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In 1993 Edward Said was asked to give the Reith Lectures, an honour
bestowed on those intellectuals who occupy a prominent place in their field
of inquiry, but who are also able to transcend disciplinary boundaries. Reith
lecturers are meant to explain complex ideas in an accessible manner to a
broadly educated audience. Said decided to choose ‘representations of the
intellectual’ as the title of the series (Said, 1994). The lectures were meant to
explore the various ways in which intellectuals represent themselves to
themselves and to others, how they construct and project their persona. His
reflections soon drifted off to the Middle East, American politics and
contemporary academia, and his original theme was never developed fully,
which was a shame because the question of how intellectuals introduce and
position themselves is well worth exploring. It certainly provides an
interesting angle for looking at the writings of Richard Rorty.
There are, one may say, two ways in which intellectuals introduce
themselves. There are, on the one hand, those who represent their ideas as a
novel approach with little indebtedness to a broader intellectual tradition and,
in general, few references to others. In philosophy the likes of Nietzsche and
the later Wittgenstein epitomize this myth of the enfant terrible; in sociology
Goffman springs to mind. There are, on the other hand, those who portray
themselves as synthesizers, and purport to be capturing or anticipating the
Zeitgeist by linking various contributions. In social theory, one may think of
Parsons’ structural-functionalism or Habermas’ theory of communicative
action. One should not forget, however, that the difference, as articulated here,
is one of representation. It is frequently the case that enfants terribles have
borrowed more from others than they seem willing to acknowledge, and
conversely, synthesizers often have little in common with the traditions in
which they want to steep themselves. For instance, the impact of structuralism
and French history of science on the early Michel Foucault was stronger than
he ever admitted, whilst Giddens’ references to Heidegger as a fellow-traveller
seem far-fetched to anyone remotely familiar with the work of both.
This raises the question why some present themselves as lone geniuses and
others as standing on the shoulders of giants. One might, of course, be inclined
to refer to psychological dispositions – an increasingly fashionable hypothesis
in the light of the proliferation of popular biographies of intellectual figures.
This is, however, only part of the answer; another part surely lies in the nature
of the intellectual field in which the intellectuals operate. For instance, it is a
tradition of German (and, to a lesser extent, Anglo-Saxon) social theory to
locate oneself in a tradition, to build on the writings of past masters, and to
exhibit humility in the face of their accumulated wisdom. It is the tradition of
analytical philosophy not to do so, to deny a tradition, to mention past figures
only in so far as one has surpassed them so as to show the kind of progress
one has made. The two represent almost incommensurable worlds. To an
analytical philosopher, for instance, most of the 800 pages of The Theory of
Communicative Action are redundant; one does not need to read about how
Marx, Weber, Durkheim and Mead almost said what Habermas wants to say
in order to assess what he has to say. His central thesis could be formulated
in, say, a tenth of the current size of the two volumes. To the German social
theorist, on the other hand, analytical philosophers are misguided in locating
their technical problems outside language and tradition. They deny what
cannot be denied – the power of tradition.
Richard Rorty is undoubtedly a synthesizer. Philosophy and the Mirror of
Nature (1980) is a journey through both Anglo-Saxon and Continental
‘pragmatist’, not in the least because their allegiance to the ‘linguistic turn’ in
philosophy is far removed from the philosophies of Peirce, James and even
Dewey. This is not a damning criticism, however. If anything, it demonstrates
the distinctiveness of Rorty’s position, his unique contribution to philo-
sophy, literary theory and, frankly, to the humanities in general.
The uniqueness of Rorty’s view meant that his writings, from Philosophy
and the Mirror of Nature to the last volume of the Philosophical Papers, have
been controversial, especially and predictably in professional philosophical
circles. After all, he asked us to abandon some widespread and deep-seated
conceptions about philosophy and epistemology. He requested that we
relinquish any transcendental forms of inquiry that supposedly provide
atemporal foundations for aesthetic, ethical and knowledge-related claims; it
is simply impossible to ‘step outside history’ because any position, whether
about beauty, morals or knowledge, is ‘situated’. He suggested that we
forsake philosophical debates if they do not have visible consequences,
targeting especially what he saw as pointless debates about the inner nature
of things where there was no way of deciding between competing views.
Rorty thought that it would also be better if we dropped the numerous
attempts at defining truth or presenting theories of truth if by truth is meant
something unconditional or a correspondence to an absolute reality. Taking
a leaf from James’ book, he decided we should only retain a notion of truth
if it is defined in terms of successful consequences. Rorty urged that we
abandon the ‘spectator theory of knowledge’, according to which knowledge
is about representing the essence of an outer world; it is highly misleading to
conceive of knowledge as mirroring the inner nature of the external realm.
Like Dewey, he suggested that we treat knowledge as a type of action, as a
way of meeting our desires. Denouncing the conspicuous position of epis-
temology in contemporary philosophy, Rorty proposed instead an edifying
form of philosophy, partly inspired by Gadamer’s hermeneutics, in which we
no longer search for atemporal foundations, but re-describe ourselves in
conversation with others.
R O RT Y A N D T H E H U M A N S C I E N C E S
With these ideas, it is hardly surprising that Rorty has tended to be a philoso-
pher for non-philosophers. Stopping short of making analytical philosophers
unemployable, his writings were dismissed by them as ‘slapdash’ (Williams,
1990: 26). The less welcome in American philosophy departments, the more
Rorty became widely read and admired in literature and cultural studies
departments, and once Irony, Contingency and Solidarity came out, several
political theorists joined in and decided to take seriously his ideas. The last
decade has seen a flurry of edited books on Rorty’s work, starting with
Reading Rorty (1990) by Malachowski, and recently Brandom’s Rorty and its
Critics, Pettegrew’s A Pragmatist’s Progress?, and Festenstein and Thomp-
son’s Richard Rorty. Not only these edited collections, but also Rorty’s
Achieving our Country and Philosophy and Social Hope, which are written
in a remarkably jovial, accessible and non-technical manner, may help to
introduce the Rorty phenomenon to an even wider audience.
The edited books certainly fill some gaps in the literature. Analysing the
philosophical side of Rorty’s argument, Brandom’s volume is closest to
Malachowski’s, but it manages to present 13 contributions by leading
philosophers with thoughtful replies by Rorty on each. Also, whereas the
Malachowski collection, which came out more than a decade ago, centred on
Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature and Consequences of Pragmatism, the
contributions to Brandom cover all major works of Rorty in the 20th century.
The contributors to Pettegrew’s collection are mainly historians, and it is
probably the first collection to treat the relevance of Rorty to intellectual
history. The timing of this book is important, coming out a couple of years
after Rorty’s own Achieving our Country, which in turn presents an
intellectual history of the American Left. Several contributions to A
Pragmatist’s Progress? engage with the arguments put forward in Achieving
our Country. There is a chapter by Rorty himself at the end of A Pragmatist’s
Progress? in which he supposedly discusses the various papers; in fact he
hardly engages with them. Festenstein and Thompson’s book is different
again in that several of its chapters explore the relevance of Rorty to social
and political theory. Rorty replies to each contribution with great wit and
intelligence, and completes the collection with a previously unpublished
paper. For the uninitiated, Brandom’s and Festenstein’s succinct and lucid
introductions will be especially welcome.
Based on his Massey lectures at Harvard, Achieving our Country is an
attempt to define a viable and vibrant position for the American Left. The
lectures also entail a two-stage history of the American Left in the 20th
century, in which the ‘Reformist Left’ of enlightened liberals such as John
Dewey dominated the scene until the 1960s, and were succeeded by the
Marxist ‘New Left’ of C. Wright Mills and Christopher Lash (Rorty, 1998:
1–72). It is very clear where Rorty’s sympathies lie. Whereas the Reformist
Left was liberal, tolerant and democratic, the New Left was Marxist and doc-
trinaire. The achievements of the New Left should, of course, not be under-
estimated. For example, it is difficult to imagine Nixon’s disengagement from
the Vietnam War without the tremendous efforts of left-wing scholars and
activists in the late 1960s and early 1970s, or at least one can expect the war
to have taken much longer if it was not for the New Left (Rorty, 1988: 65–8).
But the failure of the New Left was to not recognize the radical potential of
the ‘Deweyan, pragmatic participatory Left’ and so to be unable to appeal to
a broader liberal tradition. In the end, the New Left culminated in the
Like Achieving our Country, ‘Trotsky and the Wild Orchids’ has an auto-
biographical flavour. We learn about his socialist-cum-pragmatist back-
ground at home and the anti-pragmatism of his teachers at Chicago and Yale.
We learn about his hopes as a student to enter the Platonic guild of King
Philosophers and his subsequent despair in realizing that there is little value
in that urge (Rorty, 1999: 5–14).
The similarities between the two books do not end there. Both books
devote relatively large sections to the state of contemporary academia, in
particular the humanities. In ‘The Pragmatist’s Progress: Umberto Eco on
Interpretation’, which originally came out in 1992, Rorty attacks those
uninspiring literary critics who read texts through a rigid framework with the
intention of demonstrating the applicability of the frame of reference, and
with the effect of reinforcing the framework (Rorty, 1999: 131–47). Whether
the framework is feminist, deconstructionist or otherwise, there is no scope
in this cynical game for being surprised or affected by the text. In this
ritualistic act, the text is reduced to a medium through which the framework
gets reproduced rather than a source of inspiration or novelty. Against this
practice, Rorty appeals for critics to embark on ‘unmethodical criticism’,
which ‘. . . uses the author or text not as a specimen reiterating a type but as
an occasion for changing a previously accepted taxonomy, or for putting a
new twist on a previously told story’ (Rorty, 1999: 145). In Achieving our
Country, Rorty continues his crusade against the majority of contemporary
literary and cultural critics, denouncing members of the Cultural Left for
being spectators rather than players. They are spectators because they tend
to ‘Gothicize’: they invoke preternatural forces, ubiquitous Foucauldian
power networks that supposedly transcend people’s ability to counteract
them. They are also spectators because they erroneously take Derrida-
inspired readings, the ones that ‘problematize familiar concepts’, to be
political acts (Rorty, 1999: 75–107).
Both books are remarkably harsh on Marx and Marxist theory. I already
mentioned the extent to which a critical assessment of the Marxist Left is
central to Rorty’s argument in his Achieving our Country. One of the essays
in Philosophy and Social Hope, ‘Failed Prophecies, Glorious Hopes’ (Rorty,
1999: 201–9), originally published in the same year as Achieving our Country,
continues this line, and explores the similarities between Marxism and
Christianity. This time Rorty acknowledges the achievements of Marxist-
inspired political movements, but deplores the 19th century urge to discover
the iron laws of societal development, the mythical belief that knowledge of
historical patterns will enable us to anticipate future developments. He
laments this strongly held conviction that the past somehow holds the key
for a glorious future, that the laws will hold tomorrow and the day after
tomorrow as they have always done so in the past. If only Marxists would
have been more sensitive to the pragmatist’s insistence on what George
Herbert Mead called the ‘incurable openness of the future’, they might not
have succumbed to an enticing, but deeply flawed, eschatological view of
history. If only Marxists had taken critical rationalism more seriously, they
would have been aware and wary of the irrefutable nature of Marx’s
prophecies, and they would have realized that a theory that does not exclude
much ultimately does not explain anything. If only Marxists had understood
a glimpse of Dewey’s piecemeal views of policy, they might have concluded
that the various totalitarian regimes under the name of Marxism cannot be
dismissed as unfortunate aberrations, mere accidents of history, but are
strong indications that there is something wrong with the creed itself.
be able to because, as Rorty himself has pointed out, our presuppositions are
sine qua non to any knowledge whatsoever. It is better to be aware of what
theory we use, rather than deny what cannot be denied: that we are holding
one. A coherent pragmatist response, for me, culminates in the view that it
ought to be intrinsic to the vocation of researchers always to remain open-
minded enough so that their presuppositions and expectations can be affected
by the studies they embark upon. Success is then no longer measured by the
extent to which a theory has been shown to ‘fit’ the data neatly, the extent to
which the various components of the theory are shown to weave easily into
the myriad of empirical experiences. Instead, it is the ability to see things
differently, to form a Gestalt switch, that is a sign of success. As early as the
late 19th century, Nietzsche had already anticipated this Gadamerian view
when he introduced the genealogical method of history. What is the point of
sitting in archives from dawn until dusk, Nietzsche asks historians, if the data
collected do not somehow affect the present, if they do not help to invigorate
us? Anticipating Rorty’s own appeal for a conversational and edifying
philosophy (Rorty, 1980: 357–94), genealogy confronts the past so as to help
create distance from our present presuppositions, so as to help people
imagine future alternatives to present conditions. Foucault aptly called this
approach a ‘history of the present’ in that the confrontation with an
unfamiliar past is used to gain access to and erode a familiar present (see also
Baert, 1998).
NOTES
REFERENCES
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE