ‘Ten Theses on Politics’, Theory & Event, 5, 3, 2001, paras 1–3.
12. Rancière, Hatred of Democracy, p. 72.
13. Rancière, Disagreement, p. 32.
14. Ibid. p. 28.
15. Ibid. p. 28, emphasis in original.
16. Ibid. p. 29.
17. Ibid. p. 7.
18. Rancière, Hatred of Democracy, p. 72.
19. Jacques Rancière, On the Shores of Politics, trans. Liz Heron (London:
Verso, 2007), p. 94
21. Jacques Rancière, ‘Dissenting Words: A Conversation with Jacques
Rancière’, Diacritics, 30, 2, 2000, pp. 113–26 (115).
22. Rancière, Disagreement, pp. 32–3.
24. Rancière, ‘Ten Theses’, par. 20.
25. Ibid. par. 25, emphasis added.
26. See, for example, the 2009 American Comparative Literature Association
(ACLA) seminar, <http://www.acla.org/acla2009/?p=256>, accessed
22 October 2008.
27. Rancière, Politics of Aesthetics, p. 13.
28. Ibid. p. 13.
29. Jacques Rancière, The Flesh of Words: The Politics of Writing, trans.
Charlotte Mandell (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004);
Rancière, The Names of History, trans. Hassan Melehy (Minnesota:
University of Minnesota Press, 1994).
30. Rancière, Flesh of Words, p. 5.
31. Jacques Rancière, ‘Literature, Politics, Aesthetics: Approaches to
Democratic Disagreement’, interview with Solange Guénoun and James
Kavanagh, trans. Roxanne Lapidus, Substance, 92, 2000, pp. 3–24 (8).
32. Rancière, ‘Literature, Politics, Aesthetics’, p. 7.
33. Rancière, Politics of Aesthetics, p. 21.
34. Ibid. p. 23.
35. Jacques Rancière, Film Fables, trans. Emiliano Battista (New York: Berg,
2006), p. 6.
36. Ibid. p. 10.
208

37. Ibid. pp. 4, 18; Rancière, Future of the Image, trans. Gregory Elliott
(London: Verso, 2008), pp. 2, 6.
38. Rancière, Film Fables, p. 19.
39. Ibid. p. 6.
40. Jacques Rancière, ‘Misadventures in Critical Thinking’, unpublished
manuscript, p. 2.
41. Rancière, ‘Dissenting Words’, p. 114.
42. Rancière, ‘Misadventures’, p. 13.
43. Ibid. p. 15.
Major Works by Rancière

Disagreement: Politics and Philosophy, trans. Julie Rose (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1998 [1995]).
Hatred of Democracy, trans. Steve Corcoran (London: Verso, 2006 [2005]).
The Ignorant Schoolmaster: Five Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation, trans.
Kristin Ross (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1991 [1987]).
The Nights of Labor: The Workers’ Dream in Nineteenth-Century France, trans.
John Drury (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1989 [1981]).
The Philosopher and His Poor, trans. Andrew Parker (Durham: Duke
The Politics of Aesthetics: The Distribution of the Sensible, trans. Gabriel Rockhill
(London: Continuum, 2004 [2000]).

Chambers, Samuel, ‘The Politics of Literarity’, Theory & Event, 8, 3, 2005.
An effort to synthesise Rancière’s critical theory by linking his novel
conception of politics to his understanding of language and literarity.
May, Todd, The Political Thought of Jacques Rancière: Creating Equality
(Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008). Perhaps a slightly
misnamed but nonetheless significant work that mobilises Rancière’s
thinking about politics in an effort to develop a radical and viable anar-
chist politics.
Parker, Andrew, ‘Mimesis and the Division of Labor’, in Rancière, The
Philosopher and His Poor, pp. ix–xx. An excellent overview of what may be
Rancière’s central philosophical idea, and a good introduction to the
context of Rancière’s thinking.
Reid, Donald, ‘Introduction’, in Rancière, The Nights of Labor, pp. xv–xvii.
Perhaps the best detailed account available in English of Rancière’s
critique of Althusser, the post-1968 politics of France and a summary of
Rancière’s thinking in the 1970s and 1980s.
209

13
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (1942–)

Stephen Morton
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak is one of the most influential post-

colonial intellectuals of the contemporary period. She is best
known for her controversial essay ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’ and
for her English translation of the French philosopher Jacques
Derrida’s book De la Grammatologie, which was one of the first trans-
lations of Derrida’s work to appear in English. But Spivak’s thought
is also significant for her deconstructive rereading of Marx’s labour
theory of value, her critical contribution to feminist thought, and
more recently for her reflections on human rights and globalisa-
tion. Spivak’s work has always challenged the authority of western
philosophy, literature and culture by focusing on the histories and
voices of those constituencies who are excluded from its purview:
women, the colonised, the immigrant and the global proletariat.
Life and Intellectual Context

Gayatri Chakravorty was born in Calcutta on 24 February 1942, the
year of the artificial famine in India and five years before India
gained independence from British colonial rule. This radical
political and cultural context in pre-independence Calcutta shaped
Spivak’s earliest childhood experience, providing memories of the
economic injustices wrought by British colonial policy and shaping
Spivak’s own engagement with the global economic text. Gayatri
Chakravorty came from a middle-class Hindu family and attended
a missionary school in Calcutta, where she was taught by tribal
Christians, who were ‘lower than middle class by origin, neither
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Hindus nor Muslims, not even Hindu untouchables, but tribals –

so-called aboriginals – who had been converted by missionaries’.1
Such an encounter with women ‘who were absolutely underprivi-
leged, but who had dehegemonized Christianity in order to occupy
a social space where they could teach their social superiors’ has
continued to mark the trajectory of Spivak’s work.2
Spivak graduated from Presidency College of the University
of Calcutta in 1959 with a first-class honours degree in English.
The teaching of English literature in Indian universities could be
seen to continue the ideological legacy of British colonial educa-
tion. Nonetheless, the students attending the college were socially
mixed, and there was also a politically active intellectual Left at
the college, as in West Bengal generally. Such a political influence
can be seen in Spivak’s published work from her articles and essays
published in the early 1980s to the present.
After taking a master’s degree in English at Cornell University
in the United States, and a year’s fellowship at Girton College,
Cambridge, England, Spivak took up an instructor’s position at
the University of Iowa. While at Iowa she completed her doctoral
dissertation on the work of William Butler Yeats, which was super-
vised by the literary critic Paul de Man at Cornell University. Spivak
subsequently went on to translate Jacques Derrida’s Of Grammatology
and taught at a number of academic institutions around the
world before she was made Avalon Foundation Professor in the
Humanities at Columbia University.
Spivak and Deconstruction

One of the distinctive trajectories of Spivak’s thought is her politi-
cal engagement with deconstruction, the first sign of which was
her ‘Translator’s Preface’ to Derrida’s Of Grammatology. As well
as offering a rigorous and engaging introduction to Derrida’s
thought, which situates Derridian concept metaphors such as the
trace, archécriture and erasure in relation to the European thought
of Hegel, Nietzsche, Freud, Husserl and Heidegger, and compares
Derrida’s thought with French structuralism and Lacanian psychoa-
nalysis, this preface also emphasises the ways in which Derrida’s
thought calls the authority of the western philosophical tradition
into question. Spivak is careful to emphasise that Derrida’s thought
does not simply inhabit the ‘truant world of relativism’3 – a claim
that anticipates misreadings of Derrida’s widely misunderstood
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Stephen Morton
claim that there is nothing outside the text. Indeed for Spivak,
Derrida’s theory of a general system of writing or textuality – by
which he means the economic and social text as well as the philo-
sophical or literary text – enables a radical approach to reading the
world. As Spivak explains: ‘The world actually writes itself with the
many-leveled, unfixable intricacy and openness of a work of litera-
ture’.4 To read the world as a text, in other words, is to read the
contradictions and aporia in the rhetoric of multinational finance
and World Bank reports, but it is also to read the lives and histo-
ries of dispossessed, ‘subaltern’ groups who have no access to the
dominant ‘text’ of globalisation.
Spivak finds in Derrida a thinker who enables her to interrogate
the authority of western thought. Specifically, Derrida’s reading
of Rousseau and Lévi-Strauss in Of Grammatology provides Spivak
with the conceptual tools to criticise the cultural and philosophi-
cal authority of the West. Spivak notes a ‘geographical pattern’ in
Derrida’s argument, whereby a relationship between logocentrism
and ethnocentrism is ‘indirectly invoked’.5 Derrida emphasises
how the coherence and continuity of western thought has been
predicated on the ‘debasement of writing and its repression outside
“full” speech’.6 Derrida refers to this repression of writing as pho-
nocentric, because it privileges the voice as a transparent medium
through which the subject represents himself as a coherent subject.
Yet, as Derrida emphasises, even the physical act of speech relies
on a process of writing or a system of differentiation to generate
meanings. By critically inhabiting the narrow concept of writing
as a transparent vehicle for speech, Derrida traces a movement of
general writing that secures the production of meaning. Yet he also
emphasises how this general writing cannot be understood as a posi-
tive concept or category. Indeed, it is precisely the exclusion of this
general writing from representation which regulates the opposition
between speech and writing, where writing is defined as a transpar-
ent vehicle for speech. As Derrida writes:
This arche-writing, although its concept is invoked by the themes of
‘the arbitrariness of the sign’ and of difference, cannot and can never
be recognised as the object of a science. It is that very thing which cannot
let its self be reduced to the form of presence. The latter orders all
objectivity of the object and all relation to knowledge.7
Although this ‘concept’ of arche-writing ‘communicates with the

vulgar concept of writing’,8 it cannot be known as a positive thing
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within western conceptuality; instead it leaves a trace of its effectivity

in the liminal spaces of western discourse. As Derrida demonstrates,
the systematic effacement of arche-writing in western philosophical
notions of truth is also evident in western ethnographic descriptions
of oral-based cultures.
In his critique of Lévi-Strauss’s self-reflexive, anti-ethnocentric
representation of the Nambikwara (an indigenous group from the
Brazilian Amazon) in Tristes Tropiques, Derrida argues that Lévi-
Strauss ultimately falls back on the ethnocentric trope of a ‘people
without writing’. Lévi-Strauss’s representation of the Nambikwara
employs the conventions of a colonial travelogue, where the anthro-
pologist personifies an evil western culture that contaminates a
world untouched by the violence of writing and western technology.
The anthropologist, in short, constitutes ‘the other as a model of
original and natural goodness’.9 Against this representation of the
Nambikwara, Derrida contends that Lévi-Strauss falls back on the
phonocentric opposition between speech and writing, an opposi-
tion which conceals a more originary movement of writing that is
instituted prior to the anthropologist’s intervention. Derrida traces
this unrepresentable movement of writing in a discussion of the
practice of naming among the Nambikwara.
By unravelling the layers of violence underpinning the exchange
between Lévi-Strauss and the Nambikwara, Derrida suggests that
the oratory of the Nambikwara articulates the differentiation of
writing before it disappears into western anthropological represen-
tation. The Nambikwara’s refusal to speak the ‘proper names’ of
their enemy does not signal their authentic, self-presence within an
oral tradition that is uncontaminated by writing. Rather, this refusal
draws attention to the obliteration of ‘the proper’ in the general
writing of oral-based cultures. If western, phonocentric models of
writing privilege speech as the expression of a single, self-present
subject, oral-based cultures emphasise the movement of speech in
performance, where meanings are mediated across time and space
in a differential movement between the speaker and the audience.
It is implicit in Derrida’s argument that oral-based cultures can
also have a coercive, socially binding function that is analogous
to the narrow, transparent system of western writing. The ethno-
anthropological work of Lévi-Strauss is unaware of this coercive
aspect of oral culture, and is therefore unable to make distinctions
between the situated and constitutive employment of oral-based
cultures in different social and political contexts.
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Stephen Morton
Spivak makes it plain that ‘the East is never seriously studied in

the Derridean text’.10 But she also emphasises the radical poten-
tial of Derrida’s deconstruction of the European philosophical
tradition for post-colonial reading. For example, Spivak asserts
that there is a parallel between Derrida’s deconstruction of the
western philosophical tradition and her interrogation of the legacy
of the colonial education system in India, which taught students
to regard the western humanist subject as a universal standard of
enlightenment to which non-European subjects should aspire.11
Spivak’s critical engagement with Derrida has certainly informed
some of her most well-known post-colonial readings in essays where
she questions the coherence of literary and cultural narratives
which privilege the western humanist subject by highlighting the
ways in which these narratives are predicated on the exclusion
of marginal or subaltern figures. In ‘Three Women’s Texts and a
Critique of Imperialism’, included in A Critique of Postcolonial Reason,
Spivak contends that the economic empowerment of the epony-
mous heroine in Charlotte Brontë’s novel Jane Eyre is made possible
by the marginalisation of the novel’s colonial sub-text. For Jane’s
economic empowerment is made possible by the inheritance of her
deceased uncle’s fortune, reaped from the profits of a Caribbean
slave plantation. Spivak makes a similar argument in her reading of
the white South African novelist J. M. Coetzee’s Foe in ‘Theory in the
Margin’, wherein she considers how Coetzee foregrounds the impe-
rialist determinants of Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe and Roxana.12
And in ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’, Spivak argues that Derrida
‘marks radical critique with the danger of appropriating the other
by assimilation’13 – a claim that helps to guard against the claims of
benevolent radical intellectuals to speak for the disenfranchised.
For Spivak, the critical value of deconstruction lies both in
its acknowledgement that any critical enterprise runs the risk
of falling prey to the object of its critique, and in its argument
that a general condition of impropriety or catachresis underpins
all systems of meaning. This latter condition is particularly pro-
nounced in the post-colonial world, where political concepts such
as nationhood and citizenship were invoked without an adequate
historical referent, precisely because these concepts were imported
from eighteenth-century Europe. This is not to suggest, however,
that Spivak is uncritical of Jacques Derrida’s thought. She offers a
feminist critique of Derrida’s reflections on the figure of woman in
western philosophy and takes Derrida to task for misreading Karl
214

Marx’s argument in Das Kapital. Before assessing Spivak’s engage-

ment with Marx after Derrida in more detail, the following section
considers Spivak’s writings on the subaltern.
Subaltern Studies
The concept of the subaltern has a rich and complex genealogy in
Spivak’s thought. On the one hand, subalternity refers to a position
of social, cultural and linguistic subordination within a particular
colonial or post-colonial society and, on the other hand, it denotes
a position that cannot be conceptualised as a positive category. This
double meaning serves to complicate political programmes that
claim to speak on behalf of the oppressed or the disenfranchised.
To further clarify the meaning of the term in Spivak’s thought it
is also important to track the source of the term in the work of
the left-wing Italian thinker Antonio Gramsci and the South Asian
Subaltern Studies collective.
The term ‘subaltern’ is conventionally understood as a synonym
of subordinate, but it can also denote a lower-ranking officer in the
army, or a particular example that supports a universal proposition
in philosophical logic. Spivak’s use of the term subaltern is prima-
rily informed by the work of the Italian Marxist thinker Antonio
Gramsci on the rural-based Italian peasantry and the research of
the international Subaltern Studies collective on the histories of
subaltern insurgency in colonial and post-colonial South Asia. In his
Prison Notebooks Gramsci uses the term subaltern interchangeably
with ‘subordinate’ and ‘instrumental’ to describe ‘non-hegemonic
groups or classes’.14 This is not to say that the term subaltern is
synonymous with the category of proletariat, however. As the subal-
tern historian David Arnold explains, ‘the language of subalternity
might generally be more appropriate than that of class’ in societies
like India or Italy that ‘had not become wholly capitalistic’.15
It is this sense of the subaltern – as a general category of subor-
dination – that informs the work of the Subaltern Studies collective.
Drawing on Gramsci’s account of the rural peasantry in Southern
Italy, as well as the work of the British Marxist historians Eric
Hobsbawn and E. P. Thompson, the Subaltern Studies collective
use the term as a ‘name for the general attribute of subordination in
South Asian society whether this is expressed in terms of class, caste,
age, gender and office or in any other way’.16 By focusing on South
Asian history from the perspective of the subaltern, the members
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Stephen Morton
of the collective have persistently sought to challenge the elitism of

bourgeois nationalist historiography, which has its roots in a British
colonial ideology. What is more, Subaltern Studies historians such
as Ranajit Guha and Dipesh Chakrabarty rejected the characterisa-
tion of peasant consciousness as pre-political or semi-feudal in the
work of elite historians, and argued instead that the ‘nature of col-
lective action against exploitation in colonial India was such that it
effectively led to a new constellation of the political’.17
It was partly this theoretical approach to the histories of subal-
tern resistance that prompted Gayatri Spivak’s critical engagement
with the Subaltern Studies collective.
In an interview Spivak clarifies her own employment of the term
‘subaltern’:
I like the word ‘subaltern’ for one reason. It is truly situational.

‘Subaltern’ began as a description of a certain rank in the military. The
word was later used under censorship by Gramsci: he called Marxism
‘monism,’ and was obliged to call the proletarian ‘subaltern.’ That
word, used under duress, has been transformed into the description
of everything that doesn’t fall under a strict class analysis. I like that,
because it has no theoretical rigour.18
Like Guha, Chakrabarty and Arnold, Spivak traces how the word
subaltern has become transformed by the Subaltern Studies collec-
tive into a category that is clearly distinct from the word proletariat.
In this interview Spivak valorises the term ‘subaltern’ because it
is a more flexible and situated category of political identity than
the term proletarian, which conventionally denotes the masculine
working-class subject of nineteenth-century Europe.
Yet this is not to suggest that Spivak is entirely in agreement with
the work of Subaltern Studies historians. Spivak’s formulation of
the subaltern as a theoretical concept is distinct from that of the
Subaltern Studies’ historians in that she argues that the subaltern is
a historical fiction that enables the historical claims of the Subaltern
Studies historians, rather than a positive presence that can be
recovered from the archives of colonialism. In ‘Deconstructing
Historiography’, for example, Spivak’s reading of the Subaltern his-
torians project emphasises how their practice of revisionist histori-
cal writing is broadly speaking at odds with their methodology. Early
writings on the history of peasant insurgency try to recover a pure
subaltern consciousness that is equivalent to Marx’s notion of class
consciousness. Spivak argues that such an approach bestows a false
216

coherence on the much more complex and differentiated struggles

of particular subaltern groups. By doing so, the Subaltern Studies
historians are thus in danger of objectifying the subaltern, and
thereby controlling them ‘through knowledge even as they restore
versions of causality and self-determination to him’.19 Rather than
disavowing this risk of falling prey to the dominant structures of
knowledge and representation, Spivak emphasises that this risk is
necessary in order to address the subaltern voices and histories that
are being studied. In this particular context, Spivak invokes Jacques
Derrida’s statement that ‘the enterprise of deconstruction always
in a certain way falls prey to its own work’.20 By affirming the risk
of complicity in the Subaltern Studies work (rather than disavow-
ing it), Spivak suggests that the ‘actual practice’ of the Subaltern
Studies historians is ‘closer to deconstruction’.21
Spivak’s critique of the Subaltern Studies’ methodology is signif-
icant in terms of what it reveals about the politics of representation,
a concern that Spivak addresses more explicitly in her 1988 essay
‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’. In this essay, Spivak begins by offer-
ing a critique of a conversation between the late twentieth-century
French intellectuals Michel Foucault and Gilles Deleuze about the
relationship between the politically committed intellectual and
‘oppressed’ or socially marginalised groups such as prisoners or the
mentally ill. Since both Foucault and Deleuze are generally critical
of humanist notions of the subject, which presuppose that human
subjects have agency or power over their own destiny, it may seem
surprising that Foucault and Deleuze speak about the ‘oppressed’
as if the ‘oppressed’ can speak and know their own conditions. For
Spivak this claim is problematic for two reasons. First, in speaking of
‘the oppressed’ as if they could know and represent their own con-
ditions, Foucault and Deleuze efface the position of the intellectual
who acts as a proxy for the ‘oppressed’ subject that it names and
calls into being. Second, Spivak argues that this lapse in Foucault
and Deleuze’s post-representational thinking has serious ethical
and political consequences when it is framed in terms of the global
division of labour between the First World and the Third World:
‘Neither Deleuze nor Foucault seems aware that the intellectual
within socialized capital, brandishing concrete experience, can
help consolidate the international division of labor’.22
It is partly for these reasons that Spivak suggests in ‘Can the
Subaltern Speak?’ that Jacques Derrida’s deconstructive thought
provides a more ethical conceptual framework than that provided
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Stephen Morton
by the work of Foucault or Deleuze for engaging in a meaningful

dialogue with the subaltern:
Derrida marks radical critique with the danger of appropriating the

other by assimilation. He reads catachresis at the origin. He calls for a
rewriting of the utopian structural impulse as ‘rendering delirious that
interior voice that is the voice of the other in us’. I must here acknowl-
edge a long-term usefulness in Jacques Derrida which I seem no longer
to find in the authors of The History of Sexuality and Mille Plateau.23
Indeed, for Spivak, Derrida’s ethical thought provides a means of

unsettling the authority of the benevolent intellectual who seeks
to engage with the subaltern: ‘no amount of raised consciousness
fieldwork can ever approach the painstaking labor to establish
ethical singularity with the subaltern’.24
Spivak’s deconstructive approach to the agency and voice of
subaltern insurgency has invited criticism from a number of critics.
Most famously, Benita Parry has argued that Spivak’s use of post-
structuralist methodologies to describe the historical and political
oppression of disempowered women has further contributed to
their silencing. Writes Parry, ‘Spivak in her own writings severely
restricts (eliminates?) the space in which the colonized can be
written back into history, even when “interventionist possibilities”
are exploited through the deconstructive strategies devised by the
post-colonial intellectual.’ In Parry’s argument, Spivak effectively
writes out ‘the evidence of native agency recorded in India’s 200
year struggle against British conquest and the Raj’ with phrases like,
‘The subaltern cannot speak’.25 What such criticisms crucially over-
look, however, is the precise meaning of ‘speech’ in Spivak’s essay.
In an interview with Donna Landry and Gerald McLean, Spivak
argues that ‘“the subaltern cannot speak” . . . means that even when
the subaltern makes an effort to the death to speak, she is not able
to be heard, and speaking and hearing complete the speech act’.26
To say that the gendered subaltern cannot speak, then, is to say that
she is denied the agency to make public speech acts. But in marking
the institutional and political conditions that prevent the gendered
subaltern from making public speech acts, Spivak suggests that the
post-colonial intellectual can begin to invent spaces in which the
subaltern can be heard.
What is also important here is Spivak’s concern with the gendered
subaltern. Indeed, what lies behind Spivak’s criticism of the subal-
tern studies collective is a concern that their positivist methodology
218

– a method which insists on the principle that all historical claims

are substantiated with reference to positive archival sources – will
not be adequate to trace the historical participation of subaltern
women in acts of anti-colonial national insurgency. For if women’s
participation in acts of anti-colonial national insurgency was not
recorded in historical events, this does not necessarily mean that
women did not participate in such events. A good example of this
problem is Spivak’s account of Bhubaneswari Bhaduri’s suicide,
a middle-class Indian woman who ‘hanged herself in her father’s
modest apartment in North Calcutta in 1926’. ‘Nearly a decade
later’, Spivak contends that ‘it was discovered that she was a member
of one of the many groups involved in the armed struggle for Indian
independence’.27 Significantly, the historical sources upon which
Spivak bases this claim are family anecdote and rumour. Although
there is no official documented evidence of Bhaduri’s involvement
in anti-colonial insurgency, Spivak speculates that Bhubaneswari
had attempted to cover up her involvement with the nationalist
resistance movement through an elaborate suicide ritual that resem-
bled the ancient practice of Hindu widow sacrifice or sati. Spivak
clearly identifies the agency and voice of subaltern women such as
Bhubaneswari Bhaduri despite their exclusion from the dominant
historical record.
Reading Marx after Derrida

Spivak’s critical engagement with the Subaltern Studies collective
and her commitment to recovering the voices and histories of the
gendered subaltern cannot be separated from her rereading of
Marx’s labour theory of value. Throughout her work, Spivak empha-
sises the enduring importance of Marx’s labour theory of value for
understanding the contemporary world economic system, and the
superexploitation of subaltern women’s bodies in the global South
upon which that system depends. She also questions the rigor of
Jacques Derrida’s presentation of Marx’s thought in Spectres of Marx,
arguing that Derrida confuses the distinction Marx makes between
commercial and industrial capital in Das Kapital.
In Marx’s labour theory of value, the value of a particular com-
modity is calculated in the first instance by subtracting the human
labour that went into the production of the commodity; the value of
the commodity is then measured in relation to that of another com-
modity. In the exchange of two objects with different uses, there
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Stephen Morton
needs to be a general equivalent that is able to measure the value of

an object independently of its use. Marx refers to this general equiv-
alent as exchange value. Critics of Marx often regard the concept
of use value as a sign of unalienated labour – as a sign, in other
words, of Marx’s romantic anti-capitalism. For Spivak, however, the
category of use value in Marx’s thought is a deconstructive concept
that destabilises the production and circulation of surplus value or
capital. This reading may seem to be particularly surprising, espe-
cially when one considers that Marx’s thought is often read in terms
of the dialectical thinking of the German philosopher G. W. F.
Hegel. But Spivak’s deconstructive reading of Marx becomes more
palpable when it is considered in relation to her translations of
Mahasweta Devi’s writings. For Spivak’s translations of Devi’s fiction
not only ‘convey Devi’s rage and irony about those – the tribal, the
bonded labourer, the wet nurse, the rural minimum-wage worker
– who do not achieve political equality when Indian and Pakistan
declare their independence’;28 they also highlight the ways in which
the subaltern woman’s body is a site of exploitation in the contem-
porary global economy. In her reading of Mahasweta Devi’s short
story, ‘Douloti the Bountiful’, for example, Spivak argues that the
final scene in the story – which depicts the tormented corpse of a
female bonded labourer forced into prostitution sprawled across a
map of India, which has been drawn on the ground by a schoolmas-
ter in a rural village in India – exemplifies the global exploitation of
subaltern women’s bodies.
Beyond Post-colonial Studies: Transnational Literacy, Human

Rights, Globalisation
Spivak’s critical engagement with Marx’s thought is developed
further in her monograph, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason. In the
first chapter of this book, entitled ‘Philosophy’, Spivak offers an
illuminating reading of the figure of the native informant in the
German philosophy of Kant, Hegel and Marx. Spivak considers how
Kant, Hegel and Marx figure as ‘remote discursive precursors’ in the
changing axiomatics of imperialism.29 By doing so, Spivak reveals
how each of Kant, Hegel and Marx are not merely philosophers but
thinkers of the capitalist world system avant la lettre. In her reading
of the Kantian sublime, Spivak charts the disavowal of the native
informant between Kant’s Critique of Practical Reason and his Critique
of Judgement. Emphasising the limits of cognitive control over the
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rational will, Kant’s analytic of the sublime worked to expand the

double bind of practical reason, where the moral subject was able
to think a final purpose without being able to know it. Yet, if the
moral subject needed culture to define his cognitive limitations in
the face of the abyssal structure of the sublime, these limitations are
also marked by the narrow terms of moral subjectivity. As Spivak
argues, Kant’s reading of the sublime presented itself differently to
people who were not constituted as human subjects within Kant’s
European philosophical system: ‘Without development of moral
ideas, that which we, prepared by culture, call sublime presents
itself to man in the raw [dem rohen Menschen] merely as terrible’.30
Leading on from this discussion, Spivak proceeds to develop
an argument that runs throughout her book: that relationships
of colonial power cannot be structurally reversed; rather, they
‘require a persistent attempt to displace the reversal [and] to show
the complicity between native hegemony and the axiomatics of
imperialism’.31 In a reading of Hegel’s Lectures on Aesthetics, Spivak
considers how the classic Hindu text, The Gita, worked to stabilise
elite forms of Indian nationalism in the twentieth century, as well
as occupying a particular dialectical phase in Hegel’s teleological
projection of the (European) world spirit (Weltgeist). By rearticulat-
ing this moment in Hegel’s Lectures on Aesthetics, Spivak spells out
the implications of such a reading for elite forms of cultural nation-
alism in pre-independence India. If The Gita stands as a ‘not-yet
historical’ text in Hegel’s Lectures, it provides a ‘supra-historical’
resource for Indian nation-building.32 The closing section of the
chapter on philosophy offers an illuminating reading of the Asiatic
Mode of Production (AMP) in the Marxist corpus. If the AMP signi-
fied a prehistorical space in Marx’s theory of historical materialism,
Spivak argues that this untheorised place can work to disrupt the
constitution of the productive body as a human subject in Marx’s
Eurocentric narrative. Echoing her earlier reading of the raw man
in Kant’s Third Critique, Spivak notes how the property relationship
defining the Asian individual in Marx’s text is figured as Species-
Life, but ‘has not yet differentiated itself into Species-Being’.33
Whereas Species-Life denotes the abstract human that is coded as
a disembodied resource in economic relationships leading back to
primitive communism, Species-Being approximates the (European)
class-conscious human subject that Marx persistently describes in
his critical enterprise.
For Spivak, however, Marx’s elision of the Asian individual in
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Stephen Morton
the definition of Species-Being falls back on the Hegelian move to

subordinate historical and geographical difference to a logical para-
digm. As a consequence, Marx seems to define the AMP as a process
without a subject. In returning to the imperialist determinants of
Marx’s thought, however, Spivak unhinges an asymmetry in Marx’s
notions of Species-Life and Species-Being that resurfaces in Deleuze
and Guattari’s notion of a body without organs (BwO). Situating
the BwO in terms of the capital relationship, Spivak encourages us
to consider how the (re)productive body of particular subaltern
women is integrated into the state political or philosophical organs
of the European enlightenment, as well as contemporary late capi-
talist circuits.
A Critique of Postcolonial Reason reframes some of Spivak’s earlier
arguments to interrogate the conceptual and geopolitical ground of
post-colonial studies, at a time when nation states are ceding politi-
cal and economic control to multinational corporations and global
organisations. By doing so, Spivak attempts to change the object
of politicised interdisciplinary work and to trace the historical rup-
tures, as well as the repetitions between the histories of colonialism
and the current phase of global electronic finance capitalism, which
shape contemporary cultural production.
If the trajectory of Spivak’s early critical work was partly con-
cerned with the relationship between literary and cultural studies
and European colonialism, her recent work on translation, tran-
snational literacy and subaltern rights signals a shift in the empha-
sis of her work. Spivak’s proposal in her lecture series Death of a
Discipline that comparative literary studies should engage with the
languages of the global South, which she also names ‘subaltern
languages’, defines a radical political task for a discipline which is
conventionally concerned with reading literary texts written in dif-
ferent languages. For Spivak persistently argues that one must take
into account the multiplicity of subaltern languages as a strategy
to counter the silencing and exclusion of subaltern groups from
political representation at a local, national or global level.34
The political dimension of Spivak’s thought is also demon-
strated in her essay collection Other Asias. In the essay ‘Righting
Wrongs’, for instance, Spivak argues that the rural poor in India
will remain an object of benevolence in human rights discourse
without the recovering and training of the ethical imagination of
such subaltern groups. To counter this problem, Spivak proposes
a rethinking of the subject of human rights from the standpoint
222

of the rural poor and the sub-proletariat in South Asia. Such a

rethinking demands a new pedagogy that is capable of suturing the
tear in the fabric of Indian society caused by centuries of class and
caste oppression, as well as the transition from colonial modernity
to globalisation. If ‘Righting Wrongs’ questions the assumption
that human rights discourse can alter the disenfranchisement of
the rural poor without a sustained programme of radical pedagogy
that directly challenges the means by which the rural poor and the
sub-proletariat have been denied a voice, ‘Responsibility’ considers
how international civil society has failed to recognise the singular
voice of the subaltern. Beginning with a discussion of Derrida’s
reading of Heidegger’s notorious Rectoral Address in Of Spirit,
Spivak emphasises how Derrida’s reading of Heidegger identifies
the ways in which enlightenment thought is complicit with totali-
tarianism. In so doing, Spivak demonstrates how Derrida’s reading
of Heidegger illuminates the ways in which deconstruction is cru-
cially concerned with responsibility and the acknowledgement of
complicity: ‘This is the double bind of deconstruction, its peculiar
humility, responsibility, and strength; its acknowledgement of
radical contamination’.35 The central point that Spivak makes in
this essay, moreover, is that Derrida’s reading of spirit in Heidegger
provides a reading strategy that can enable western intellectuals
to address the limitations of dominant structures of responsibility
and representation, which silence subaltern voices. One example
of this silencing is the presentation and mistranslation of a speech
on the flood management technique of the Bangladeshi peasantry
at the conference on the World Bank’s Flood Action Plan in the
European Parliament, Strasbourg, by Abdus Sattar Khan, ‘an aging
leader of the peasant movement’.36 In Spivak’s account, this elderly
gentleman could be seen to act as a political representative for the
cause of the Bangladeshi peasantry, whose way of life is so obviously
threatened by the World Bank’s policies. Yet, as Spivak emphasises,
the man ‘was staged as a slice of the authentic, a piece of the real
Bangladesh’,37 whose speech was poorly translated and who was
forced to deliver his speech at breakneck speed within the allotted
time of twenty minutes. Consequently ‘there was such a great gulf
fixed between [Sattar Khan’s] own perception of how to play his
role in a theater of responsibility and the structure into which he
was inserted that there was no hope for a felicitous performance
from the very start’.38 What this example illustrates is the myriad
difficulties of the subaltern acting and speaking as an empowered
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Stephen Morton
political subject in transnational public spaces, which claim to

recognise the human rights of subaltern constituencies.
Conclusion
Spivak’s thought has had a major influence on post-colonial
studies over the past two decades, which has tended to concen-
trate on her essay ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’ and A Critique of
Postcolonial Reason.39 But Spivak’s rethinking of Marx has also had
a profound impact on transnational cultural studies, with think-
ers such as Peter Hitchcock emphasising that Spivak is one of the
few intellectuals of our time to rethink the body ‘within the space
of contemporary transnational capitalism’.40 Such an argument is
also important for debates in transnational feminism – for Spivak,
along with leading feminist thinkers such as Chandra Talpade
Mohanty and Aiwa Ong, has made a major contribution to our
understanding of the position of women, the gendered body and
the ideology of reproductive heteronormativity in the contempo-
rary global economy.
Notes
1. The Spivak Reader, p. 17.

2. Ibid. p. 16.
3. Spivak, ‘Translator’s Preface’, p. lxxii.
4. Spivak. In Other Worlds, p. 95.
5. Spivak, ‘Translator’s Preface’, p. lxxxii.
6. Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976), p. 3.
7. Ibid. p. 57.
8. Ibid. p. 56.
9. Ibid. p. 114.
10. Spivak, ‘Translator’s Preface’, p. lxxxii.
11. Spivak, The Postcolonial Critic, p. 7.
12. Spivak. ‘Theory in the Margin: J. M. Coetzee’s Foe Reading of
Defoe’s Crusoe/Roxana’, in Jonathan Arac and Barbara Johnson (eds),
Consequences of Theory: Selected Papers of the English Institute, 1987–88
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990), pp. 154–80.
13. Spivak, ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’, p. 308.
14. Antonio Gramsci, Selections from Prison Notebooks, trans. and ed. Quentin
Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith (London: Lawrence and Wishart,
1971), p. xiv.
224

15. David Arnold, ‘Gramsci and Peasant Subalternity in India’, in

Vinayak Chaturvedi (ed.), Mapping Subaltern Studies and the Postcolonial
(London: Verso, 2000), pp. 21–49 (33).
16. Ranajit Guha, ‘Preface’ to Subaltern Studies 1 (Delhi: Oxford University
Press, 1982), pp. vii–x (vii).
17. Dipesh Chakrabarty. ‘A Small History of Subaltern Studies’, Habitations
of Modernity: Essays in the Wake of Subaltern Studies (Chicago: Chicago
18. Spivak, The Postcolonial Critic, p. 141.
19. Spivak, In Other Worlds, p. 201.
20. Cited in ibid. p. 201.
21. Ibid. p. 198.
23. Ibid. p. 308.
24. Mahasweta Devi, Imaginary Maps, trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak
(London: Routledge, 1995), p. xxiv.
25. Benita Parry, ‘Problems in Current Theories of Colonial Discourse’,
Oxford Literary Review, 9, 1987, pp. 27–58 (29).
26. The Spivak Reader, p. 287.
28. Rashmi Bhatnagar, ‘Seminars on Reading Marx’, PMLA, 123, 1, 2008,
p. 237.
29. Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, pp. 3–4.
30. Ibid. pp. 12–13.
31. Ibid. p. 37.
32. Ibid. p. 62.
33. Ibid. p. 80.
34. See Spivak, Death of a Discipline and Other Asias.
35. Spivak, Other Asias, p. 65.
36. Ibid. pp. 92–5.
37. Ibid. p. 92.
38. Ibid.
39. See the collection of essays in Rosalind Morris (ed.), Can the Subaltern
Speak: The History of an Idea (New York: Columbia University Press,
2010), and the special issue of the post-colonial journal Interventions,
4, 2, 2002, on A Critique of Postcolonial Reason.
40. Peter Hitchcock, Oscillate Wildly: Space, Body, and Spirit of Millennial
Materialism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999), p. 15.
Major Works by Spivak

‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’, in Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg
(eds), Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture (Urbana: University of
Illinois Press, 1988), pp. 271–313.
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Stephen Morton
A Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Toward a History of the Vanishing Present

(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999).
Death of a Discipline (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003).
In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics (London: Methuen, 1987).
Other Asias (Oxford: Blackwell, 2008).
Outside in the Teaching Machine (London: Routledge, 1993).
The Postcolonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies, Dialogues, ed. Sarah Harasym
(London: Routledge, 1990).
The Spivak Reader, ed. Donna Landry and Gerald Maclean (London:
Routledge, 1995).
‘Translator’s Preface’, in Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976), pp. ix–lxxxvii.

Morton, Stephen, Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (London: Routledge, 2002).
An introduction to Spivak’s thought, which assesses Spivak’s contribu-
tion to debates within Marxism, feminism and deconstruction, and
looks at Spivak’s style.
Morton, Stephen, Gayatri Spivak: Ethics, Politics and the Critique of Postcolonial
Reason (Cambridge: Polity, 2006). Examines the ethical turn in Spivak’s
post-colonial thought and situates this move in relation to her engage-
ment with Derrida and de Man, Marxism, feminism, Levinas, human
rights discourse and the Subaltern Studies collective, as well as her
recent reflections on war and terrorism. This chapter condenses and
reframes some of the arguments presented in this book.
Ray, Sangeeta, Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak: In Other Words (Oxford: Wiley-
Blackwell, 2009). This insightful study of Spivak’s thought includes
chapters on autobiography, reading literature, singularity and gender.
Sanders, Mark, Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak: Live Theory (London: Continuum,
2006). This lucid introduction to Spivak’s thought addresses issues such
as transnational literacy, theory in translation, Marx after Derrida, femi-
nism internationalised, and thoughts on war and suicide; includes an
interview with Gayatri Spivak.
226

14
Paul Virilio (1932–)

John Armitage
A Contemporary Critic of the Art of Technology

Few French philosophers have had as significant an influence on
contemporary critical theory as Paul Virilio. Born in Paris, of Breton-
Italian parents, Virilio’s investigations in the 1950s and 1960s took
him into varied regions of enquiry, such as city planning, military
space and the organisation of the Atlantic Wall – the 15,000 bunkers
built by the Nazis during the Second World War along the coastline
of France to repel any Allied assault. He founded with the architect
Claude Parent the Architecture Principe group and the journal of
the same title in 1963, studied philosophy at the Sorbonne with the
phenomenologist Maurice Merleau-Ponty and, in 1969, became
a professor at the École Spéciale d’Architecture (ESA) in Paris.
Virilio lectured at the ESA from 1969 until his retirement in 1997.
He has been a member of the editorial staff of the journals Esprit,
Cause Commune and Traverses, became the general Director of the
ESA in 1975, and was presented with France’s National Award for
Criticism in 1987. Virilio was designated programme director at the
International College of Philosophy, Paris, in 1989. He published
Bunker Archeology, the outcome of his study of the Atlantic Wall, in
1975, L’insecurité du territoire, a book on contemporary geopolitics in
1976, Speed & Politics, an essay on ‘dromology’ (the compulsive logic
of speed) analysing the military and political results of the transpor-
tation and transmission revolution in 1977, and Popular Defense and
Ecological Struggles, a volume outlining the circumstances relating to
popular opposition to war, in 1978.
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John Armitage
However, as a contemporary critical theorist, Virilio’s present

concern is with technology. As Virilio commented:
When someone says to me I don’t understand your position, my
response is, I’ll explain it to you. I am a critic of the art of technology
. . . If they still don’t understand, then I say: just look at what an art
critic is to traditional art, and then substitute technology for traditional
art, and you have my position. It’s that simple.1
Broad tenets can be extracted from his technological theories,

and the critique of the art of technology, the philosophical stance
associated with Virilio, has its own distinctive standpoint on virtu-
ally any sphere of human undertaking, and particularly aesthetics.
We will chiefly be contemplating Virilio’s most prolonged texts
on the theme of aesthetics, The Aesthetics of Disappearance and War
and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception, subsequent to some general
remarks regarding the critique of the art of technology instigated
by Virilio.
The critique of the art of technology is a theory of technology. In
particular, it is a critique of the theories of technology proposed, for
example, by Marxist philosophers. Marx had highlighted a positive
idea of technology, thinking of it principally as an applied area with
its own task to perform in historical development. Marx’s philoso-
phy of technology established an archetypal model for how modern
technology functioned, and Marxism extended that model as the
foundation for its examinations of socio-cultural phenomena.2 For
Marx, for instance, modern technology served as a spur to deeply
required transformations in society and culture and was an increas-
ing incentive to revolution against the contradictions within capital-
ism. Technology was thus an inducement towards a new balance of
the forces of production and new socio-cultural organisations that
would realise the dream of humanity as communism. Marx’s stand-
point towards technology was in consequence ultimately optimistic
since, alongside the development of human socio-cultural organisa-
tions and the human use of natural resources for economic produc-
tion, it was a crucial and constructive element in the historical and
material development of civilisation.
Influenced by Edmund Husserl, the German philosopher
and originator of phenomenology, and the German existential-
ist thinker Martin Heidegger, who was preoccupied with, among
other things, ‘the question concerning technology’, Virilio’s
critique of the art of technology in turn questions many of the
228

technological ideas associated with Marxism and similar critical

theories.3 Consequently, Virilio argues against Marxism’s encour-
aging vision and philosophy of technology and against Marxism’s
affirmative insights into technology as a seemingly uncomplicated
determinant of the meaning of modern existence, communica-
tion and history. For Virilio, the meaning of contemporary life
is much more negative, and therefore Marxism’s upbeat vision
and philosophy of technology invariably fails to penetrate the full
significance of present-day ways of life. This is because, for Virilio,
works of cinematic art, for instance, contain within them uncritical
conceptions of aesthetics and technology, conceptions that, today,
are ever more connected through worldwide media flows and
rooted in strategies designed to continually manufacture a world
of terror. Virilio’s theory of technology is therefore a pessimistic
one, and any effort to inflict a hopeful theory or reading of tech-
nology, similar to Marxism, for example, is to be considered as the
‘propaganda of progress’.4 The critique of the art of technology
aspires to expose such propaganda and challenge the pretences
of all so-called ‘progressive’ aesthetic theories and technological
systems.
Virilio’s justification for his radical critique of Marxian and
related contemporary modes of thinking technology is that such
thought perpetually favours only the positive attributes of modern
technology. Yet his downbeat position on technology is not merely
a nostalgic one, perhaps longing for the restoration of medieval
spinning wheels and water mills. Rather, Virilio’s is a hyper-critical
understanding of the characteristics of technological phenomena.
Accordingly, while his view of technology is one of refusal and over-
flowing with alarm, Virilio is not just ‘anti-technological’, contrary
to, for example, Marx’s bright vision of technology. Nevertheless,
when such a sanguine attitude towards technology as Marx’s is
employed in more controversial cultural ways – in society, politics,
the economy, personal relations, human development, ecology, or
history, for instance – his ideas and nuances become more philo-
sophically menacing, and Virilio’s critique of the art of technology
confronts all such occurrences. The critique of the art of technol-
ogy, unlike Marx’s confirmatory perspective on and philosophy of
technology, considers that questioning the essence or real meaning
of technology is predominantly a question about what technology is.
That is, that any critical definition of technology will understand it
as something in excess of goal-seeking human activity. Technology
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John Armitage
is more than the use of tools, machinery and so on, to activate or

attain human objectives.
For Virilio, such superficial socio-political and instrumental
definitions of technology are founded on a sort of delusion. This
delusion rests on what we might refer to as the distinction between
a superficial and a more profound definition of technology, with
the former usually being envisioned by Virilio as sustaining contem-
porary Western culture. Neither the meaning of modern existence
nor the questioning of the essence of technology can be completely
content with definitions of technology that only view it as part of
end-seeking human endeavour. It is not enough to focus upon the
purely surface aspects of particular technologies. Rather, to move
beyond the surface, one must concentrate on exposing the essence
of the technology under consideration. In other words, one must
focus upon those sites where one can expose technology, where a
more dynamic and philosophical interpretation of it ensues, and
where the propaganda of progress always remains merely a facile
rather than a meaningful definition of the entire technological
field.
The critique of the art of technology has been very successful
in the sphere of aesthetics, particularly on the topic of disappear-
ance, a topic extremely vulnerable to its uncompromising theory
of technology. From this angle, it makes perfect sense to Virilio
to speak of a contemporary speeding up of cultural meanings and
political interpretations as well as a critical theory aimed at tenta-
tive readings of accelerated subjectivities and cultural politics.
The disappearance of appearance in contemporary aesthetics and
culture, then, a form of disappearance, aesthetics and culture far-
removed from the world of Marx’s optimistic vision and philosophy
of technology, and from any questioning of the essence of technol-
ogy, renders Virilio’s critique of the art of technology an activity of
the utmost urgency and purpose. This is because, for Virilio, while
pre-modern cultures were typified by an aesthetic of appearance,
by an aesthetic founded on an enduring material or technological
support for the image (wood or canvas in the example of paintings;
marble in the example of sculptures; and so on), this is no longer
the case. Indeed, Virilio maintains that, with the modern invention
of cinematics, we entered into an aesthetic of disappearance, into
an aesthetic no longer founded on a lasting technological founda-
tion for the image. For, in our day, the cinematic image especially
is utterly cognitive, that is, it only exists in the human eye, and
230

constantly disappears, as it does on the cinema screen at twenty-four

frames a second.
The Aesthetics of Disappearance

Aesthetics is therefore a key area where such theories have impor-
tant repercussions. Indeed, aesthetics not only has its technologies
and cinematic texts, its suppositions about the meaning of contem-
porary life, accelerated subjectivities and cultural politics, but also
its critical analyses purportedly disclosing the aesthetic dimensions
of individual cinematic works and filmmakers. Virilio leaps into
such discussions in The Aesthetics of Disappearance, a captivating set of
interventions on the meaning of modern existence and aesthetics.
The book takes as its subject matter a statement of Paul of Tarsus:
‘The world as we see it is passing’, which develops into a theoretical
demonstration of the multiple problems associated with produc-
ing reliable critical statements concerning recurrent chronologi-
cal gaps or aesthetic judgements regarding unexpected temporal
absences. How does one portray the aesthetic aspects of a situation
where the ‘senses function, but are nevertheless closed to external
impressions’ or, in other words, where the senses are in the process
of disappearance?5
Virilio’s answer to this question is to write of the aesthetics of
disappearance. We are presented with a string of ideas relating to
the senses’ arrival and departure, of arrested words and actions,
of temporal interruptions, of conscious and continuous time,
of apparently programmed perception without obvious intervals,
rather than any particular explanation of the character of aesthet-
ics. For these abundant everyday disappearances, Virilio employs
the concept of ‘picnolepsy’, a kind of chronic neurological disor-
der shaped by speed and which is derived from the Greek word
‘picnos’, meaning frequent. Picnolepsy is then a state of conscious-
ness created by subjects rooted in the disappearance, in the breaks,
malfunctions and accelerated imagery coursing through and char-
acterising them. The critique of the art of technology is not an exact
description of the ‘picnoleptic’, a person for whom nothing actu-
ally occurs, or even of what the absent instance that never survived
means for present-day lifestyles. Rather, it indicates that there are
holes in our theories of perception, consciousness and temporal-
ity, holes that imply that we are mistaken when making our almost
child-like assumptions about the existence of events. Aesthetic
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John Armitage
works, like everyday perception, thus function according to a kind

of illusion, which imagines that they transmit full information.
Questions concerning the aesthetic dimension, memory and
meaning in the realm of disappearance as a consequence become
questions concerning the aesthetic dimension and meaning regard-
ing vision technologies such as cinema. And such questions direct
us to a never-ending series of problems about cinema and subjec-
tivity, cinema and picnolepsy, aesthetics and a multitude of other
human activities. Certainly, Virilio argues that what precludes us
from ever determining a firm starting point from which to make
critical statements is our propensity to patch up our essentially
fragmented visual sequences. For we repeatedly modify the outlines
of visual impressions to make ‘equivalents’ out of what we, as ‘pic-
noleptics’, have ‘seen’. But the question is: what have we ‘seen’ and
what have we not ‘seen’? What have we remembered and what have
we not remembered? According to Virilio, the answer is that human
vision is not a visual discourse of verisimilitude but a visual discourse
of fabrication and re-creation, of picnolepsy, of indeterminate
visual information or evidence which, in its turn, leads us to become
doubtful of what we know of both ourselves and those around us.
The Aesthetics of Disappearance establishes not a conviction that
nothing really exists or that existence cannot be described, com-
municated or explained to others, but how hard it is to reach any
decision as to what constitutes the aesthetic dimension of disap-
pearance. Contemporary critical theory, by which henceforth I
mean the Marxian philosophical approach to the aesthetic features
of disappearance and cinema that contemplates the socio-historical
materialist and ideological forces and structures which create and
constrict them, can only appear as the propaganda of progress to
the critic of the art of technology. Virilio’s opposition to Marxian
ideology critique, to its attempts to unmask the difference between
reality and illusion, ‘true’ and ‘false’ consciousness, is as much
personal as theoretical. For not only was Virilio’s father an Italian
communist, whose political views he totally rejects, but Virilio also
became a Christian at the age of eighteen. Taking flight from
Marxian-inspired aesthetic analysis, Virilio’s contemporary writings
on the critique of the art of technology are as a result a Christian-
inflected negative vision of technological phenomena. And it is
this negation of technology that is the object of enquiry. However,
Virilio has no intention of supplying a comprehensive understand-
ing of the domain of picnoleptic uncertainty, a key to open all the
232

doors of perception, or a theoretical machine for decoding every

cinematic text. The indirect target is Marxism, which, in its use of
the Marxist theory of modern technology, did appear to assure the
capacity of comprehensive understanding to its supporters.
Howard Hughes and Ice Station Zebra

When Virilio considers real people and real works of cinematic
art, in place of the difficulties of analysing them, the result is very
similar, as in his contribution to discussions on the subject of the
fate of the American aviator and industrialist, film producer and
director, philanthropist and billionaire, Howard Hughes (1905–
76). For Virilio, Hughes’s life was one of two separate halves. The
first half, Virilio suggests, entailed Hughes becoming, as depicted
in Martin Scorsese’s movie The Aviator (2004), starring Leonardo
Dicaprio, a very wealthy man, a supreme aviator, and a leading
Hollywood film producer and director. Succeeding everywhere,
living publicly and flamboyantly, Hughes’s otherworldly life and
much desired public image was then for years overexposed in the
global media, laden as it was with stories of his riches, aerial feats
and liaisons with beautiful women.
And then, from age forty-seven onwards, the second half of
Hughes’s life involved a concealed existence as he became a man
who could not bear to be seen and who in fact disappeared into
hiding until his demise. Clearly no longer seeking to fulfill his indi-
vidual desire for monetary acquisition, technological or industrial
achievement, Hughes’s only purpose for his fortune, Virilio main-
tains, was to buy solitary confinement. Living naked, swathed in
bedsores, gaunt and bereft on a pallet in a darkened room, Hughes
sought to amass not so much the power of money as the power of
disappearance. Refusing to wear a watch yet proclaiming himself the
‘master of time’, Hughes wanted nothing less than omnipotence.
Seeking to ‘win’ the game that is human existence, Hughes formed
a contradictory division between his own individual time and that of
cosmological time, with the object not only of being able to control
events but also of being able to react to them immediately. For
Hughes, to be was to occupy a kind of speed-space, a ‘place’ where
his identity could merge with the void, where he could literally be
no one yet simultaneously be everywhere and nowhere.
Yet, significantly, Hughes’s taste for omnipresent absence was
satisfied above all through his use of a variety of technological
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John Armitage
media. Not content with smashing 1930s speed records for flying
around the globe, Hughes abruptly grounded his airplane, at
last acknowledging that his craving for movement was actually a
craving for inertia. Connected to people only by telephone, Hughes
locked himself inside rooms that were identical, even if they were
continents apart, thereby eradicating the sensation of travelling
from one place to another, but, especially, eradicating the sensa-
tion of the differences between one place and another. Through
Hughes’s poorly lit rooms and windows no daylight could enter.
Working against any unexpected image while curbing all uncer-
tainty, Hughes wanted to be ‘everywhere and nowhere, yesterday
and tomorrow, since all points of reference to astronomical space
or time were eliminated’.6
However, in all of Hughes’s rooms, were a movie screen, a projec-
tor and the controls that allowed him to screen his films, or, rather,
his film. For Hughes’s film, like his plate for eating, was nearly
always the same one: John Sturges’s Ice Station Zebra (1968), starring
Rock Hudson, a quite ordinary story of a race for a Russian satellite
that crashes close to the North Pole. Yet it was a story so gripping
for Hughes that he screened it to himself over 150 times.7 Hughes’s
obsession with Ice Station Zebra does not receive an explicit analysis
by Virilio. Nevertheless, Hughes’s fixation on this film is illustrative
of Virilio’s interest in Hughes’s twisted vision of unlit rooms and
the absence of light, of, in fact, Hughes’s yearning to be nowhere,
to be no longer able to be seen, or to be next to other people. For
Hughes, it was sufficient to appreciate that he had the ability to
go wherever he pleased and that people would be anticipating his
arrival when he got there. It is characteristic of the critique of the
art of technology that what Virilio invokes is a multiplicity of obses-
sions of this sort that lay bare the processes of distortion and dark-
ness, desire, disappearance, proximity and distance at work in any
critical assessments concerning the nature of visuality and space,
luminosity, nonexistence, inter-subjectivity and personal power. To
be sure, much of The Aesthetics of Disappearance is involved with the
questions raised for the critique of the art of technology by acts of
disappearance on the part of people such as Howard Hughes.
To Hughes, Ice Station Zebra was identical to the cars he pur-
chased, which were also indistinguishable. Indeed, he forever
bought the same type of Chevrolet because he considered it par-
ticularly commonplace. To Virilio, however, such films reveal not
so much Hughes’s nonconformist habits, his business and political
234

practices, his dishonest and secret activities, his cavalier way of

behaving towards the world, or even his last collapse into slumber
and death. Rather, they reveal Hughes’s aesthetic of disappearance:
an aesthetic wherein arrival and departure amount to the same
thing. To sympathise with Hughes’s account in this discussion is
to attribute a precise meaning to modern existence with regard to
his particular form of disappearance, in that Ice Station Zebra can
be taken to disclose something about him to his fellow Americans:
that he was a mystic, one whose approach to modern American
life resembled that of a ‘technological monk’.8 Yet, according to
Virilio, what is significant about Hughes’s mania for films such as
Ice Station Zebra and its programmed representations, and perhaps
with Sturges’s own direction of the film, is that there is virtually
no distinction between Hughes’s sunless rooms atop the Desert
Inn in Las Vegas and the caves of the earliest hermits who with-
drew to the desert seeking spiritual communion with God and the
afterlife. Hughes’s form of disappearance was thus caught within
a closed circuit of non-communication, a sort of desertification or
self-induced misery that led to his own destruction. Here, there is
only one issue, the issue not of the city of Las Vegas, of the State of
Nevada, of their deserts, laws, beliefs and organisations but, rather,
the issue of Hughes’s itinerant yet semi-virtual existence and denial
of the modern world.
It is only after considering such an issue that one can proceed to
understand Hughes’s practically inhuman yet priest-like activities.
Virilio therefore challenges archetypal critical-theoretical discus-
sions concerning the meaning of modern life by asking: what makes
us so certain that Hughes’s fascination with films like Ice Station Zebra
was not a sign of our own sufferings? What does our own passion for
leading enclosed lives within cinema auditoria, single-seater por-
nography film cubicles, video and computer game arcades, have
to tell us about our own insanity? Moving beyond Hughes’s form
of disappearance and closed circuit of non-communication, Virilio
invites us to contemplate instead questions essential to the critique
of such absurdities. He challenges the wish for urban desertification
that motivates Hughes’s interpretation of the city as a wasteland of
doubt, showing instead that films such as Ice Station Zebra may well
have been produced to remind us of our own contemporary loneli-
ness: namely, to escape, not solely the wish for urban desertification
on the part of so many people today but also the desertification of
the meaning of the whole of modern existence.
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The Contribution of the Critique of the Art of Technology

What contribution does the critique of the art of technology make to
aesthetics? First, Virilio’s preliminary critique of the cultural impact
of cinematics in The Aesthetics of Disappearance led immediately
to his War and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception. War and Cinema,
derived from the research Virilio conducted into the coordination
of machine guns and cameras on military aircraft during the First
and Second World Wars, analyses his hypothesis that military and
cinematic technologies have acquired a deadly mutual dependence
by way of various cinematic and military texts and photographs that
incorporate facets of the aesthetics of disappearance. The absurd-
ity of the technologies of war and cinema having attained a lethal
interdependence as a hypothesis for the visual arts evokes another
absurdity central to the aesthetics of disappearance, where ‘images’
of Hiroshima, for example, were created by the almost unrepre-
sentable nuclear ‘flash’ which, as it permeated that city’s badly lit
corners and crevices, also engraved barely visible ‘representations’
of its fatalities on Hiroshima’s streets.
However, War and Cinema is arguably less an account of the dis-
appearance of uninterrupted sight in conflict than a deliberation
on the substitution of hand-to-hand fighting by way of the distant
but deadly and all-too-familiar sound-and-light show of contempo-
rary warfare, such as the ‘shock and awe’ of the Iraq War of 2003.
Here, there are hints of Virilio’s interest in military strategy, with
the replacement of face-to-face combat by the faraway and fatal
noise and glow of present-day war seemingly an indication of a
world dominated by the struggle between images of visibility and
invisibility, of a world that simply cannot be depicted accurately.
Military images and cinematic texts, like surveillance or camouflage,
are for Virilio a flight into the mysteries of the ‘logistics of percep-
tion’, with military personnel and civilian cineastes alike becoming
technologised and cinematised, militarised, and incurably reliant
upon modes of perception and annihilation that are coextensive.
As in Desert Screen: War at the Speed of Light, Virilio’s compilation of
newspaper articles on the Gulf War of 1990–1, and his Strategy of
Deception, Virilio’s incisive condemnation of the duplicity of the
United States and its allies’ Kosovo War, we discover once more
not a precise analysis of the aesthetic work of cinema but, rather,
a critical exploration of the conjunctions between technology and
history, weaponry, photography and cinematography.
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Second, in later texts, such as The Lost Dimension, Negative Horizon

and The Vision Machine, Virilio’s critique of the art of technology
questions Marxist and other materialist ideas concerning space,
speed and vision technologies. He argues that we cannot avert the
emerging crisis of material or physical space. Virilio’s is thus an
aesthetic of technology and of the built environment anchored
in a critical appreciation of the disappearance of equipment and
architecture, politics, culture and society into the empire of speed
such that we can no longer reveal either the real meaning of con-
temporary vision technologies or the real purpose of disappearance
in any specific cultural milieu. The technologisation of aesthetics
cannot cope with the consequences of ‘progress’ through compu-
terised technologies of perception any more than the technologies
of so-called ‘post-industrial’ production can. Perhaps we can argue
that the critique of the art of technology functions to maintain the
secrecy that lies at the core of our perception of the world, of our
capacity to expand and to distribute images in ostensibly random
historical ways and continually to generate novel aesthetic and
technological results.
Yet if Virilio’s critique of the art of technology is on target con-
temporary critical theory is in difficulty. Although not an estab-
lished academic subject, the currently varied collection of scholarly
traditions, texts, ideas, analytical techniques and socio-political per-
spectives that collectively comprise the discourse of critical theory’s
efforts at explanation become problematic if, as Virilio suggests
in Polar Inertia and The Art of the Motor, total information concern-
ing the recent multimedia revolution is unattainable. Obviously,
critical theory had a deep impact upon aesthetics and its history
in the twentieth century, not to mention its impact on Marxism as
a leading theoretical perspective on the growth and wide-ranging
influence of capitalism upon modern society and culture. To a
critic of the art of technology, however, critical theory’s search for
explanations of the impact of technology can only appear as an
instance of the propaganda of progress.
Bleak in its analysis for some, the critique of the art of technol-
ogy is nevertheless unwavering with regard to the absolute cultural
devastation produced by contemporary technologies of communi-
cation and surveillance on aesthetics and politics. Without a doubt,
Virilio’s aesthetics and politics could not be more evident than in
his Open Sky, which corresponds with no prior form of radicalism,
refuses to ignore the necessity of working on speed, perception and
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John Armitage
the politics of control, and most definitely shuns any acceptance of

the global ‘real time’ of today’s information and communications
technologies, the harbingers of both our contemporary experience
of the loss of the aesthetics of appearance and the arrival of the
aesthetics of disappearance.
Conclusion
The analysis of the loss of the aesthetics of appearance is perhaps
the most important feature of the critique of the art of technology
and Virilio’s aesthetics of disappearance, particularly since the aes-
thetics of appearance is of enduring interest to many contemporary
critical theorists. The aesthetic belief in the need to bring about, to
make appear, a political revolution that will set in motion commu-
nism all over the world is frequently taken for granted by Marxist
critical theorists and, by the 1950s, Marxian-inflected critical theory
had productively initiated numerous extremely significant cultural
questions, artistic concerns and subjects for the development of an
aesthetics of appearance. The critique of the art of technology ques-
tions the disappearance of the aesthetics of appearance, and with it
many of our beliefs about what is taking place in the chaotic process
Virilio calls A Landscape of Events. In contrast to diverse Marxian
and materialist notions such as the importance of examining the
connection between social class, ideologies and aesthetic forms, of
particular cineastes and periodic cinematic styles and groups, for
instance, the French ‘New Wave’ group of filmmakers of the 1950s
and 1960s partly influenced by Italian ‘Neo-realism’ and classical
Hollywood, the critique of the art of technology is much more
interested in the impact of works of cinematic art on the built envi-
ronment and city planning. It is thus the ability of the landscape of
events and what Virilio brands The Information Bomb to further mili-
tarise science, to create cultural disarray and to launch ‘cyberwar’
on the general civilian population that concerns him rather than
the study of works of cinematic art as such.
Likewise, Virilio’s reaction to the aesthetics of the contemporary
city, in his Ground Zero, City of Panic and The Original Accident, and
similar to his reaction to disappearance, is pessimistic and involves,
for example, a consideration of the seemingly inexplicable motiva-
tions, actions and anonymity of those who initiated the September
11 2001 attacks on New York City and Washington DC. For such
anonymity, according to Virilio, ‘merely signals, for everyone, the
238

rise of a global covert state – of the “unknown quantity” of a private

criminality – that “beyond-Good-and-Evil” which has for centuries
been the dream of the high priests of an iconoclastic progress’.9
Contemporary critical theorists might protest about Virilio’s ana-
lytical need to explore rather than to explain such ‘cities of panic’
without recourse to the study of economic modes of production,
for instance, those that might be recognised as late capitalist, and
their multifaceted association with societies and cultural life, to
diminish them to a collection of unsophisticated or limited mean-
ings concerning modern existence in Frankfurt and Paris, Kabul,
Baghdad, Mumbai or Gaza. Yet how many contemporary critical
theorists are at all acquainted with Virilio’s position that works of
cinematic art in particular impact upon our journeys along the
autobahns of Frankfurt or that the meaning of contemporary life
in the city is increasingly being altered through media-driven terror
campaigns? It could never be suggested that the critique of the art
of technology is an aesthetic approach that consents to the bur-
geoning faith in security patrolled shopping malls, the constantly
expanding web of state surveillance, or self-styled ‘gated com-
munities’. What the essence of the work of cinematic art is, for the
critic of the art of technology, is a way in to the ever-more globally
networked media empires that constantly manufacture a world of
dread, the volatile yet radical impact of which is a concrete example
of the perspective of the critic of the art of technology. In Virilio’s
The Original Accident, for instance, the viewpoint of the critic of the
art of technology leads not to Howard Hughes or to Ice Station Zebra
but to a discussion of the future, to cinematic and other texts that
previously sought to depict an improved way of life for everyone.
However, at present, as in Virilio’s The Aesthetics of Disappearance, the
future is a ‘place’ where nobody wants to go anymore, alive as it is
with insecurities, hazards and fright, with an existence contained by
terrorisation, natural disasters and unnatural accidents.
All the same, some contemporary critical theorists, who are
themselves no strangers to the investigation of the propagandistic
and radical purposes of aesthetics, artists and thinkers in contem-
porary societies, will not welcome cities of panic being employed as
a ruse for the examination of a networked global media that con-
tinually (re)constructs our planet of fear. Nonetheless, they may be
drawn to the critique of the art of technology as a critical approach
to a contemporary socio-cultural regime dominated by the dual
development of art and science that, as described in Virilio’s Art
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John Armitage
and Fear, Unknown Quantity, Art as Far as the Eye Can See and, most
recently, The University of Disaster, can only be understood as a kind
of death drive on the part of humankind. For, in Virilio’s blistering
contemporary works, art and science are portrayed as competing
with each other to obliterate humanity.
Yet the critique of the art of technology of Virilio’s Unknown
Quantity, for example, does not introduce an authoritative philo-
sophical position founded on the critique of contemporary immate-
rialism and the build-up of extremes of all sorts between the general
population and the ‘aesthetic’ if ruinous work of two World Wars
and half a century of the ‘balance of terror’. In fact, if the critique
of the art of technology introduces any philosophical standpoint,
it is that of a hyper-critical reaction to the contemporary creation
of major industrial accidents. While some contemporary critical
theorists may well be attracted to the critique of the art of technol-
ogy, others, however, are liable to remain unconvinced by Virilio’s
Art as Far as the Eye Can See, by its repudiation of our new media
world where the aesthetics of appearance and its materiality have
disappeared into the mediated aesthetics of disappearance, into
the immateriality of technology. In contrast, the critique of the art
of technology does provoke us to reflect on aesthetics, and chiefly
the politics of aesthetics, in an original manner; one concerning The
University of Disaster or the catastrophic potential of the contempo-
rary era where the arts are separating from artists and from their
materials, where the general population, aesthetics and cinema are,
as Virilio might have it, all in the clutches of the cultural devastation
caused by contemporary information, communication and surveil-
lance technologies.
Notes
1. See Paul Virilio and Sylvère Lotringer, Pure War (New York: Semiotexte,
2008), p. 192.
2. See Fredrick Ferré, Philosophy of Technology (Athens: University of
Georgia Press, 1995), pp. 54–7.
3. See Edmund Husserl, The Crisis of European Sciences and Transcendental
Phenomenology (Evanston: Northwestern Press, 1970); and Martin
Heidegger, The Question Concerning Technology and Other Essays (New
York: Harper, 1977).
4. See Paul Virilio, Le Futurisme de l’instant: Stop-Eject (Paris: Galilée,
2009).
240

5. Virilio, Aesthetics of Disappearance, p. 19.

6. Ibid. p. 36.
7. See Peter Harvey Brown and Pat H. Broeske, Howard Hughes: The Untold
Story (Los Angeles: Warner Bros Books, 1998), p. 349.
8. Virilio, Aesthetics of Disappearance, p. 37; original emphases.
9. Virilio, Ground Zero, p. 82; original quotation marks and emphases.
Major Works by Virilio

The Aesthetics of Disappearance, trans. Philip Beitchman (New York:
Semiotexte, 2009 [1980]).
Art and Fear, trans. Julie Rose (London: Continuum, 2003 [2000]).
Art as Far as the Eye Can See, trans. Julie Rose (Oxford: Berg, 2007 [2005]).
The Art of the Motor, trans. Julie Rose (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
Press, 1995 [1993]).
Bunker Archeology, trans. George Collins (Princeton: Princeton Architectural
Press, 1994 [1975]).
City of Panic, trans. Julie Rose (Oxford: Berg, 2005 [2004]).
Desert Screen: War at the Speed of Light, trans. Michael Degener (London:
Continuum, 2002 [1991]).
Ground Zero, trans. Chris Turner (London: Verso, 2002 [2002]).
The Information Bomb, trans. Chris Turner (London: Verso, 2000 [1998]).
L’insecurité du territoire (Paris: Stock, 1976).
A Landscape of Events, trans. Julie Rose (Princeton: Princeton Architectural
Press, 2000 [1996]).
The Lost Dimension, trans. Daniel Moshenberg (New York: Semiotexte, 1991
[1984]).
Negative Horizon, trans. Michael Degener (London: Continuum, 2005
[1984]).
Open Sky, trans. Julie Rose (London: Verso, 1997 [1995]).
The Original Accident, trans. Julie Rose (Oxford: Polity, 2007 [2005]).
Polar Inertia, trans. Patrick Camiller (London: Sage, 2000 [1990]).
Popular Defense & Ecological Struggles, trans. Mark Polizzotti (New York:
Speed & Politics: An Essay on Dromology, trans. Mark Polizzotti (New York:
Strategy of Deception, trans. Chris Turner (London: Verso, 2000 [1999]).
The University of Disaster, trans. Julie Rose (Oxford: Polity, 2009 [2007]).
Unknown Quantity, trans. Chris Turner (London: Thames and Hudson,
2003).
The Vision Machine, trans. Julie Rose (London: BFI, 1994 [1988]).
War and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception, trans. Patrick Camiller (London:
Verso, 1989 [1984]).
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John Armitage

Armitage, John (ed.), Paul Virilio: From Modernism to Hypermodernism and
Beyond (London: Sage, 2000). An important compilation of theoretical
articles on Virilio dealing with the main features of his texts inclusive
of polar inertia and architecture, bunkers, war, new media, speed, the
accident, art and feminism.
Armitage, John (ed.), Virilio Live: Selected Interviews (London: Sage, 2001).
Cultural and social theory, architecture, acceleration, space, politics,
aesthetics, technology, accidents and conflict are the principal themes
of this set of interviews conducted by an assortment of international
interviewers.
James, Ian, Paul Virilio (London: Routledge, 2007). The second single-
authored monograph on Virilio in English with an emphasis on the
politics of perception and speed, virtualisation, warfare and art.
Redhead, Steve, Paul Virilio: Theorist for an Accelerated Culture (Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press, 2004). The first single-authored mono-
graph on Virilio in English highlighting acceleration, modernity and
the accident.
242

15
Slavoj Žižek (1949–)

Matthew Sharpe
The oeuvre of Slovenian-born political philosopher and cultural

critic Slavoj Žižek is a striking ‘minority report’ on today’s intel-
lectual scene. Žižek’s paratactic, inviting yet perplexing style, and
his prodigious ability to theoretically unpack examples (from
politics to pop culture) is virtually unprecedented. His work is
framed in terms of a polemical critique of other leading theorists
within today’s left-liberal academy (Derrida, Foucault, Habermas,
Agamben, Deleuze). On a descriptive level, Žižek’s Lacanian theory
of ideology affords new purchase on many of the paradoxes of
liberal-consumerist subjectivity, which is at once politically cynical
(as the Right laments) and politically conformist (as the Left com-
plains). Prescriptively, Žižek’s work challenges his readership to ask
questions about the possibility of political change – if that is what
the left wants – otherwise rarely asked since 1989. Which changes?
Justified by what? With what practical consequences?
Žižek was born in 1949 in Ljubljana, Slovenia, and grew up in
the comparative cultural freedom of the former Yugoslavia’s self-
managing socialism. Here, he was exposed to the films, popular
culture and theory of the non-communist West. Žižek completed
his PhD at Ljubljana in 1981 on German Idealism, and between
1981 and 1985 studied in Paris under Jacques-Alain Miller, Lacan’s
son-in-law. In this period, Žižek wrote a second dissertation, a
Lacanian reading of Hegel, Marx and Kripke. In the late 1980s,
Žižek returned to Slovenia where he wrote newspaper columns
for the Slovenian weekly Mladina, and co-founded the Slovenian
Liberal Democratic Party. In 1990, he ran for the Slovenian
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Matthew Sharpe
presidency, narrowly missing office. Žižek’s first published book

in English (The Sublime Object of Ideology) appeared in 1989. Since
then, he has published some two dozen books, edited several col-
lections, debated leading global intellectuals, organised confer-
ences, published numerous philosophical and political articles,
and maintained a tireless speaking schedule. Žižek’s recent work
has taken an increasingly engaged political tenor, including books
on September 11, the Iraq war, and his defence of the lost cause of
some form of communist, post-democratic political regime.
Žižek’s Ideology Critique: Disidentification, Jouissance and

Ideological Fantasy
In 1989, when Sublime Object of Ideology appeared, the category
of ‘ideology’ was in disrepute. According to the classical Marxist
definition, ideologies are discourses that promote false ideas (‘false
consciousness’) in subjects about their political regimes. Because
these ideas are believed by subjects to be true, they assist in repro-
ducing the existing status quo. To undermine an ideology, accord-
ing to this position, it is enough to unearth the truth(s) it conceals
from subjects. People will then become aware of the political
shortcomings of their current regimes, and be moved to better
them. For ideologies to have the political importance this classical
Marxian theory accords to them, critics comment, subjects would
have to have a level of faith in public institutions, ideals and politi-
cians which today’s liberal-cosmopolitan subjects lack. The wide-
spread notoriety of political comics like Jon Stewart, host of the US
comedy news programme, The Daily Show (or, in Australia, satirical
comics such as The Chaser, most famous for dressing as Bin Laden
and gaining entrance to the G8 summit), bears witness to how sub-
jects today can know very well the awful truth concerning abuses of
power, yet act as if they did not know.
Žižek proposes that in order to understand today’s politics we
need a different notion of ideology. He observes that, as ‘ideology’
since Marx has carried a pejorative sense, no one taken in by such
an ideology has ever believed they were so duped. If the term ‘ide-
ology’ has any meaning, ideological positions are always imputed
to Others (for today’s Left, for example, the political Right are the
dupes of one or another noble lie about natural community or
dream of perfect market functioning; for the Right, the Left are the
dupes of well-meaning but utopian egalitarianism bound to lead to
244

economic and moral collapse). For subjects to believe in an ideol-

ogy, it must have been presented to them as non-ideological, as
true and right. For such reasons, Žižek’s bold opening claim in The
Sublime Object of Ideology is that today ideology has less disappeared
from the political landscape than come into its own. It is because of
neo-liberal capitalism’s marvellous success that talk of ideology has
also been dismissed from polite political and theoretical opinion.
Today’s typical First World subjects, according to Žižek, are the
dupes of what he calls ‘ideological cynicism’. Drawing on German
political theorist Peter Sloterdijk, Žižek contends that the formula
describing the operation of ideology today is not ‘they do not know
it, but they are doing it’, as it was for Marx. It is ‘they know it, but
they are doing it anyway’.1 Ideologies, as political discourses, are
there to secure the voluntary consent of people about contest-
able political policies or arrangements. Yet, Žižek argues, subjects
will only voluntarily agree to follow any such arrangement if they
believe that, in doing so, they are expressing their freedom and
might have done otherwise.
However false such a sense of freedom is, Žižek insists that it is
a paradoxically essential appearance, to use a Hegelian expression.
French Marxist Louis Althusser’s understanding of ideological
identification suggests that an individual is wholly interpellated into
a place within a political system by the system’s dominant ideology
and ideological state apparatuses. Žižek argues that it is a mistake
to think that, for a political position to win peoples’ support, it
needs to effectively brainwash them into thoughtless automatons.
Rather, any successful political ideology always allows subjects to
have and to hold a conscious distance towards its explicit ideals and
prescriptions – what Žižek calls ideological disidentification, which
is connected to two other central ideas in his work:
1. Žižek adapts the psychoanalytic notion that individuals are al-

ways ‘split’ subjects, divided between conscious awareness and
unconscious beliefs, knowledge and desire. Subjects are always
divided between what they consciously know about political mat-
ters and a set of more-or-less unconscious beliefs concerning the
regime in which they live.
2. Žižek makes a crucial distinction between knowledge and belief.
Precisely where and because subjects do not know, for example,
what the essence of their people is, the scope and nature of their
beliefs on such matters is politically decisive – just as in theology
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Matthew Sharpe
faith is to be distinguished from knowledge or ‘proof’ of God’s

existence.
The key Lacanian caveat to these claims is Žižek’s key notion

that belief is always ‘belief through the Other’. Although in politi-
cal life individuals very often do not consciously fully understand
or ‘know what they do’ – what their system represents, what their
cause, freedom or justice is – it is decisive that they suppose there
are Others who do know. Žižek contends that the key political
function of holders of public office is to occupy the place of what
he calls, after Lacan, ‘the Other supposed to know’. Žižek often
cites the Hegelian example of priests reciting mass in Latin before
an uncomprehending laity, who believe that the priests know the
meaning of the words, and for whom this is sufficient to keep the
faith. Far from presenting an exception to the way political author-
ity works, this scenario reveals the universal rule of how political
consensus is formed.
Similarly, political authority is primarily symbolic in its nature.
In Lacanian terms, the symbolic register refers to how the roles
public authorities undertake are more important politically than
the ‘reality’ of the individuals in question (whether they are unintel-
ligent, unfaithful to their wives). The office or place an individual
occupies in their political system ensures the political force of their
words and the belief of subjects in their authority. Žižek some-
times puts this thought by saying that people believe through the
Other, or that the Other believes for them, despite what they might
inwardly think or cynically say.
Žižek follows Althusser’s emphasis on the ‘materiality’ of ideol-
ogy, its embodiment in institutions and peoples’ everyday practices.
Žižek’s realist position is that all the ideas in the world can have
no lasting political effect unless they come to inform institutions
and subjects’ day-to-day lives. In The Sublime Object of Ideology, Žižek
famously cites Blaise Pascal’s advice that doubting subjects should
get down on their knees and pray, and then they will believe. The
deeper message of Pascal’s directive is that, once subjects have
come to believe through praying, they will retrospectively come to
see that they got down on their knees because they already believed,
without knowing it.
Prior political theory has placed too little emphasis, Žižek asserts,
on communities’ cultural practices that involve ‘inherent transgres-
sions’. These are practices sanctioned by a culture that nevertheless
246

allows subjects some experience of what is usually exceptional to

or prohibited in their everyday lives as civilised political subjects
– things like sex, death, defecation, disloyalty or violence. Such
experiences involve what Žižek calls Jouissance, another term from
Lacanian psychoanalysis. As opposed to what we talk of in English
as ‘pleasure’, Jouissance is an always sexualised, always transgres-
sive enjoyment, at the limits of what subjects can experience or
talk about in public. Žižek argues that subjects’ experiences of the
events and practices wherein their political culture organises its spe-
cific relations to Jouissance (for example, specific sports, alcohol or
drugs, music, festivals, films) are as close as they will get to knowing
the deeper Truth intimated for them by their regime’s key political
ideas or ‘master signifiers’ – ‘nation’, ‘God’, ‘our way of life’, ‘the
Party’. Žižek, like Edmund Burke and other conservatives, argues
that it is such ostensibly non-political and culturally specific prac-
tices as these that irreplaceably single out any political community
from its others and enemies. Or, as Žižek sometimes puts it, subjects
‘enjoy (jouis) their Nation as themselves’,2 Jouissance being the basis
of their political cohesion.
One implication of this theoretical account of ideology and
political consent is that ideologies – as for Althusser – are political
discourses whose primary function is not to make correct theo-
retical statements about political reality (as the ‘false consciousness’
model implies), but to orient subjects’ lived relations to this reality.
If a political ideology’s descriptive propositions happen to be true
(for example, ‘capitalism exploits the workers’, ‘Saddam was a
dictator’), their ideological character is not undermined. Ideology
concerns how belief in certain propositions (rather than others),
positions subjects on the leading political issues of the day. For
Žižek, political speech is primarily performative: it is about secur-
ing a lived sense of community between subjects comparable to
what Kant called sensus communis. If political propositions seem to
describe things in the world, we nevertheless need always to under-
stand them as Marx understood the exchange value of commodi-
ties – as a relation between people concealed behind a relation
between things. Žižek sometimes cites Marx’s analysis of what it is
for a person to be a king in Capital. A king is only king because his
subjects loyally think and act as if he is king. Yet, here is the Žižekian
rub: the people will only believe he is king if they believe this is a
sublime Truth about which they can do nothing.
This brings us to the central notion of sublime objects of
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Matthew Sharpe
ideology. Žižek claims that regimes can only secure a sense of

collective identity if their governing ideologies afford subjects an
understanding of how their regime relates to what exceeds, supple-
ments or challenges its identity. Kant’s analytic of the sublime in
The Critique of Judgment, as an analysis of an experience in which the
subject’s identity is challenged, is crucial for Žižek. Kant identifies
two moments of sublime experience. In the first moment, the size
or force of an object painfully impresses upon the subject the limi-
tation of its perceptual capabilities. In a second moment, however,
a reflective representation arises where we would least expect it,
which takes as its object the subject’s own failure to apprehend the
object. This representation (re)signifies the subject’s perceptual
failure as indirect testimony to the inadequacy of human percep-
tion to attain to what Kant calls Ideas of Reason (such as God, the
Universe as a Whole, Freedom, the Good).
According to Žižek, all successful political ideologies necessar-
ily refer to and turn around sublime objects posited by political
ideologies in exactly this Kantian sense. Political subjects take
it that the key words of their regime’s ideologies name sublime
objects – extraordinary things like God, the Führer, the Nation,
in whose name they will (if necessary) transgress ordinary moral
laws and lay down their lives. When a subject believes in a politi-
cal ideology, it does not mean that they know the Truth about
the objects which its key terms seemingly name. By drawing on
the parallel with Kant on the sublime, Žižek makes a more radical
point. Ideologies work by (re)signifying individuals’ very inability
to explain the content of their political beliefs, which is testimony
to just how transcendent or great is their nation, God, freedom. In
Žižek’s Lacanian terms, these sublime objects of ideology are Real
(capital ‘R’) Things (capital ‘T’), beyond the things and people we
usually encounter.
In the struggle of competing political ideologies, Žižek argues,
the aim of each is to elevate their particular perspective (about
what is just, best and so on) to the point where it can lay claim to
name or give voice to the political whole (for example, the Nation
or People). In order to achieve this political feat, each group
must succeed in identifying its perspective with the extra-political,
sublime objects accepted within the culture as giving body to this
whole (such as ‘the national interest’ or ‘the dictatorship of the pro-
letariat’). Alternatively, it must supplant the sublime objects of the
previous ideologies. Žižek’s adept early analysis of Stalinist ideology,
248

for instance, turns upon the thought that the Party had this sublime
political status. Class struggle in this society did not end, Žižek con-
tends, despite Stalinist propaganda. It was displaced ideologically,
from a struggle between two classes to one between the Party as rep-
resentative of the People (the Whole) and all who disagreed with
the Party, ideologically positioned as enemies of the people.
Žižek’s adaptation of the Lacanian, psychoanalytical account
of the way individuals become subject to social Law underpins his
observations concerning political ideologies. On this view, the civi-
lising of subjects is based in their founding sacrifice (castration) of
Jouissance, enacted in the name of sociopolitical Law. To the extent
that they are civilised, subjects are cut from the primal object of
their Jouissance (the maternal Thing). To be a subject is to have to
observe our societies’ linguistically mediated conventions, defer
satisfaction and accept sexual and generational difference in the
choice of sexual partners. According to Lacan, subjects’ fundamen-
tal fantasies are unconscious beliefs which allow them to accept the
traumatic loss involved in this founding sacrifice. They do this by
(falsely) renarrating this necessary loss as if it were an avoidable,
even political, situation that might be reversed, and by providing
subjects with a framework within which they can negotiate tick-
lish, Jouissance-provoking subjects like sexuality, cultural difference,
political conflict and mortality.
In his key notion of ideological fantasy, Žižek applies the psycho-
analytical notion of the fundamental fantasy shaping individuals’
identity to understanding political groups. Each political regime
has not only a body of more-or-less explicit, usually written, Laws
which demand that subjects forego Jouissance in the name of the
greater good – like the US or French constitutions. (Žižek identifies
this level of the Law with the Freudian ego ideal.) In order to truly
grip people, a regime’s explicit Laws must also harbour and conceal
a darker underside of more-or-less unspoken rules. Far from simply
repressing Jouissance, these unwritten norms implicate subjects in a
guilty, superegoic enjoyment in repression itself – for instance, in
prosecuting criminals, marginalising minorities or hating enemies.
Regimes’ ideological fantasies encode the open secrets of those
beliefs and practices which make Us who We are politically: the way
the sexes relate, the way authority truly operates behind pleasing
rhetoric about freedom and respect, the way we think ourselves
superior to others and so on.
The split in the Law, between the symbolic and fantasmatic
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Matthew Sharpe
registers, speaks directly to Žižek’s notion of ideological disidentifi-

cation. Political subjects can typically maintain a conscious sense of
freedom from the explicit norms of their culture because of their
unconscious attachment to the ‘inherent transgressions’ regimes’
ideological fantasies sanctify, as the way subjects can ‘enjoy their
Nation as themselves’.3 Individuals will only turn around when the
Law hails them (Žižek adapts Althusser), insofar as they are finally
subjects of the unconscious belief that the hailing ‘big Other’ has
access to the Jouissance they have lost as subjects of the Law, and
which they can accordingly reattain through political allegiance. If
only we persist in our loving identification with the Other, so the
unconscious logic runs, we might win back the Jouissance we have
lost. This fantasmatic notion is the passionate basis of political iden-
tification, being much more difficult to shift than any simply false
notion of the way the political system works.
The Subject and/as the Inconsistency of the Other

The key critical point for Žižek is that logics of our unconscious
individual and political fantasies are at base deeply, and demon-
strably, inconsistent. Freud famously talked of a man who returns
a borrowed kettle to its owner broken. The man adduces mutually
inconsistent excuses, united only in terms of his ignoble desire to
evade responsibility for breaking the kettle – he never borrowed the
kettle, the kettle was already broken when he borrowed it, and when
he gave the kettle back it was not broken anyway. As Žižek reads
ideologies, they function in the same way in the political field – thus
the subtitle of his book Iraq: The Borrowed Kettle.
The purpose of political ideologies is to secure and defend the
idea of the polity as a wholly unified community. But political strife,
uncertainty and division do occur. Regimes’ ideological fantasies
operate to (re)signify this political discontent so that the political
ideal of community can be sustained. The overriding objective is
to foreclose in advance the possibility that this discontent might
show a fundamental injustice or flaw within the regime. In a kind
of political theodicy, Žižek’s work thus points us to a number of
invariant, logically inconsistent ideological responses to political
discontents:
1. These divisions are politically unimportant, transient or merely

apparent.
250

When this explanation fails:
2. The political divisions are contingent on the ordinary run of

events, so that if their cause is removed or destroyed, things will
return to normal (this is the decisive measure, for Žižek).
Or, most perilously:
3. The divisions or problems are deserved by the people for the

sake of the greater good (in Australia in the 1990s, for example,
we experienced ‘the recession we had to have’), or as punish-
ment for our betrayal of the national Thing, God, Virtue.
The key paradox Žižek highlights about ideologies emerges

clearly in his already famous analyses of the political discontents
in former Yugoslavia following the fall of communism. Each politi-
cal community tends to claim that its sublime Thing (‘Our Way
of Life’) is inalienable, utterly incapable of being understood or
destroyed by enemies. Nevertheless, as chance or bitter political
necessity would have it, it is simultaneously deeply fragile, even
under active threat. It is under threat, invariably, by exemplars of a
persecutory enemy, or as Žižek says, ‘the Other supposed to Enjoy’,
or to be actively behind our political disunity. If only this other
or enemy (the terrorist, the illegal migrant) could be removed,
the ideological fantasy promises, the regime would be fully whole,
and our collective ‘way of life’ and Jouissance be secured. Historical
examples of such figures of the enemy include ‘the Jew’ in Nazi ide-
ology or the ‘petty bourgeois’ in Stalinism or ‘the Terrorist’ in the
reign of George W. Bush.
A tellingly inconsistent ‘kettle logic’ applies also to the way these
enemies are represented in political ideologies. ‘The Jew’ in Nazi
ideology, for example, was an inconsistent condensation of features
of both the ruling capitalist class (money-grabbing, exploitation of
the poor) and of the proletariat (dirtiness, sexual promiscuity, com-
munism). The only consistency this figure has is as a condensation
of everything in political opposition to which the Nazi ideology’s
Aryan Volksgemeinschaft (‘national community’) was constructed.
The appearance the ideology has of describing a pre-existing reality
conceals that its real function is to shape the political community’s
desire and sense of identity.
What then is the fundamental mystery that political ideologies
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Matthew Sharpe
are there to conceal, but whose repressed Reality returns in their

manifest inconsistencies – our Thing is inalienable and it is under
Threat; the Terrorist is both inhumanly self-sacrificing and cow-
ardly, insanely ascetic and awaiting forty virgins in paradise? Fantasy
as such is always fundamentally the fantasy of (one’s) origins. In
Freud’s ‘Wolfman’ case, the primal scene of parental coitus is the
Wolfman’s attempt to come to terms with his own origin – ‘where
did I come from?’ The problem here is this: who could the specta-
cle of this primal scene have been staged for or seen by, if it really
transpired before the genesis of the subject that it would explain?
The only answer is that the Wolfman has imaginatively transposed
himself back into the primal scene, as an impassive object-gaze, or
what Žižek will call ‘the gaze as love object’.4
So too, Žižek claims, the Act that founds a political regime is
never itself legal according to the very order of Law it sets in place.
Faced with this fundamental political datum, fantasy tries to renar-
rativise historically the founding political act as if it had been legal
or noble. No less than the Wolfman’s false transposition of himself
back into the primal scene, the attempt of any political regime to
explain away the fundamental, extralegal violence of its own origins
must fail. Yet, so long as this failure is not exposed, and the found-
ing violence remains hidden from subjects’ view, the ideological
myth continues to operate unchallenged, with very real conse-
quences. Consider the fantasmatic idea of terra nullius in colonial
Australia, for instance, a legal fiction that served first to justify and
then to repress from the historical record Anglo-Saxon settlers’
violence against the country’s indigenous inhabitants.
In Žižek’s terms, the fundamental mystery that ideological
fantasy hence aims to conceal is that the big Other does not exist
as a single, self-consistent, politically innocent whole. At the least,
the Other has been founded on exceptional violence. Moreover,
its present reproduction will depend on excluding and demonis-
ing certain ‘symptomatic’ political issues and groups (for example,
illegal migrants, single mothers) from political debate. In practical
terms, this means that however tempted we might be to claim that
we are powerless, it is always potentially within our power as subjects
to challenge the regimes we live within. If the ‘big Others’ (our
political systems) did somehow exist as wholly self-consistent wholes
or substances, there would not be sufficient room for any political
agency. In non-Lacanian terminology, we would then be wholly
socially or politically determined objects, rather than subjects. But
252

his critique of ideology and its inconsistencies shows us that this,

mercifully, is not the case.
The central place Žižek assigns to a theory of subjectivity was
perhaps his most radical challenge to accepted theoretical opinion
when he commenced publishing in English. Žižek turned around
the critiques of the subject posed by Derrida, Foucault and others
by arguing that the Cartesian subject is not the fully self-assured
master and possessor of nature which the post-structuralists pow-
erfully attacked. The subject is what Žižek calls in ‘Kant With (Or
Against) Kant’, an out-of-joint ontological excess or clinamen rather
more like the figures of ‘difference’, ‘otherness’ or the ‘liminal’
central to post-structuralist theory.5
In The Critique of Pure Reason, Žižek recalls, Kant criticised
Descartes’s argument that the self-guaranteeing ‘I think’ of the
cogito must be a thinking thing (res cogitans). For Kant, while the ‘I
think’ must be capable of accompanying all of the subject’s percep-
tions, this does not mean that it is itself a substantial object. The
subject that sees objects in the world cannot see itself seeing, any
more than a person can jump over her own shadow. To the extent
that a subject can reflectively see itself, it sees itself not as a subject
but as one more represented object: what Kant calls the ‘empiri-
cal self’ and Žižek the ‘self’ (versus the subject) in The Plague of
Fantasies. As subjects, we know that we must have some identity,
Žižek argues. But we do not and can never know which Thing we are
‘in the Real’. This is why, moved by desire, we can only seek clues to
our identity in our social and political lives, asking others the ques-
tion which Žižek argues defines the subject as such: che voui? (what
do you want [from me]?) In Tarrying with the Negative, Žižek reads the
director’s cut of Ridley Scott’s Bladerunner as revelatory of the Truth
of the subject. The main character Deckard literally does not know
that he is a robot that perceives itself to be human. According to
Žižek, the subject is a ‘crack’ in the universal field or substance of
being, not a knowable thing. This is why Žižek repeatedly cites the
dark passage from the young Hegel describing the modern subject
not as the ‘light’ of the modern enlightenment but ‘this night, this
empty nothing’.6
Žižek’s Lacanian ‘matheme’ of the fundamental fantasy $ <> a
tries to represent how the subject avoids confronting this ‘abyss of
freedom’ which is its own deepest (non)nature. The subject ($), in
its fundamental fantasy, misrecognises itself as a special object (the
objet petit a or lost object) within the field of objects it perceives. In
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Matthew Sharpe
terms which unite this psychoanalytical notion with Žizek’s politi-

cal philosophy, the objet petit a is, exactly, a sublime object. It is an
object elevated or ‘sublimated’ by the subject to the point where it
stands as the representative of the Jouissance the subject fantasises
was taken from him at castration: if only I could get that girl/guy/
job/‘break’, if only we could recapture that piece of territory.
The pre-eminent Lacanian illustration of the object petit a is the
anamorphic skull at the foot of Holbein’s Ambassadors: an example
of ‘the gaze as love object’. This example highlights that the ‘object
a’ can only be seen by a subject who looks at it awry, or from a par-
ticular angle. The objet petit a, in this manner, is the exact opposite
of the object of the modern sciences, that can only be seen clearly
and distinctly if it is approached impersonally. If the objet petit a is
not looked at from a particular, subjective perspective – or, in the
words of one of Žižek’s titles, by ‘looking awry’ at it, it cannot be
seen at all.
Žižek believes this psychoanalytical notion can be used to struc-
ture our understanding of political ideologies. The sublime objects
– freedom, Nation, Party – that these ideologies set up before us are
only sublime, and hence politically binding, when we look at them
awry: from within the framework or world-view the ideology sancti-
fies. Žižek’s Lacanian critique of ideology aims to demonstrate the
ideological inconsistencies (and political injustices) their sublime
appearance conceals from view. In this way, it strikes a blow at the
fantasmatic bases sustaining our present political identifications,
asking us to step back from and relook at our pre-existing commit-
ments. Put differently, Žižek’s critical theory aims to show us how
the objects most central to our political beliefs are Things whose
sublime, substantial appearance reifies and conceals from us our
own active subjectivity and political desire, which constructs and
sustains them. The issue is for us to reflexively confront and identify
with this usually repressed freedom of subjectivity, which – since it
underlies the sustaining ideological fantasies of the ‘big Other’ of
any regime – can also always undermine it, engendering new politi-
cal modes and orders.
Žižek’s Politics and His Critics

The question most critics have asked of Žižek’s critical theory up to
this date is, ironically, something very like the che vuoi? he identi-
fies as the question par excellence of the subject. What, if anything,
254

follows politically from Žižek’s confronting, insightful descriptions

of political life? Žižek’s term for the process whereby we come to
recognise how the sublime objects of our political regimes’ ideolo-
gies are – like Marx’s commodities – fetishes that conceal from us
our own political agency is ‘traversing of the fantasy’.7 Traversing
the fantasy, for Žižek, is at once the political subject’s deepest self-
recognition, and the basis for his defence of the ‘lost cause[s]’ of a
radical politics, despite the widespread despondency or aimlessness
of the Western Left. His entire theoretical work directs us towards
this ‘traversing of the fantasy’, in the different fields on which he
has written, despite today’s consensus that fundamental political
change is neither possible nor desirable.
Insofar as political ideologies for Žižek, like Althusser, remain
viable only because of the ongoing practices and beliefs of political
subjects, this traversal of fantasy must always involve an interven-
tion which changes a regime’s material, political institutions. Žižek
hence speaks of traversing the fantasy in terms of an ‘Act’ (capital
‘A’), which differs from normal human speech and action. Everyday
speech and action typically does not challenge the framing socio-
political parameters within which it takes place. By contrast, an Act
‘touches the Real’ (as Žižek sometimes says) of what a sociopolitical
regime has politically repressed or which it cannot publicly avow
without risking fundamental political damage. In this way, the
Žižekian Act upsets the very political and ideological parameters
of what is permitted within a regime. The hope and possibility
thereby opened is that new institutions and norms will be brought
into being in the light of which the justice of this Act will become
clear retrospectively. This theory of the revolutionary Act brings
Žižek close to Alain Badiou’s notion of an event. Like Badiou, Žižek
also turned to the Christian heritage, and the miraculous Pauline
achievement of spreading Christianity throughout the Roman
Empire, as a paradigm (alongside Lenin’s Act in October 1917) for
the political Act.
Žižek’s prolific output has meant that critical literature on his
oeuvre only began to catch up with him in the early years of the
twenty-first century. Besides criticisms of his style8 and scholarship,9
these criticisms have focused on Žižek’s politics. Žižek has been
accused of incongruously ‘tacking on’ a ‘vulgar’ Marxist position
to his Lacanian edifice;10 of falsely posing as a feminist (he identi-
fies the Act as in its essence ‘feminine’);11 of falsely posing as a man
of the left behind a deeply ‘Left fascist’ position;12 of misreading
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Matthew Sharpe
theoretical opponents;13 or of a series of deep contradictions or

antinomies.14 Little wonder then that some critics have even sought
a personal or psychoanalytical reason behind Žižek’s oddly enig-
matic output.15
The main thrust of criticism has focused on the notion of the Act.
Žižek has been accused of misreading Lacan’s understanding of the
psychoanalytic Act,16 and of proposing under its banner a norma-
tively empty political decisionism. To show that we can Act is not to
speak to why we should. Nor is Žižek’s method of grounding politi-
cal prescriptions on a model taken from the individual work of the
psychoanalytical clinic propitious for supporting a strategically nec-
essary understanding of the material weight of political institutions
and cultural particularity in shaping what is politically possible. For
this reason, his work tends towards the messianic prospect of com-
pletely overthrowing all habits and institutions that stand. Recently,
Boucher and Sharpe have argued that the source of the political
hesitations critics have seen in Žižek’s work lies in an uncritical
attempt to over-extend psychoanalytical categories into the politi-
cal field. Žižek is aware of this possibility but tends to dismiss it
by ridicule (as ‘boring’, ‘standard’) instead of by argument.17 It is
worth noting finally that in his most recent works Parallax View and
In Defence of Lost Causes, Žižek has openly eschewed his earlier alle-
giance to the cause of radical democracy, exoterically aiming to res-
urrect the ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ as the political alternative
to global capitalism and immanent ecological catastrophe.
Notes
1. Žižek, Sublime Object of Ideology, Chapter 1.
2. ŽIžek, Tarrying with the Negative, p. 200.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid. p. 66.
5. Žižek, ‘Kant with (or against) Sade’, in The Žižek Reader.
6. Žižek, Tarrying with the Negative, Chapter 1.
7. Ibid. p. 51.
8. See Justin Clemens, ‘The Politics of Style in the World of Slavoj Žižek’,
in Sherge, Glynos and Boucher (eds), Traversing the Fantasy, pp. 3–22;
Geoffrey Galt Harpham, ‘Doing the Impossible: Žižek and the End of
Knowledge’, Critical Inquiry, 29, 3, 2003, pp. 453–85.
9. See Paul Bowman, ‘The Tao of Žižek’, in Bowman and Stamp (eds),
The Truth of Žižek, pp. 27–44; Richard Stamp, ‘“Another Exemplary
Case”: Žižek’s Logic of Examples’, in Bowman and Stamp (eds), The
256

Truth of Žižek, pp. 161–76; Jeremy Gilbert,‘All the Right Questions,

All the Wrong Answers’, in Bowman and Stamp (eds), The Truth of
Žižek, pp. 61–81; John Holbo, ‘On Žižek and Trilling’, Philosophy and
Literature, 28.2, 2004, pp. 430–40.
10. Ernesto Laclau, ‘Structure, History and the Political’, in Contingency,
Hegemony, Universality, pp. 182–212.
11. See Sarah Herbold, ‘“Well-Placed Reflections”: On Woman as
Symptom of Man’, in Traversing the Fantasy, pp. 125–46.
12. Claudia Berger, ‘The Leader’s Two Bodies: Slavoj Žižek’s Postmodern
Political Theology’, Diacritics, 31, 1, 2001, pp. 73–90.
13. Ian Buchanan, ‘Žižek and Deleuze’, in Traversing the Fantasy, pp. 69–85.
14. Geoff Boucher, ‘The Law as a Thing: Žižek and the Graph of Desire’,
in Traversing the Fantasy, pp. 23–44; Matthew Sharpe,‘What’s Left in
Žižek? The Antinomies of Žižek’s Sociopolitical Reason’, in Traversing
the Fantasy, pp. 147–68.
15. Leigh Claire La Berge,‘The Writing Cure? Slavoj Žižek, Analysand of
Modernity’, in Bowman and Stamp (eds), The Truth of Žižek, pp. 9–26.
16. Russell Grigg, ‘Absolute Freedom and Major Structural Change’, in
Traversing the Fantasy, pp. 183–94.
17. Matthew Sharpe and Geoff Boucher, Žižek and Politics (Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press, 2009).
Major Works by Žižek

The Abyss of Freedom (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997).
The Art of the Ridiculous Sublime: On David Lynch’s Lost Highway (Seattle:
Walter Chapin Simpson Centre for the Humanities, 2000).
Contingency, Hegemony, Universality: Contemporary Dialogues on the Left, with
Judith Butler and Ernesto Laclau (London and New York: Verso, 2000).
For They Know Not What They Do: Enjoyment as a Political Factor (London and
New York: Verso, 1991).
The Fragile Absolute – Or, Why Is the Christian Legacy Worth Fighting For?
(London and New York: Verso, 2000).
The Fright of Real Tears: Krzysztof Kieślowski between Theory and Post-Theory
(London: BFI Publishing, 2001).
In Defence of Lost Causes (London: Verso, 2007).
The Indivisible Remainder: An Essay on Schelling and Related Matters (London
and New York: Verso, 1996).
Looking Awry: An Introduction to Jacques Lacan through Popular Culture
(Cambridge and London: MIT Press, 1991).
The Metastases of Enjoyment: Six Essays on Woman and Causality (London and
‘Multiculturalism, or The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism’, New Left
Review, 225, 1997, pp. 28–51.
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Matthew Sharpe
Organs without Bodies: On Deleuze and Consequences (New York; London:

Routledge, 2003).
The Parallax View (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2006).
The Plague of Fantasies (London; New York: Verso, 1997).
The Puppet and the Dwarf: The Perverse Core of Christianity (Cambridge, MA;
London: The MIT Press, 2003).
The Sublime Object of Ideology (London and New York: Verso, 1989).
Tarrying with the Negative: Kant, Hegel and the Critique of Ideology (London;
The Ticklish Subject: The Absent Centre of Political Ontology (London; New
York: Verso, 2000).
The Žižek Reader, ed. Elizabeth Wright and Edmond Wright, Blackwell
Readers (Oxford: Blackwell, 1999).

Bowman, Paul, and Richard Stamp (eds), The Truth of Žižek (London:
Continuum, 2007). An essential, highly critical selection on all aspects
of Žižek’s work, with an equally polemical response by Žižek.
Boucher, Geoff, Jason Glynos and Matthew Sharpe (eds), Traversing the
Fantasy: Critical Responses to Slavoj Žižek (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005).
Essential collection of articles critically examining Žižek’s contributions
to political theory, cultural and film studies, and philosophy.
Butler, Rex, Slavoj Žižek: Live Theory (London: Continuum, 2004). Includes
interview with Žižek.
Dean, Jodi, Žižek’s Politics (London: Routledge, 2007). First, engaging,
book on Žižek to specifically focus on his work from a political angle.
Kay, Sarah, Žižek: A Critical Introduction (London: Polity, 2003). Introduction
to Žižek based upon his key intellectual debts to Lacan, Hegel and Marx.
Myers, Tony, Slavoj Žižek (Routledge Critical Thinkers) (London:
Routledge, 2003).
Parker, Ian, Slavoj Žižek: A Critical Introduction (London: Pluto Press, 2004).
Idiosyncratic, critical introduction to all aspects of Žižek’s work, with an
especially good framing account of his intellectual and political back-
ground in Slovenia.
Sharpe, Matthew, Slavoj Žižek: A Little Piece of the Real, Ashgate New Critical
Thinking in Philosophy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004). Critical book which
analyses Žižek’s positions, before questioning whether he is not commit-
ted to a series of irresolvable contradictions in his politics.
Sharpe, Matthew, and Geoff Boucher, Žižek and Politics: A Critical
Introduction (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009). Critical
analysis of Žižek’s politics which argues that Žižek’s encounter with the
German philosopher Schelling in the mid-1990s had a decisive effect
upon his political thought.
258

Names index
Abbey, Edward, 110–11, 112 Beauvoir, Simone de, 78, 80, 84,
Adorno, Theodor, 3 89
Agamben, Giorgio, 4Table 1.1, 4Table Beethoven, Ludwig van, 35
1.2, 5, 6, 7, 11, 12, 14–26, 243; see Benhabib, Seyla, 8
also subject index Benjamin, Walter, 6, 25, 141
Ahmad, Aijaz, 74 Bentham, Jeremy, 56, 113
Akrich, Madeleine, 161 Bergson, Henri, 107n19
Ali, Monica, 46 Bernard, Claude, 120
Althusser, Louis, 3, 4Table 1.1, 6, 95, Bhabha, Homi K., 4Table 1.1, 4Table
106n5, 147, 148, 194, 195, 245, 1.2, 5, 7, 11, 60–73; see also subject
246, 247, 250, 255 index
Anderson, Benedict, 70 Bhaduri, Bhubaneswari, 219
Arendt, Hannah, 3, 4Table 1.1, 6, 104, Botton, Alain de, 46
105, 155, 198, 201 Boucher, Geoff, 256
Aristotle, 6, 14, 30, 97–8, 103, 200–1, Bourdieu, Pierre, 3
202 Bové, Paul, 8, 9, 10
Arnold, David, 215 Braidotti, Rosi, 8, 139
Augé, Marc, 162 Brontë, Charlotte, 214
Austin, J. L., 78–9, 80, 81–2 Budiansky, Stephen, 122
Buffon, Georges Louis Leclerc, Comte
Bacon, Francis, 119–20 de, 19
Badiou, Alain, 4Table 1.1, 4Table 1.2, Burke, Edmund, 247
5, 6, 7, 11, 29–43, 100, 105, 207, Bush, George W., 251
255; see also subject index Butler, Judith, 4Table 1.1, 4Table 1.2, 5,
Barthes, Roland, 3 7, 11, 77–89, 101, 151, 158; see also
Baudrillard, Jean, 3 subject index
Bauman, Janina, 53, 55
Bauman, Zygmunt, 4Table 1.1, 4Table Callon, Michel, 161, 163
1.2, 5, 6, 7, 11, 45–58; see also Carlyle, Thomas, 56
subject index Castells, Manuel, 8
259

Names index
Castoriadis, Cornelius, 3, 4Table 1.1, Freud, Sigmund, 3, 4Table 1.1, 47,

4Table 1.2, 6, 7, 11, 93–106; see also 60, 87, 97, 103, 211, 250,
subject index 252
Chadwick, Sir Edwin, 56
Chakrabarty, Dipesh, 216 Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 3, 77
Cixous, Hélène, 3, 90n5 Gandhi, Mohandâs Karamchand, 118,
Clifford, James, 71 119
Coetzee, J. M., 214 Gaskell, Elizabeth, 56
Condillac, Étienne Bonnot de Mably Geras, Norman, 156
de, 186 Gilroy, Paul, 7
Connolly, William, 8 Glissant, Edouard, 7
Godard, Jean-Luc, 205
De Lauretis, Teresa, 8 Gramsci, Antonio, 147, 215
De Man, Paul, 77, 211 Guattari, Felix, 3, 4Table 1.1, 187,
Debray, Régis, 8 222
Defoe, Daniel, 214 Guha, Ranajit, 216
DeLanda, Manuel, 107n Guillemin, Roger, 162
Deleuze, Gilles, 3, 4Table 1.1, 5, 29, 78,
93, 99, 107n, 187, 191n, 205, 217, Habermas, Jürgen, 3, 8, 99, 100, 105,
222, 243 154, 201, 206, 243
Derrida, Jacques, 3, 4Table 1.1, 5, 6, 14, Hallward, Peter, 38
15, 29, 60, 64, 71, 78, 80–1, 82, 93, Haraway, Donna, 4Table 1.1, 4Table
131, 145, 151, 191n, 194, 196, 210, 1.2, 5, 6, 7, 11, 127–40, 161, 172,
211, 212–13, 214, 217–18, 219, 173; see also subject index
223, 243, 253 Hardt, Michael, 70, 98, 187, 188, 189,
Descartes, René, 110, 111, 183, 184, 190
253 Haydn, Joseph, 35
Devall, Bill, 118 Hayles, N. Katherine, 139
Devi, Mahasweta, 220 Hegel, Georg W. Friedrich, 3, 4Table
Dicaprio, Leonardo, 233 1.1, 6, 14, 15, 16, 18, 36, 57, 78,
Disraeli, Benjamin, First Earl of 86, 177, 183, 191n, 211, 220, 221,
Beaconsfield, 56 243, 253
Douglas, Mary, 57 Heidegger, Martin, 3, 4Table 1.1, 6,
Drengson, Alan, 116 14, 15, 16, 17–18, 19, 211, 222,
DuBois, W. E. B., 73 228
Heller, Agnes, 151
Eagleton, Terry, 8, 9, 10, 11 Hitchcock, Peter, 224
Elliott, Anthony, 47 Hitler, Adolf, 54
Engels, Friedrich, 48, 50–1, 180 Hobbes, Thomas, 20, 155
Escobar, Arturo, 139 Hobsbawm, Eric, 215
Evernden, Neil, 120 Holbein, Hans, 254
Honneth, Axel, 8, 94, 105
Fanon, Frantz, 7, 60, 64 hooks, bell, 7
Ford, Henry, 179 Horkheimer, Max, 3
Foucault Michel, 3, 4Table 1.1, 5, 6, 14, Hornborg, Alf, 123
20, 26n, 29, 51, 60, 78, 79, 83, 89, Hudson, Rock, 234
93, 104, 131, 145, 187, 188, 189, Hughes, Howard, 233–5, 239
191n, 201, 217–18, 243, 253 Hunter, Ian, 9
260

Names index
Husserl, Edmund, 3, 4Table 1.1, 6, 15, Marx, Karl, 3, 4Table 1.1, 6, 47–51, 56,
211, 228 131, 137, 145, 147, 148, 178, 179,
Hyppolite, Jean, 177, 191n 181, 183, 195, 201, 210, 215, 216,
219–20, 224, 228, 229, 243, 245,
Irigaray, Luce, 3, 4Table 1.1, 90n, 94 247, 255
Massumi, Brian, 8
Jakobson, Roman, 70 Maturana, Humberto, 100
Jameson, Fredric, 3 Mayhew, Henry, 56
Memmi, Albert, 60, 73
Kalyvas, Andrea, 105 Merchant, Carolyn, 120
Kant, Immanuel, 3, 4Table 1.1, 6, 14, Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, 6, 94, 101, 227
15, 97, 98, 220–1, 247, 248, 253 Mill, J. S., 115–16
Kapoor, Anish, 60 Miller, Jacques-Alain, 243
Kauffman, Stuart, 122 Minh-ha, Trin T., 8
Keynes, John Maynard, 56, 180 Mitchell, W. J. T., 62
Kripke, Saul, 243 Mohanty, Chandra Talpade, 224
Kristeva, Julia, 3, 4Table 1.1, 78, 90n Mol, Anne Marie, 161
Moore, Barrington, 51
La Mettrie, Julien Offray de, 111 More, Thomas, 48
Lacan, Jacques, 3, 4Table 1.1, 5, 6, 60, Morrison, Toni, 60
78, 97, 101, 103, 145, 148, 246, 256 Mouffe, Chantal, 4Table 1.1, 4Table
Laclau, Ernesto, 4Table 1.1, 4Table 1.2, 5, 7, 11, 144–51, 153–8
1.2, 5, 8, 11, 101, 144–58; see also
subject index Naess, Arne, 6, 116–19
Landry, Donna, 218 Naipaul, V. S., 60
Latour, Bruno, 4Table 1.1, 4Table 1.2, Nancy, Jean-Luc, 8
5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 12, 95, 161–8, 170–4; Negri, Antonio, 4Table 1.1, 4Table 1.2,
see also subject index 5, 7, 12, 70, 98; see also subject index
Law, John, 161, 163 Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm, 3,
Lawrence, D. H., 112 4Table 1.1, 25, 30, 42, 77, 93, 211
Lazzarato, Maurizio, 187
Lefort, Claude, 94 Oakeshott, Michael, 155
Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich, 6 Ong, Aiwa, 224
Leopardi, Giacomo, 183, 186
Leopold, Aldo, 122–3 Parent, Claude, 227
Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 3, 212, 213 Parry, Benita, 74, 218
Levinas, Emmanuel, 3, 18, 87 Pascal, Blaise, 246
Livingston, John, 110 Pasteur, Louis, 163, 164, 166, 167, 168
Lukács, Georg, 3 Paul, St (apostle), 25, 31, 39–42, 43,
Lyotard, Jean-François, 3, 27n, 94, 151 231
Pickering, Michael, 68
McClintock, Anne, 68 Plato, 6, 30, 196–7, 201, 202, 204, 207
Machiavelli, Nicolo, 183 Plumwood, Val, 121
MacKinnon, Catharine, 89, 136 Poulantzas, Nicos, 94
McLean, Gerald, 218
McQuillan, Martin, 9 Rancière, Jacques, 4Table 1.1, 4Table
Mallarmé, Stéphane, 34 1.2, 5, 6, 7, 8, 12, 194–207; see also
Marcuse, Herbert, 94, 115 subject index
261

Names index
Rawls, John, 154 Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty, 4Table

Reich, Robert, 187–8 1.1, 4Table 1.2, 5, 7, 12, 60,
Ricardo, David, 56 210–15, 217–18, 219–24; see also
Rich, Adrienne, 79 subject index
Robespierre, Maximilien Marie Star, Susan Leigh, 161, 173
Isidore de, 36 Stavrakakis, Yannis, 103
Robinson, Andrew, 157 Steinmann, Suzanne H., 139
Rockhill, Gabriel, 194 Stengers, Isabelle, 8
Rodman, John, 113–16, 117 Stewart, Jon, 244
Rolston, Holmes, 112 Strathern, Marilyn, 173
Rooney, Caroline, 68 Sturges, John, 234, 235
Rorty, Richard, 7
Rosenzweig, Franz, 177 Taylor, Frederick, 179
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 183, Tester, Keith, 47
212 Thompson, E. P., 50–1, 215
Rubin, Gayle, 79 Townshend, J., 156
Said, Edward W., 3, 4Table 1.1, 60, Uexküll, Jakob von, 19

62, 66–7, 68, 69, 72
Sattar Khan, Abdus, 222 Varela, Francisco, 94, 100–1
Saussure, Ferdinand de, 148 Virilio, Paul, 3, 4Table 1.1, 4Table 1.2,
Schally, Andrew, 162 6, 7, 12, 227–40; see also subject
Schmitt, Carl, 14, 24, 155 index
Schönberg, Arnold, 35
Scorsese, Martin, 233 Wakefield, Edward, 49
Scott, Ridley, 253 Weber, Max, 3, 4Table 1.1, 47
Seabrook, Jeremy, 56 West, Cornel, 7
Sedgwick, Eve Kosofosky, 7 Wilson, Edward O., 110
Sennett, Richard, 46 Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 3, 145
Serres, Michel, 161 Wittig, Monique, 78, 79
Sessions, George, 118 Woolgar, Steve, 162
Sharpe, Matthew, 256
Simmel, Georg, 47 Yeats, William Butler, 211
Singer, Peter, 112–13 Young, Iris, 8
Sloterdijk, Peter, 245
Smith, Bernard, 57 Žižek, Slavoj, 4Table 1.1, 4Table 1.2, 5,
Spinoza, Baruch, 6, 7, 77, 98, 118, 6, 7, 12, 101, 103, 151, 153, 156,
119, 183, 185–6, 189 243–56; see also subject index
262

Subject index
actants, Latour’s views, 164, 165, 167, the animal, Agamben’s views, 16–17, 18
168–70, 173 animal welfare
Actor-Network Theory see ANT Rodman’s views, 113–14
actors (concept), Latour’s views, 164 Singer’s views, 112–13
Acts (concept), Žižek’s views, 255, 256 animal-rights activists, criticisms of
aesthetics Haraway, 139
Agamben’s views, 14 animality, Badiou’s views, 35–6
events in: Badiou’s views, 33 ANT
Haraway’s use, 134 and dualisms, 170–1, 171–2
Rancière’s views, 202–5, 206, 207 Latour’s views, 7, 12, 161, 163–8,
Virilio’s views, 230–3, 234, 235, 236, 170, 174
238 anthropocentrism, 120
Agamben, Giorgio, 14–15 anthropology, Haraway’s influence, 139
on death and humanity, 20–5 anti-Semitism, 45, 54
Homo Sacer, 4Table 1.2, 14, 26 appearance, aesthetics of: Virilio’s
Infancy and History: on language, 17; views, 238
and the transcendental, 15 arche-writing, Derrida’s concept,
Language and Death, 16, 18, 23 212–13
The Open, 18–19 Architecture Principe group, 227
Remnants of Auschwitz, 15, 22–4 Aristotelianism, Rancière’s views,
The State of Exception, 14, 24–5 200–1, 202
on time, 25–6 articulation, Laclau and Mouffe’s views,
agency, Latour’s views, 164–5, 166, 168 149
Althusserianism, Rancière’s views, 194, Asiatic Mode of Production (AMP),
195–6 Spivak’s views, 221–2
Ambassadors (Holbein), subjectivity in: asymmetry (concept), Negri’s views,
Žižek’s views, 254 178–9
AMP (Asiatic Mode of Production), Atlantic Wall, 227
Spivak’s views, 221–2 atonal music, as event: Badiou’s views,
androcentrism, 120 35
263

Subject index
Auschwitz, Agamben’s views, 23 Nation and Narration, 69

Australia, terra nullius concept, 252 ‘Of Mimicry and Man’, 67–8
autopoiesis, 94, 100–1, 103, 104 ‘On Writing Rights’, 72
The Aviator (Scorsese), Virilio’s views, ‘The Other Question’, 66–7
233–5 post-colonial theory, 60–1, 62–3: on
deficiencies of colonialism, 69–73;
Badiou, Alain, 29–30, 43 and hybridity, 64–5, 66–7; in
Being and Event, 31, 32, 34, 39, 40 mimicry, 67–9
The Century, 31 on stereotypes, 67, 68
Ethics, 31, 35, 38 biography, events in: Badiou’s views,
ontology, 32–8 33
relation with Platonism, 30–2 biological essentialism, 121
Saint Paul, 31, 39–42, 43 biology, and metaphors: Haraway’s use,
on truth’s pursuit, 38–42 134
Bangladesh, rural poor as subaltern ‘biophilia hypothesis’, 110
group: Spivak’s views, 223–4 biopolitics
bare life, and sovereignty: Agamben’s Agamben’s views, 20
views, 20 Haraway’s views, 131
Bauman, Zygmunt, 45–7 biopower, Negri and Hurdt’s views,
Between Class and Elite, 50–1 188–9
concerns with postmodernity, 52–3, black boxes, Latour’s views, 168, 169
55–8 Bladerunner (Scott), subjectivity in:
Globalization, 46, 56 Žižek’s views, 253
Legislators and Interpreters, 46, 47, the body, Butler’s views, 83–4
52–3, 54 body without organs (BwO), 222
Marx’s influence on, 47–9, 49–50, 51 British Museum, use by Marx and
Memories of Class, 51 Bauman, 49–50
Modernity and Ambivalence, 46 Britishness, Bhabha’s views, 69
Modernity and the Holocaust, 46, 53–4, Butler, Judith, 77–8
56 Bodies That Matter, 80–1, 83–4, 87,
Wasted Lives – Modernity and Its 88
Outcasts, 56–7 on the body, 83–4
Work, Consumerism and the New Poor, on censorship, 81–3
56 ethics, 86–8
Being Excitable Speech, 81–3, 89
Badiou’s views, 32 Frames of War, 85, 89
thrownness, 17 on gender and sexuality, 78–81, 84
‘being-for-death’, 16 Gender Trouble, 77, 78–9, 80, 83, 87,
belief, and knowledge: Žižek’s views, 88, 89
245–6 Giving an Account of Oneself, 86, 89
bereavement, 88 on the human, 85–6
the ‘beyond’, Agamben’s use of influence, 88–9
Heidegger’s views, 18 on intelligibility, 85–6
Bhabha, Homi K. on language and performativity,
‘DissemiNation’, 62, 70 81–2
hybridity, 60–1, 64–7 Precarious Life, 84, 89
influence, 73–4 The Psychic Life of Power, 84, 89
interdisciplinarity, 62 on sexuality, 78–80, 84
264

Subject index
Subjects of Desire, 78 Bauman’s views, 56

Undoing Gender, 84 Spivak’s views, 210–11, 215–16, 221
BwO (body without organs), 222 see also post-colonial theory
colonisation, 48–9
capital–labour relations, Negri’s views, commodities, exchange value, Marx’s
179–82, 182–6, 188 views, 247
capitalism, 156 commodity forms, phenomenological
Haraway’s views, 137 critiques, 178
Laclau’s views, 146, 153 Commonwealth (Negri and Hardt),
Mouffe’s views, 146 189–90
Negri’s views, 12, 178–86, 189–90 communications technology, effects on
and welfare provision: Bauman’s nationalism: Bhabha’s views, 71–2
views, 56 communism
Cartesianism, 111 Badiou’s views, 29
on humanity, 116–17 collapse, 145
Negri’s views, 183–4 Žižek’s views, 153
on subjectivity, 253 see also Marxism
Castoriadis, Cornelius, 93–6, 105–6 Communists like Us (Negri and
on creation, 99–102, 105, 106 Guattari), 187
on democracy, 104–5 companion species figurations,
The Imaginary Institution of Society, 95, Haraway’s views, 130, 131, 133–4,
96–7 137–8, 145
on imagination, 97–9, 100, 105, 106: concentration camps, sovereignty:
in the psyche, 102, 103 Agamben’s views, 20, 22–3, 24, 25
Marxist views, 94–5 conformity, Badiou’s views, 40
psychoanalytical views, 94–5, 102–4 constructionism
on society, 95, 96–7 attitudes to landscape, 112
categorical truths, Haraway’s views, 128 Haraway’s views, 129
censorship, Butler’s views, 81–3 consumption, Bauman’s concerns with,
Christianity, as political ideology: 51–2, 56
Žižek’s views, 255 ‘continental philosophy’, Agamben’s
cinema views, 14
Hughes’s treatment, 234 corporatism, Bauman’s views, 52
Rancière’s views, 204–5 corporeal vulnerability, Butler’s views,
Virilio’s views, 229, 230–1, 232, 84, 86
233–5, 236–8, 238, 239 coyote figurations, Haraway’s views,
cities, aesthetics of: Virilio’s views, 133
238–9 creation, Castoriadis’s views, 99–100,
the city, order: Rancière’s views, 196–7, 105, 106
202 critical theory, 1, 2–3, 5–6
civility, sly civility: Bhabha’s views, 60–1 Agamben’s views, 14
class, Bauman’s views, 50–1, 56 anthropocentricism of, 111–12
class composition, Negri’s views, 178, decline, 8–12
178–9 French critical theory: Butler’s views,
class consciousness, Marx’s views, 216 78
colonialism and Marxism, 232
Australia’s concept of terra nullius, Virilio’s influence on, 237, 238–40
252 see also green critical theory
265

Subject index
critical thinking, Rancière’s views, Ecosophy T, Naess’s concept, 118

206–7 ecosystems, Budiansky’s views, 122
cultural geography, Haraway’s emancipation, Rancière’s views, 207
influence, 139–40 Empire (concept), Negri’s views, 188–9
cultural intelligibility, Butler’s views, Empire (Negri and Hardt), 187–9
85–6 Enlightenment
cultural scholars, criticisms of Haraway, Negri’s views, 186
138 and totalitarianism: Spivak’s views,
culture, influence on gender, 121 223
cyborg figurations, Haraway’s views, entities, relationships between:
130–1, 132, 137 Latour’s views, 163–5, 166–7
Cyborg Manifesto (Haraway), 138 environmentalists, criticisms of
Haraway, 138–9
death, and humanity: Agamben’s views, equality, Rancière’s views, 199–200,
16, 17, 18, 20–5 206, 207
deconstruction equivalence
Haraway’s views, 131 Gramsci’s views, 152
Spivak’s views on Derrida, 211–15, Laclau’s views, 152
217–18, 223 Essex School, 157
deep ecology, 120 ethical regime, Rancière’s views, 204
Naess’s views, 116, 117, 118–19 ethics, Butler’s views, 86–8
democracy ethnocentrism, and logocentrism:
agnostic democracy: Mouffe’s views, Spivak’s views, 212
144 European philosophical tradition
Castoriadis’s views, 104–5 French influence on critical theory,
Rancière’s views, 197, 198, 200, 206 3, 7
see also radical democracy German influence on critical theory,
dialectics, Negri’s views, 182–3 3
difference Spivak’s deconstructionist approach
in companionate relations: to, 214, 220–1
Haraway’s views, 135 see also philosophy
Laclau’s views, 152 events, Badiou’s views, 32–5, 37
disappearance, aesthetics of: Virilio’s evil, Badiou’s concept, 35–7, 38
views, 230, 231–2, 233, 234, 235, evolution, 17, 19
236 exception, states of: Agamben’s views,
discourse, 148 11, 21, 24–5
discourse analysis, Laclau and Mouffe’s exchange value, 220
views, 149, 150, 157 exile, Bhabha’s views, 71–2
dog–human relations see companion
species figuration the factory, Bauman’s concerns with,
dromology, 227 51, 52
dualisms, Latour’s views, 170–2 facts, information interpreted as:
durability, Latour’s views, 167 Latour’s views, 169–70
faith, Žižek’s views, 246
ecofeminism, 119–22 fantasy, Žižek’s views, 12, 252, 253–4,
École Freudienne, 94 255
ecology, Naess’s views, 116–19 Faust, Bauman’s views, 54
economic growth, Naess’s views, 117 femaleness, Butler’s views, 79
266

Subject index
femininity, Bhabha’s views criticised, green critical theory, 4, 5, 6, 7, 11,

68–9 110–12
feminism criticisms, 122–3
demands for equality: Laclau’s views, ecofeminism, 119–22
152 see also Naess, Arne; Rodman, John;
French Feminism, 79, 90n Singer, Peter
Haraway’s views, 136–7 Guantanamo Bay, 24, 25
Spivak’s views, 214–15, 224
feminists, criticisms of Haraway, 138 Haraway, Donna, 127–8
figurations, Haraway’s views, 130–4, critical reactions to, 138–9
139 on figuration, 130–4, 135, 139
film, Rancière’s views, 204–5 influence, 139–40
Fordism, Negri’s views, 179, 180, 181, on kinship, 134–5
187 ‘Manifesto for Cyborgs’, 4Table 1.2
Frankfurt School Critical Theory, 1 Modest_Witness@Second_Millennium,
French Communist Party (PCF), 195 134
French Revolution, as event: Badiou’s on science, 128–30
views, 34–5, 37 scientific outlook, 136–8
‘French’ theory, Agamben’s views, 14 hate-speech, Butler’s views, 81, 82, 83
From Kant to Lévi-Strauss (Simons et hegemony
al.), 3, 11 Gramsci’s views: used by Laclau and
From Lacan to Said (Simons et al.), 2–3, Mouffe, 147–9
7, 8, 11 Laclau’s views, 153
future, Virilio’s views, 239 Hegemony and Socialist Strategy (Laclau
and Mouffe), 144, 151, 157
gardening (metaphor), Bauman’s use, heteronormativity, 79, 81
54 heterosexual matrices, Butler’s views,
gender 79
and the body, 83 Hiroshima, 236
Butler’s views, 78–81, 87 history
cultural influences on, 121 Agamben’s views, 16
Haraway’s views, 130–1, 131, 132, Castoriadis’s views, 95
136, 137 Holocaust
norms: Butler’s views, 85 Agamben’s views, 15
in subalternity: Spivak’s views, Bauman’s views, 53–4
218–19, 220 influence on Butler, 77
The Gita, and Indian nationalism: homo sacer, Agamben’s views, 20, 21,
Spivak’s views, 221 23
global-local dualisms, Latour’s views, the human, Butler’s views, 85–6
170–1 human life, as sacred: Agamben’s
globalisation views, 22
Bhabha’s views, 65, 70 human rights
Spivak’s views, 212 Bhabha’s views, 72–3
God, Badiou’s views, 41–2 and subaltern groups: Spivak’s views,
government, and multitude: Negri’s 222–3
views, 189–90 human–dog relations see companion
Grand Theory, 11 species figuration
Greek polis, 104 humanism, Haraway’s views, 137–8
267

Subject index
humanity the infinite, Badiou’s concept, 32, 37

Agamben’s views, 14–19: humanity informatics, 139
and death, 16, 17, 18, 20–5; information, interpretation as facts:
humanity and language, 22, 23 Latour’s views, 169–70
Hegel’s views, 15–16 inherence, in imagination:
Naess’s views, 116–17 Castoriadis’s views, 99
understandings of, 111 inherent transgressions, Žižek’s views,
humans, moral concerns for, 121: 246–7
Rodman’s views, 115; Singer’s ‘institution’ (concept), Castoriadis’s
views, 112–13 views, 95
hybridity intellectuals
Bhabha’s views, 60–1, 65–7 Bauman’s views on, 53
Latour’s views, 172 and workers: Rancière’s views, 195–7
and post-colonial theory: Bhabha’s intelligibility
views, 63–5 Butler’s views, 85–6
Rancière’s views, 201–2
Ice Station Zebra (Sturges), 234, 235, 239 in sexuality: Butler’s views, 79
ideological cynicism, Žižek’s views, 245 interdisciplinarity, Bhabha’s views, 62
ideological disidentification, Žižek’s intermediaries, Latour’s views, 168
views, 245 ‘interpretive suspicion’, Rancière’s
ideological identification, Althusser’s concept, 206, 207
views, 245 isegoria, 104
ideologies iterations, Butler’s views, 82
Lacan’s views, 249
Žižek’s views, 243, 244–9 Jane Eyre (Charlotte Brontë), Spivak’s
see also political ideologies reading of, 214
‘Ideology and Discourse Analysis’ Jesus Christ, resurrection, 40, 41–2
programme, 144 the Jew, as political enemy in Nazism:
illocutionary utterances, 81–2 Žižek’s views, 251
imagination Jewish philosophical tradition,
Castoriadis’s views, 94, 97–9, 100, influence on critical theory, 11
105, 106: in creation, 99–102, 105, Jews
106; in the psyche, 102, 103 as defined by time: Agamben’s views,
immanent materialism, Negri’s views, 25–6
183, 185–6 seen as surplus population:
immutable mobiles, Latour’s views, 168 Bauman’s views in the light of the
inconsistent multiplicity, excess of, Holocaust, 53–4
Badiou’s views, 38 John, St (author of Revelation), 30
indexicalities, Latour’s views, 167 Jouissance
India, rural poor: as subaltern group, Lacan’s views, 249
Spivak’s views, 222–3 Žižek’s views, 247, 249–50, 251, 254
Indian nationalism, Spivak’s views, 221 Judaism, influence on Butler, 77–8
Industrial Revolution, 50
industrial unrest, Negri’s views, 181–2 Kantianism, on subjectivity, 253
industrialisation kettle logic, Žižek’s views, 250, 251
Bhabha’s views, 70 Keynesianism, Negri’s views, 180, 181
Rodman’s views, 114–15 kingship, Žižek’s views, 247
infancy, acquisition of language, 16 kinship, Haraway’s views, 134–5
268

Subject index
knowledge, and belief: Žižek’s views, Law

245–6 Agamben’s views, 22
knowledge production, Haraway’s Hebraic law: Badiou’s views, 40–1
views, 128–30 and political ideologies: Žižek’s
views, 252
Laboratory Life (Latour and Woolgar), and sovereignty: Agamben’s views, 21
162 suspension of: Agamben’s views, 25
labour Lectures on Aesthetics (Hegel), Spivak’s
affective labour: Negri’s views, readings on Indian nationalism,
188 221
immaterial labour: Negri’s views, the left, Laclau and Mouffe’s views,
187–8 149, 150
living labour: Negri’s views, 12 liberalism
precarisation: Negri’s views, 190 on equality, 206
labour movements, Bauman’s Rawls’s views, 154
concerns with, 50–1 libertinism, Negri’s views, 183–4
labour theory of value, Spivak’s views, liquidity, Bauman’s concerns with, 46
219–20 literary studies, and subaltern
labour-capital relations, Negri’s views, languages: Spivak’s views, 222
179–82, 182–6 literary theory, Haraways’ influence,
lack (concept), Laclau and Mouffe’s 139
views, 154, 157 literature, and literarity: Rancière’s
Laclau, Ernesto, 8, 11, 144–5, 156–8 views, 197, 203, 204
on hegemony, 147–9, 153 livable lives, Butler’s views, 85, 86
on lack, 154 local-global dualisms, Latour’s views,
on Marxism, 145–7, 148–9, 151–2, 170–1
153 located identities, Haraway’s views,
on radical democracy, 150–1, 151–3, 139–40
156–7 logocentrism, and ethnocentrism:
landscape, attitudes to, 112: Rodman’s Spivak’s views, 212
views of, 113–16 logos, and phone, Rancière’s views,
language 200–1, 202
Agamben’s views, 14, 15–19
and bare life: Agamben’s views, 20 market relations, Negri’s views, 184
and critical theory, 7, 9 Marx, Karl
Haraway’s use, 134 on the factory, 51
as limit condition: Agamben’s views, on geographical and social mobility,
22, 23 50
and performativity: Butler’s views, influence on Bauman, 47–9, 49–50,
81–2 51
Saussure’s views, 148 on partial employment, 48
Latour, Bruno, 8, 9, 12, 95, 161–2 on the underclass, 56
criticisms of, 172–3 Marxism
development of ANT, 161, 163–8, Althusser’s views, 195
170, 174 Castoriadis’s views, 94–5
on dualisms, 170–2 class consciousness, 216
Pandora’s Hope, 166–7 and critical theory, 5, 6, 10, 232, 237,
Pasteurization of France, 163, 164 238
269

Subject index
Marxism (cont.) liquid modernity, 6, 11: Bauman’s

on equality, 206 views, 51, 57–8
exchange value of commodities, Negri’s views, 183
247 moral subjectivity, Kant’s analysis:
and gender: Haraway’s views, 131 Spivak’s views, 221
Geras’s views, 156, 158 Mouffe, Chantal, 144–5, 156–8
Gramsci’s views, 147–8, 216 on hegemony, 147–9
on ideologies, 244, 245 on lack, 154
influence on Haraway, 137 on Marxism, 145–7, 148–9, 153
Laclau’s views, 145–7, 148–9, 151–2, on radical democracy, 150–1, 153–5
153, 158 multiculturalism, Bhabha’s views, 66
Mouffe’s views, 145–7, 148–9 multitude (concept), Negri and
Negri’s views, 178, 179 Hardt’s views, 189–90
Rancière’s views, 195, 199 Muselmann figure, Agamben’s views,
Spivak’s views, 219–20, 221–2, 224 22–4
technological theories: Virilio’s
views, 228–30, 233 Nambikwara, 213
see also communism nationalism
masculinity, Bhabha’s views criticised, Bhabha’s views, 70–3
68 Indian nationalism: Spivak’s views,
materialism, immanent materialism: 221
Negri’s views, 183, 185–6 native informant figures, Spivak’s
mathematics, Badiou’s use, 6, 31, 35, views, 220–1
37–8, 43 natural world, green critical theoretical
matter approaches to, 112
Butler’s views, 84 nature
Latour’s views, 165–6 Agamben’s views, 20, 24
May 1968 student revolt, Rancière and Bacon’s views, 119–20
Althusser’s reactions to, 195 Castoriadis’s views, 6–7, 100–2
mediators, Latour’s views, 168 gendered affinities with, 121
melancholia, and gender: Butler’s Haraway’s views, 138
views, 87 Naess’s views, 116
messianic time, 25–6 romanticism’s understanding, 111
metaphors naturecultures, Haraway’s views, 129
Bhabha’s use, 70 Nazism
and biology: Haraway’s use, 134 Bauman’s views, 54
metaphysics, and language, 15 concentration camps: Agamben’s
metonomies, Bhabha’s use, 70 views, 20, 21, 22–3, 24, 25
mimicry the Jew as political enemy: Žižek’s
Bhabha’s views, 60–1 views, 251
in post-colonial theory: Bhabha’s negativity, Agamben’s views, 15, 17
views, 67–9 Negri, Antonio, 177–9, 190–1
modernism, Badiou’s relationship with, analysis of production cycles,
31–2 178–86
modernity concept of Empire, 188–9
Bauman’s views, 53–5, 56, 57 labour theory of value, 187–8
and the Holocaust, 53–4 networks (concept), Latour’s views,
and humanity: Agamben’s views, 16 164, 167, 169, 172–3
270

Subject index
New Deal, Negri’s views, 180 philosophy

nodes, Latour’s views, 168 Badiou’s views, 29–30: events
nomadism in, 33–4; Greek philosophy,
Bhabha’s views, 71–2 40–1; relationship with the non-
Braidotti’s views, 139 philosophical, 32
in modernity: Bauman’s views, 55–6 Naess’s views, 117
nomos, Castoriadis’s views, 101 see also European philosophical
non-humans, moral concerns for, 121: tradition
Rodman’s views, 115; Singer’s phone, and logos: Rancière’s views,
views, 112–13 200–1, 202
normative violence, Butler’s views, phonocentrism, Derrida’s views,
85 212–13
number, Badiou’s views, 38 picnolepsy, Virilio’s views, 231
place, Hughes’s treatment, 234
obscenity, Butler’s views, 82–3 Platonism
ontologies Abbey’s criticisms, 112
Badiou’s views, 32–8 Badiou’s relationship with, 30–2
Butler’s views, 85–6 Rancière’s views, 196–7, 199, 201,
‘the open’, 19 202, 204, 207
operaismo, 178 poetic regime, Rancière’s views,
the oppressed, Spivak’s views, 217–18 203–4
‘ordered city’ (concept), Rancière’s police (concept), Rancière’s views, 12,
views, 196–7, 202 199, 200, 201
‘ordered discourse’ (concept), political authority, Žižek’s views, 246
Rancière’s views, 196–7 political consensuses, Žižek’s views,
ORSTOM (Institut français de 246
recherche scientifique pour le political groups, Žižek’s views, 249–50
développement en coopération), political ideologies, Žižek’s views,
161, 162 249–55; see also ideologies
the Other political life, Agamben’s views, 20–1
Bhabha’s views, 66–7 political speech, Žižek’s views, 247
Žižek’s views, 252 politics
otherness, Agamben’s views, 18 Agamben’s views, 26
Badiou’s views, 33, 43n
parrhesia, 104 Castoriadis’s views, 104–5
Parsis, Bhabha’s views, 61 radical politics, 145
le partage du sensible, Rancière’s concept Rancière’s views, 197–201, 202–3,
of, 201–5, 206 206
particularism, Mouffe’s views, 155, representational: Spivak’s views,
156 217
PCF (French Communist Party), 195 Žižek on Christianity as political
perception ideology, 255
Castoriadis’s views, 102 the poor, subaltern groups and human
logistics of: Virilio’s views, 236 rights: Spivak’s views, 222–3
performance, Latour’s views, 166 populations, agricultural populations’
performativity, 78–9 expropriation, 48; see also surplus
Butler’s views, 80–2, 87, 88 populations
perlocutionary utterances, 81–2 populism, Laclau’s views, 152–3
271

Subject index
post-colonial theory radical imagination see imagination,

Bhabha’s views, 60–1, 62–3: on Castoriadis’s views
deficiencies of colonialism, 69–73; radicality, and critical theory, 9
and hybridity, 64–7; and mimicry, Rancière, Jacques, 194–5
67–9 aesthetics, 202–5, 206, 207
Spivak’s views, 214, 220–2 on Aristotelianism, 200–1, 202
Post-Fordism, Negri and Hardt’s views, break from Althusserianism, 195–6
188–9 Film Fables, 205
post-humanism, Haraway’s views, 137 influence, 205–7
post-Marxism, 144 The Nights of Labor, 195–6
post-structuralism Le Partage du sensible, 201–5, 206
Castoriadis’s thoughts exclude, 93 The Philosopher and His Poor, 196
and critical theory, 1, 6 on Platonism, 196–7, 199, 201, 202,
postmodernism 204, 207
Bauman’s concerns with, 52–3, on politics, 197–201, 202–3, 206
55–8 on workers and intellectuals, 195–7
and critical theory, 1, 6 rational arguments, inadequacies for
Naess’s views, 117 green critical theory, 110
power, Spinoza’s views, 186 realism
power relations, Rancière’s views, 198, attitudes to landscape, 112
201 number theory, 37
primatology, Haraway’s views, 136 recognisability, Butler’s views, 86
production, Negri’s views: of reductionism, 120
Cartesianism, 183–4; of Spinoza’s reflective deliberation, Castoriadis’s
treatment, 185–6 views, 104
productive cycles regression, green critical theory
capitalist materialist analyses, 178 accused of, 123
Negri’s views, 178–86 representation
proletariat and imagination: Castoriadis’s views,
Rancière and Althusser’s views, 195 98
subalterneity, 215: Spivak’s views, politics, Spivak’s views, 217
216 research, Haraway’s views, 128, 129,
psychoanalysis 133
Castoriadis’s views, 94–5, 102–4 responsibility, Butler’s views, 87–8
influence on Butler, 86–7 Revolution
public office holders, Žižek’s views, 246 Laclau and Mouffe’s views, 146
Marx’s views, 145
Quatriame Groupe, 94 revolutions, failure, 115
‘queer’ (concept), Butler’s views, 82 rhetoric, and writing: Rancière’s views,
197
race romanticism
Haraway’s views, 135 green critical theory accused of,
norms, Butler’s views, 85 122–3
radical democracy, 144 Leopardi’s views, 186
Agamben’s views, 24 understanding of nature, 111
Laclau’s views, 150–1, 151–3, 156–7
Mouffe’s views, 150–1, 153–5 the sacred, Agamben’s views, 21–2, 24
see also democracy sati, 219
272

Subject index
science sovereignty
attitudes to, 120 Agamben’s views, 20–1, 25
and critical theory, 6–7 Negri’s views, 183, 187
and ecosystems, 122 Schmitt’s views, 24–5
Haraway’s views, 128–30 Species-Life, and Species-Being:
Spinoza’s views, 185 Spivak’s views, 221–2
self, 15 Spectres of Marx (Derrida), Spivak’s
self-consciousness, gained through criticisms, 219
language: Agamben’s views, 16 speech
Self-realisation, Naess’s views, 118 Agamben’s views, 15
the sensible, partition of: Rancière’s Spivak’s views, 218
concept of, 201–5, 206 speech-acts, 80–1
sentience, 113, 121 Spivak, Gayatri Chakrovarty, 210–11,
set theory, Badiou’s use, 35, 37–8 224
sex A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, 220–2
green critical theoretical approaches Death of a Discipline, 222
to, 112 on deconstruction, 211–15, 217–18,
Haraway’s views, 136 223
sexuality, Butler’s views, 78–80, 84 on Marxism, 219–20
shallow ecology, Naess’s views, 116, ‘Responsibility’, 223
117, 118 ‘Righting Wrongs’, 222–3
Shoah, Agamben’s views, 15 on subalternity, 212, 215–19, 222–4
signification, Agamben’s views, 18 Stalinist ideology, Žižek’s views, 248–9
slowness, Bhabha’s views, 72 the state
the social, Laclau and Mouffe’s views, Butler’s views, 82–3
148–9 Negri’s views, 178, 179–80, 181–2
social categories, Haraway’s views, stereotypes, Bhabha’s views, 67, 68
128 structuralism, Castoriadis’s views, 95
social change, Castoriadis’s views, 94 student movement (May 1968),
social constructionism, and science: Rancière and Althusser’s reactions
Haraway’s views, 129 to, 195
social imaginary significations: Subaltern Studies collective, 215–17,
Castoriadis’s views, 96 218–19
socialism, Bauman’s concerns with, subalternity, Spivak’s views, 12, 212,
45 215–19, 222–4
Socialisme ou Barbarie, Castoriadis’s the subject, Castoriadis’s views, 103–4,
involvement with, 94 105–6
society subject, death: Castoriadis’s views, 93
Althusser’s views: used by Laclau and subjectivity
Mouffe, 147 Badiou’s views, 40
Castoriadis’s views, 95, 96–7 Haraway’s views, 137
civil society: Butler’s views, 83 Žižek’s views, 253–4, 255
industrial societies: morality, Singer’s subjects (members of the State)
views, 113 attitudes to ideologies: Marxist views,
sociology, Bauman’s concerns with, 244, 245; Žižek’s views, 245–6, 247,
45, 46 248, 250
South Asia, subalternity in, 215–16: the sublime
Spivak’s views, 222–3 Kant’s analysis, 221, 248
273

Subject index
the sublime (cont.) unemployment, Marx’s concerns with,

Spivak’s views, 221 47–8
Žižek’s views, 248–9 Universal Declaration of Human
surplus populations, 47–9 Rights, Article 27: Bhabha’s views,
Bauman’s views, 49, 50, 51–2, 56–7 73
universalism, 151, 152, 154, 155, 156,
Taylorism, Negri’s views, 179 157
technology, Virilio’s views, 12, 228–30, militant universalism: Badiou’s views,
232, 234, 236–8, 239–40 39–42
television, Rancière’s views, 205 utopias, Laclau and Mouffe’s views,
temporality, Bhabha’s views, 71 151
terra nullius, 252
textuality, Spivak’s views, 212 vagabonds (metaphor), Bauman’s use,
thatness, Badiou’s views, 37–8 55–6
theology, events in: Badiou’s views, value, labour theory: Negri’s views,
33 187–8; Spivak’s views, 219–20
Thompson, E. P., Making of the English vampire figurations, Haraway’s views,
Working Class, 50–1 130, 131, 133
time Virilio, Paul, 227, 238–40
Agamben’s views, 25–6 The Aesthetics of Disappearance, 228,
Hughes’s treatment, 233, 234 230–3, 234, 236
Virilio’s views, 231 on The Aviator (Scorsese), 233–5
totalitarianism, and the on cinema, 229, 230–1, 232, 233–5,
Enlightenment: Spivak’s views, 238, 239
23 critiques of the art of technology,
tourists (metaphor), Bauman’s use, 228–30, 232, 234, 236–8,
55 239–40
‘Towards a Politics of Sexuality’ Desert Screen, 236
conference (1982), Butler’s on Howard Hughes, 233–5
involvement with, 78 influence on critical theory, 237,
Toyotist lean production, Negri’s views, 238–40
187 Open Sky, 237–8
trans-disciplinarism, and critical theory, The Original Accident, 239
9 Strategies of Deception, 236
transcendence, revealed by language: War and Cinema, 228, 236
Agamben’s views, 16 Voice, Agamben’s views, 17, 18
the transcentdental, Agamben’s views, the void, Badiou’s concept, 32, 37
15
transnationalism, Bhabha’s views, war
70–3 and cinema: Virilio’s views, 236–8
TRF(H), 162 legalised civil war, 25
tribal Indians, influence on Spivak, We Have Never Been Modern (Latour),
211 172
truth welfare provision, and capitalism:
Badiou’s views, 37, 38–42, 43 Bauman’s views, 56
categorical truths: Haraway’s views, wilderness, conservation: Abbey’s views,
128 110–11
as requisite for evil, 35–7 wilderness (concept), 112
274

Subject index
witnessing, Agamben’s views, 23 writing

the Wolfman, Freud’s analysis, 252 Derrida’s views, 212–13
women, Spivak’s views, 12, 218–19, 220, Rancière’s views, 197, 202, 203
222, 224
words, tropological character, Yugoslavia, political ideologies: Žižek’s
Haraway’s views, 132 analyses, 251
workers, and intellectuals, Rancière’s
views, 195–7 Žižek, Slavoj, 243–4
working class critical responses to, 255–6
Laclau’s views, 153 on ideologies, 243, 244–9
Negri’s views, 179–80 on Jouissance, 247, 249–50, 251, 254
World Bank, Flood Action Plan: and political ideologies, 249–55
subaltern rights, 223–4 on subjectivity, 253–4, 255
world relations, Rancière’s views, 201, The Sublime Object of Ideology, 244–5,
202 246
275


From Agamben To Zizek - Jon Simons

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From Agamben to Žižek

M2308 - SIMONS TEXT.indd i 28/07/2010 08:00

Edited by Jon Simons

Edinburgh University Press

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Edinburgh University Press Ltd

Typeset in ITC New Baskerville

ISBN 978 0 7486 3973 1 (hardback)

The right of Jon Simons

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1 Giorgio Agamben (1942–) 14

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9 Ernesto Laclau (1935–) and Chantal Mouffe (1943–) 144

Names index 259

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John Armitage is Head of the Department of Media at Northumbria

Peter Beilharz is Professor of Sociology and Director of the Thesis

Arianna Bove currently teaches at Queen Mary College, University

Samuel A. Chambers teaches political theory at Johns Hopkins

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He is the author of Untimely Politics (Edinburgh University Press,

Ilana Gershon received her PhD in cultural anthropology from

Paul Hegarty teaches philosophy and cultural studies in the

David Huddart is Associate Professor in the Department of English

David Kidner worked as a process design engineer in the petroleum

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author of Nature and Psyche: Radical Environmentalism and the Politics

Moya Lloyd is Professor of Political Theory at Loughborough

Joan Faber McAlister is an assistant professor of Rhetoric and

Stephen Morton is a senior lecturer in English at the University of

Benjamin Robinson received his PhD in Modern Thought from

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Matthew Sharpe is a lecturer in the School of International and

Jon Simons is an associate professor in the Department of

Simon Tormey is Professor and Head of the School of Social

Caroline Williams is Lecturer in Politics, Queen Mary College,

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and post-structuralism more generally. She is currently working on

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This volume offers fifteen introductory essays about key contempo-

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This book is intended to provide an introduction to the thought

The Scope of this Volume

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reputations in the Anglophone world by 1990, most of whom were

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Table 1.2 The Anglophone emergence of theorists included

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previous theorists. While the innovation of Laclau’s and Mouffe’s

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tendency among this collection of thinkers is to draw consciously

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scientific understanding of the creativity of nature, as well as by cri-

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and queer film theory of Teresa de Lauretis, to the critical sociologi-

Critical Theory and ‘Post-theory’

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