THE SOCIOLOGY OF TIME

Also by John Hassard

TIME, WORK AND ORGANIZATION (with P. Blyton, S. Hill and K. Starkey)
THE THEORY AND PHILOSOPHY OF ORGANIZATIONS (edited with D. Pym)
The Sociology of Time
Edited by
John Hassard
University of Keele

Palgrave Macmillan
ISBN 978-1-349-20871-5 ISBN 978-1-349-20869-2 (eBook)
DOI 10.1007/978-1-349-20869-2
© John Hassard, 1990
Softcover reprint of the hardcover 1st edition 1990
All rights reserved. For information, write:
Scholarly and Reference Division,
St. Martin's Press, Inc., 175 Fifth Avenue,
New York, N.Y. 10010

First published in the United States of America in 1990

ISBN 978-0-312-04151-9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The sociology of time/edited by John Hassard.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-0-312-04151-9
1. Time-Sociological aspects. I. Hassard, John, 1953-
HM208.S65 1990
304.2'3-dc20 89-28434
CIP
Contents
Preface IX

List of Tables vii

Notes on the Contributors xviii
Acknowledgements Xx

Introduction: The Sociological Study of Time 1

John Hassard
PART I THE CONCEPT OF TIME
1 The Enigma of Time 21
Elliott Jaques (1982)
2 The Problem of Time 35
Georges Gurvitch (1964)
PART II SOCIAL-TIME
3 Time, Technics and Society 47
Radhakamal Mukerjee (1943)
4 Social-time: A Methodological and Functional Analysis 56
Pitirim Sorokin and Robert Merton (1937)
5 Varieties of Social-time 67
Georges Gurvitch (1964)
6 The Structures and Meanings of Social-time 77
J. David Lewis and Andrew J. Weigart (1981)
P ART III CAPITALISM
7 The Making of a Capitalist Time Consciousness 105
Nigel Thrift (1981)
8 Capitalism and the History of Work-time Thought 130
Chris Nyland (1986)
PART IV WORK AND ORGANISATIONS
9 Time and Job Satisfaction 155
Donald Roy (1960)

v
VI Contents

10 Private-time and Public-time 168

Eviatar Zerubavel (1979)
11 Time and the Long-term Prisoner 178
Stanley Cohen and Laurie Taylor (1972)

PART V CULTURE AND PERSPECTIVE

12 Time Perspective and Social Structure 191
Lewis Coser and Rose Coser (1963)
13 Time-reckoning in the Trobriands 203
Bronislaw Malinowski (1927)
14 Time Perspectives of the Kabyle 219
Pierre Bourdieu (1963)
Bibliography 238
Index 252
List of Tables
7.1 The curtailment of wakes in the Northampton area 113
7.2 Times kept by public clocks in England, Wales and
Scotland, 17 February 1852 124
l2.1 Dominant and divergent time perspectives 196
13.1 Names of days in second and third quarters of the
moon 207
13.2 Table of the moons 213

Vll
Preface
ORIGINS OF THE BOOK

The origins of this volume lie in a series of studies into the sociology
of time conducted at the Universities of Aston, Cardiff and Keele
during the 1980s. Together with colleagues of the Association for the
Social Study of Time (ASSET), and in particular Peter Clark
(Aston), Paul Blyton (Cardiff) and Ken Starkey (Nottingham), the
writer has for several years been part of a research team exploring
relationships between the concept of time and a number of contem-
porary sociological issues (e.g., leisure patterns, work scheduling,
decision-making, organisational structures, economic planning). 1
However, in the course of this research one thing has continued to
hinder the researchers - the lack of a formal collection of authori-
tative contributions to the field. While there remain several personal
theses in the area (cf. Gurvitch, 1964; Lauer, 1980; Jaques, 1982;
Young, 1988), and also several collections of conference proceedings
(e.g., Fraser and Lawrence, 1976; Fraser et al., 1978; Frankenberg,
1989), no one volume yet collates significant works from a range of
perspectives and paradigms. This has been particularly regrettable in
that many of the more influential works in the sociology of time are
found in either specialist journals or in books which are now out of
print.
It has therefore, been with the lack of such a volume in mind that
the present collection has been assembled - a collection to provide
the newcomer with a guide to the many concepts, themes, and issues
which define the sociological study of time.

PLAN OF THE BOOK

The volume consists of five main parts preceded by an introduction

and review. Early sections of the volume (Parts I and II deal with
philosophical and conceptual issues, later sections with specific
research topics (Parts III, IV and V). The reader moves from
discussions of basic philosophical assumptions about time (Chapters 1
and 2), to theories of the structure and meaning of social-time
(Chapters 3-6), and to a range of issues stemming from time

ix
x Preface

research in the social sciences (Chapters 7-14). The reader will find
that the volume is not restricted to contributions from sociology
alone, but that works are included from a number of social science
disciplines - e.g., social philosophy, social history, industrial eco-
nomics, and (especially) anthropology. It is hoped that this variety
gives the volume both breadth and richness.

OVERVIEW OF CONTENTS

Part I: The Concept of Time

In Part I, The Concept of Time, we lay some conceptual foundations

for the sociology of time. Specifically, we present extracts from two
landmark studies in social philosophy - The Form of Time (1982) by
Elliott Jaques, and The Spectrum of Social Time (1964) by Georges
Gurvitch. These works address some of the basic assumptions upon
which the sociology of time rests.
The extract from Jaques's (1982), 'The Enigma of Time', considers
basic philosophical questions such as: 'Does time flow?' 'Is there an
arrow of time and does it flow in one direction?' 'Is the future
different from the past?' (1982, p.xi). Jaques argues that the. 'failure
to illleviate the confusion bound up in such questions and to establish
a sound philosophical understanding of the nature of time . . . has
been a major factor in the lack of development of a sound under-
standing of the nature of man and society' (p. xi). In debating these
questions, Jaques develops two main themes. The first concerns the
'nature of motion in the atomic world', and thus questions of
'structure, flux and becoming', and the second - which is of more
direct relevance to us - analytical differences between the Greek time
concepts of chronos and kairos - i.e., differences between 'the time
of episodes with a beginning, a middle and an end' (chronos) and of
the 'living time of intentions' (kairos). These differences between the
scientific and logical time of chronos - associated with the idea of
'clock-time' - and the human cyclical time of kairos - associated with
the idea of 'existential-time' - find expression in many of the more
directly sociological works we present later.
In Chapter 2, 'The Problem of Time', Georges Gurvitch also
addresses socio-philosophical issues. Drawing upon the works of
Piaget, Bergson and Bachelard, Gurvitch considers a range of time
definitions available to social scientists (although his prime purpose
 Preface Xl

here is to establish his own definition of time as 'convergent and

divergent movements which persist in a discontinuous succession and
change in a continuity of heterogeneous moments': 1964, p.18).
Gurvitch develops this analysis by relating these definitions to an
issue central to debates in the sociology of time - i.e., the possibility
of 'multiple-time'. Here he addtesses the problem of time in con-
temporary physics - and notably with reference to Einstein's work -
in order, then, to consider the question of 'multiple manifestations of
time in different sciences'. This analysis paves the way for his well
known typology of 'multiple social-times', which we present in
Chapter 5.

Part II: Social-time

The four chapters in Part II offer various interpretations of the

meanings and structures of social-time. Here chapters vary in style
from a monologue (Chapter 3), to a treatise (Chapter 4), to a
typology (Chapter 5), and to a set of operational hypotheses
(Chapter 6).
In Chapter 3, Radhakamal Mukerjee presents a monologue on the
topic of 'Time, Technics. and Society'. Mukerjee introduces the
concept of social-time through a general discourse of differences
between 'astronomical-time' and 'time in society', the former being
characterised by uniformity and homogeneity, the latter by discon-
tinuity and heterogeneity. Mukerjee's chapter anticipates many of
the themes developed later'in the volume - especially in his contrast-
ing of cyclical and linear temporality, his views on differing forms of
time-reckoning (in which he draws examples from anthropology),
and his remarks on the impact of industrialism and the technology of
machine systems.
In Chapter 4 we present our first 'theory' of social-time. In what is
widely regarded as a classic study, Pitirim Sorokin and Robert
Merton offer a 'Methodological and Functional Analysis' of social-
time. In this analysis, which is largely Durkheimian in orientation,
they argue, firstly, that astronomical-time is only one of several
concepts of time, and secondly, that the need for social collaboration
is at the root of social systems of time. After Durkheim, they suggest
that social-time is qualitatively differentiated according to the beliefs
and systems common to the group (1937, p. 615), an argument which
draws heavily on anthropological assumptions. Above all, they draw
attention to the fact that social-time is not continuous, but is
xii Preface

punctuated by critical and meaningful points of reference. They thus

argue that all calendrical systems arise from and are perpetuated by
social requirements - they arise from social differentiation and a
widening area of social interaction (p. 615).
The theme of multiple systems of social-time is developed in the
formal typology offered by Gurvitch (Chapter 5). Also influenced by
the Durkheim school, and especially the work of Marcel Mauss,
Gurvitch develops the latter's concept of the 'dialectic between time
and total social phenomena' in order to explore the various 'depth
levels' of social time (see Mauss, 1966). For Gurvitch, an explicit
typology of times is necessary because, 'we must try to arrive at a
more concrete idea of social-time ... to study the different manifesta-
tions of social-time which collide and combine in the involvement of
different levels' (1964, p. 30). In Chapter 5 we see the result of this
endeavour - Gurvitch's famous eight point typology of enduring-
time, deceptive-time, erratic-time, cyclical-time, retarded-time,
alternating-time, time pushing forward, and explosive time.
Part II is completed by a discussion of the 'Structures and Mean-
ings of Social-time' by David Lewis and Andrew Weigart (Chapter
6). Here Lewis and Weigart attempt to develop a 'paradigm' for the
sociology of time. After describing some of the defining character-
istics of social-time, they discuss relationships between 'biographical
and interactional structures' and 'institutional and cultural structures'
in order to present their own typology of social-times - a typology ...
corresponding to different levels of social structure. The structure of
this typology is based on what they feel are the three concepts at the
heart of social-time - embeddedness, stratification, and synchronisa-
tion. The chapter is concluded when Lewis and Weigart succeed in
integrating their typology which these central concepts in order to
develop a formal theory of social time. The potential of the theory is
demonstrated when Lewis and Weigart extract and relate some key
propositions and corollaries which are implicit in their discussion - a
series of concrete research hypotheses upon which to found their
paradigm.

Part III: Capitalism

In Part III we begin our exploration of particular topics of time

research in social science. Initially, we focus on issues relating to time
and Capitalism, and explore two contrasting areas of research -
firstly, of historical research into the making of capitalist time
 Preface Xlll

consciousness (Chapter 7), and secondly, of economics-based re-

search into the development of capitalist work-time patterns.
In Chapter 7 Nigel Thrift offers an explanation of the change in
time consciousness over the period from the fourteenth century to the
late nineteenth century, a period which sees the demise of feudalism
and the rise of industrial capitalism. Thrift argues that during this
period we can chart the 'gradual diffusion of a new type of time,
based upon calculative rationality' (1981, p.57). This period, he
argues, sees this new conception of time change from being an
extraordinary item that is subject to debate to the point where it has
sedimented into the 'interstices of practical consciousness' - i.e.,
when it becomes just another part of the hegemony of capitalism.
The chapter concludes with an analysis of one episode in the
development of the new time consciousness - the diffusion of
Greenwich Mean Time - to show the regional specificity and uneven
development of this process.
In Chapter 8, the emphasis changes to a socio-economic analysis of
working-time, and in particular to a discussion of the debate sur-
rounding 'Capitalism and the History of Work-Time Thought'. Here
Chris Nyland explains how the history of industrial capitalism has
been one characterised by reductions in the length of time employees
spend at work, and how during this history mercantilists, classicists,
Marxists and marginalists have devoted a great deal of effort to
explaining why standard times should tend to change. Nyland
overviews the major contributions to the debate, and then places
the various theories within an historical context. He outlines how
marginalism's preference argument, which presently dominates th~
debate, is challenged by showing that within Marxism there exists an
abundance of this phenomenon which is not based on income but on
the innate limitations of human beings (1986, p. 513). Nyland develops
this position to argue that until the 1950s the human limits argument
dominated the whole issue of work-time, and that the essence of this
contribution has never been refuted but has simply been deleted from
the discussion. Consequently Nyland argues that the whole contempor-
ary debate is being conducted on the basis of unjustified assumptions
and this renders discussion increasingly sterile (p. 513).

Part IV: Work and Organisations

The topic of Part IV is Work and Organisations. In this section we ex-

amine relationships between time and various aspects of organisational
xiv Preface

experience in particular, job satisfaction (Chapter 9), role

segmentation (Chapter 10), and long-term detention (Chapter 11).
Chapter 9 presents excerpts from Donald Roy's famous study,
'Banana Time: Job Satisfaction and Informal Interaction'. In this
study, Roy adopts an anthropological perspective to document the
interaction between a small group of factory operatives engaged on
mundane tasks. As these operatives were engaged in work which
involved repetition of very simple operations over an extra-long
working day (6 days a week) he focussed on how the group dealt with
the 'beast of monotony'. Roy's analysis of how the group 'kept from
going nuts' by developing their own event-based time-reckoning
system - one based on a daily round of 'peach-time', 'banana-time',
'window-time', 'pickup-time', 'fish-time', and 'coke-time' - has
served as a model for a series of similar anthropologies of qualitative
time-reckoning at work (see Ditton, 1979; Cavendish, 1982; Hassard,
1985, Chapter 4).
In Zerubavel's work on 'Private-time and Public-time' (Chapter
10) we see a discussion of the separation between person and role,
and in particular between the private self and the public self.
Zerubavel argues that one of the key characteristics of modern social
organisation is its 'separation between the private and public spheres
of the individual's life'. Although Zerubavel suggests that the con-
cepts of public-time and private-time are distinct from those of work
and leisure, he feels nevertheless that it is in the domain of work that
we can best appreciate the temporal segmentation of the private from
the public self. For Zerubavel, the temporal aspect of the 'bureaucra-
tic segmentation' of the individual into 'a person and an incumbent of
a particular occupational role' is seen in the fact that the 'partiality of
his involvement in that role is often defined in temporal terms'. He
outlines how most occupational commitments are defined in 'hours
per day' or 'days per week' (not to mention the common distinction
between full-time and part-time work), and how even that part of the
year during which one is not actively involved in one's occupational
role - i.e., the vacation - is still defined primarily in temporal terms.
Zerubavel's analysis concludes with a detailed case study outlining
the temporal forces which impinge on professional commitments in
health services.
The final chapter in Part IV sees a return to social anthropology,
but this time to a consideration of temporal experience in a primarily
non-work organisation, the prison. In Chapter 11, Cohen and Taylor
discuss the particular time problems confronting long-term prisoners
 Preface xv

- individuals who have been given time as a punishment, who are

'doing time'. Cohen and Taylor note how for these prisoners time has
been abstracted by the courts like a monetary fine. For them, time
has become an external control rather than a personal resource - 'it
has to be served rather than used'. As with Roy's factory workers in
Chapter 9, Cohen and Taylor describe the ways long-termers sustain
their lives through developing ways to mark out time - ways of
'differentiating and dividing time'. They outline the various 'temporal
stages' created by long-termers, and thus how they 'build their own
subjective clock in order to protect themselves from the terror of "the
misty abyss'" (1972, p. 95).

Part V: Culture and Perspective

In the final section of the volume, Culture and Perspective, anthro-

pology again plays a central role. Indeed, as we note in the Intro-
duction (see below), of all the social sciences it is probably
anthropology which has contributed most to time studies. Therefore
in the final part of the volume we offer insights into the forms of time
perspective found amongst three very different peoples - modern
Americans (Chapter 12), the Trobriand islanders (Chapter 13), and
the Kabyle of Algeria (Chapter 14).
Part V begins with excerpts from the article 'Time Perspective and
Social Structure' by Lewis and Rose Coser (Chapter 12). The Cosers
introduce the general area of social time-reckoning, and then develop
this by outlining concepts from landmark anthropologies by, for
example, Florence Kluckholm and Irving Hallowell. However, this
initial discussion serves primarily to pave the way for analysis of the
cultural time orientations of Western societies, and in particular of
time perspectives in America. Indeed the centrepiece of the chapter
is an attempt to develop a typology of the 'dominant and divergent
time perspectives in American culture'. This typology explains differ-
ences between four main social perspectives - individualistic and
active, collective and active, collective and passive, and individualistic
and passive - and how these relate to four different time perspectives
- (I)conformist; (lla )individual/collective/future; (lib) future (utopian) ;
(III) chiliastic; and (IV) hedonist. From this analysis, the Cosers
argue that, 'the choice of one or another of these orientations by
individuals and groups does not appear to be fortuitious ... time
perspective constitutes an important element in the determination of
human activities' (1963, p. 647).
xvi Preface

In Chapter 13, we focus more directly on the anthropological

method, and offer the first of two classic works from the literature
on culture and time perspective - studies which illustrate forms of
time-reckoning far removed from the dominant Western model of
linear clock-time. The first case is Bronislaw Malinowski's study of
'Lunar and Seasonal Calendar in the Trobriands', a study in which he
explains the centrality of the sun, moon and stars for primitive time-
reckoning, and how such time-reckoning can be influenced by myths
and legends about astronomical activity. In discussing the role of the
sun for example, Malinowski notes how the 'style of magical invoca-
tion stands in close relation with the main practical use made of the
sun for time-reckoning - i.e., the meaning of the times of the day'
(1926, p. 205), and how as a result of this, 'a comprehensive series of
expressions describe early morning, the time before sunrise, sunrise,
the time when the sun's rays aJ:e horizontal, tilted, overhead, aslant,
toppling over, right down' (p.205). Malinowski explains, however,
that it is the moon rather than the sun or the stars which plays the
major part in Trobriand time-reckoning; although for the most part
there there is 'no magic to do or undo moonshine, and no lunar ritual
of any sort'. In contrast to solar beliefs, natives have few myths about
the waning or waxing moon - the connection between certain months
and various economic pursuits are entirely empirical. Indeed as
Malinowski states, 'the enormous importance of the moon in tribal
life, and the interest of natives in it are entirely direct and non-
symbolic' (p. 206). Malinowski explains in detail the importance of
moonlight for time-reckoning in a country where artificial illumina-
tion is extremely primitive.
The final chapter of the volume presents excerpts from another
classic anthropological account of time-reckoning - Pierre Bourdieu's
analysis of 'The Attitude of the Algerian Peasant Toward Time'
(Chapter 14). Bourdieu explains how (in contrast to Western time
orientations) for the Kabyle 'nothing is more foreign ... than the
attempt to secure a hold over. the future ... [for he is] bound up in
immediate attachment to the directly perceived present' (1963,
p. 55). Bourdieu suggests that the Kabyle peasant is generally incap-
able of envisaging a remote future, and that it is necessary to see his
time attitude as one of 'submission' to the passage of time - i.e., of 'a
simple abandonment to the hazards of climate, the whims of nature,
and the decisions of the divinity' (p. 55). Bourdieu offers a detailed
analysis of this 'submissive' attitude, and hbw this is inseparable from
the attitude of submission to the 'rhythms of nature' (p. 57). It is a
 Preface xvii

perspective which is captured by Bourdieu in his observation that,

'the profound feelings of dependence and solidarity toward that
nature whose vagaries and rigours he suffers ... foster in the Kabyle
peasant an attitude of nonchalant indifference to the passage of time
which no one dreams of mastering, using up, or saving ... All the acts
of life are free from the limitations of the timetable' (p. 57). Bourdieu
describes a perspective in which 'haste is seen as a lack of decorum'
and where 'a whole art ... of taking one's time, has been developed'.
It is a culture free from concerns for schedules, free from the tyranny
of the clock (sometimes called 'the devil's mill'), and one in which the
peasant 'works without haste, leaving to tomorrow that which cannot
be done today' (p. 58).

Note

1. Output from this programme has appeared in a number of conference

papers, doctoral theses, journal articles and books (see e.g., Clark et
at., 1984; Blyton, 1985, 1987; Clark, 1982, 1989; Hassard, 1985, 1988a,
1988b, 1989; Hassard and Hutchinson, 1990; Starkey 1985, 1986;
Blyton et at., 1989).
Notes on the Contributors

Pierre Bourdieu was formerly Director, Ecole des Hautes Etudes en

Sciences Sociales, Paris, France.

Stanley Cohen is Professor of Criminology at the Hebrew University

of Jerusalem, Israel.

Lewis Coser is Distinguished Professor of Sociology at the State

University of New York at Stony Brook, USA.

Rose Coser is Distinguished Professor of Sociology at the State

University of New York at Stony Brook, USA.

Georges Gurvitch was formerly Professor of Sociology at the Univer-

sity of Strasbourg, France.

Elliott Jaques is Emeritus Professor of Sociology at BruneI University,

England.

J. David Lewis is Professor of Sociology at the University of Notre

Dame, USA.

Bronislaw Malinowski was formerly Professor of Anthropology at the

London School of Economics, England.

Robert Merton was formerly Professor of Sociology at Harvard

University.

Radhakamal Mukergee was formerly Professor of Sociology at the

University of Lucknow, India.

Chris Nyland is Lecturer in Economics at the University of Wollon-

gong, Australia.

Donald Roy was formerly Professor of Sociology at Duke University,

USA.

XVlll
 Notes on the Contributors XIX

Pitirim Sorokin was formerly Professor of Sociology at Harvard

University.

Laurie Taylor is Professor of Sociology at the University of York,

England.

Nigel Thrift is Reader in Geography at the University of Bristol,

England.

Andrew J. Weigart is Professor of Sociology at the University of

Notre Dame, USA.

Eviatar Zerubavel is Professor of Sociology at the University of

Pittsburgh, USA.
Acknowledgements
The preparation of this volume owes much to the advice and
assistance provided by Roisin Hutchinson, a post-graduate student at
the University of Keele.
The editor and publishers acknowledge with thanks permission
from the following to reproduce the chapters in the volume.

Heinemann (Chapter 1).

D. Reidel (Chapter 2).
Sociology and Social Research (Chapter 3).
University of Chicago Press (Chapter 4).
D. Reidel (Chapter 5).
Social Forces (Chapter 6).
Australian National University (Chapter 7).
British Journal of Sociology (Chapter 8).
Society for Applied Anthropology (Chapter 9).
Social Forces (Chapter 10).
Penguin Books (Chapter 11).
L. and R. Coser (Chapter 12).
Executors of B. Malinowski (Chapter 13).
Mouton (Chapter 14).

JOHN HASSARD

xx
Introduction: The
Sociological Study of Time
John Hassard

Time is the missing variable in modern sociological analysis. Despite

the lead given by Durkheim in The Elementary Forms of Religious
Life, relatively few researchers have followed him in investigating
temporal issues in society. As most sociologists treat time as a contin-
gent feature of their research, rather than as a topic in its own right,
the result is that we have relatively few detailed accounts of how
modern conceptions of time are related to the forms of industrial
society we create.
Indeed, sociology can almost be said to be 'time free'. As emphasis
has been placed upon developing state perspectives - such as
structural-functionalism or systems theory - then temporal analysis
has been largely ignored. The sociological research process has been
'synchronic rather than longitudinal'; that is, it has stressed the
enduring features of structure rather than the flux and dynamics of
change (Clark, 1982). The dominant research paradigm has been one
favouring 'slice-through-time' investigations, and in particular studies
whose conclusions are based on one-shot statistical correlations. In
short, time has tended either to be excluded as an explanatory
variable, or else introduced only in post hoc justification.
In this Introduction, I will attempt to make some amends for this
situation. As many writers note the theoretical and analytical poverty
in this area, I will attempt, in contrast, to illustrate a range of
frameworks and perspectives available to the sociologist of time. I
will show evidence of distinct traditions of social-time research by
reviewing contributions from a number of social science disciplines.
In particular, I will locate many of the diffuse images of time relevant
to sociological analysis, and illustrate how these can help us develop a
more detailed appreciation of time in modern society. In brief, this
review will consider (a) landmark contributions to the sociology of
time, (b) major sociological images of time, and (c) elements of a
framework for effecting sociological research into time. It is hoped
that by the end of this Introduction the reader will be familiar with
the major themes which run through the sociology of time, and espe-
cially the analytical differences between qualitative and quantitative,

1
2 Introduction

subjective and objective, cyclic and linear, and clock-based and

event-based forms of time-reckoning.

LANDMARK CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE SOCIOLOGY OF

TIME

In comparison with other disciplines sociology has been slow to

develop a body of knowledge on time (see Lauer, 1980). Indeed,
until the 1970s time received scant attention in the sociology litera-
ture. Although some foundations for a sociology of time were laid
during the early decades of this century, relatively few writers have
taken up the main challenge offered by Emile Durkheim and Pitirim
Sorokin; that is, to elaborate the structure and meaning of the
concept of social-time (see Gurvitch, Chapter 5, in this volume Lewis
and Weigart, Chapter 6 in this volume). The main reason for this lies
in the stress the discipline has placed upon problems of order,
stability and state at the expense of those of conflict, change and
process.
Although one can argue that this position needs to be redressed,
and while later I will outline some attempts to do so, I will begin this
Introduction simply by sketching out a range of perspectives on
social-time. These perspectives are associated with some of the major
figures in this area, and in particular with the works of Emile
Durkheim, Pitirim Sorokin, Georges Gurvitch, and Wilbert Moore.

Emile Durkheim: Qualitative-time

The origins of a truly sociological approach to time can be witnessed

in the works of Durkheim and his followers. In what is generally
termed the 'French tradition', the writings of Durkheim (1960),
Hubert (1905), Hubert and Mauss (1909), and Mauss (1966) all
emphasise the rythmical nature of social life through developing a
concept of 'qualitative-time' (i.e., an appreciation of time far re-
moved from writers who present it as measured duration). For
example, Hubert defines time as a symbolic structure which repre-
sents the organisation of society through temporal rhythms, this
being a theme also developed by Durkheim in his analysis of social-
time and religion (see Isambert, 1979). In Durkheim (1960), we see
an emphasis on time as a collective phenomenon - as a product
of collective consciousness (Pronovost, 1986). For Durkheim all
 John Hassard 3

members of a society share a common temporal consciousness; time

is a social category of thought, a product of society. In Durkheim we
have a macro-level exposition of the concept of social rhythm.
Collective-time is the sum of the temporal procedures which inter-
lock to form the cultural rhythm of a given society. Durkheim argues
that: '[As] the rhythm of collective life dominates and encompasses
the varied rhythms of all the elementary lives from which it results;
consequently, the time that is expressed dominates and encompasses
all particular durations' (1960, p.69). For Durkheim, then, time is
derived from social life and becomes the subject of collective
representations. It is fragmented into a plethora of temporal activities
which are 'reconstituted into an overall cultural rhythm that gives it
meaning' (Pronovost, 1986).

Pitirim Sorokin: Culture, Rhythm and Meaning

In American sociology, the work of Pitirim Sorokin, and notably in

conjunction with Robert Merton (see Sorokin and Merton, Chapter 4
in this volume), includes some of the earliest and most provocative
insights into the study of social-time. Sorokin and Merton (1937), like
the French School, highlight the qualitative nature of social-time as
well as the immanence of cultural rhythms. However, here they draw
not only on Durkheimian sociology, but notably on the works of
anthropologists such as Codrington (1891), Hodson (1908), Nilsonn
(1920), Best (1922) and Kroeber (1923). This synthesis allows them
to identify qualitative themes at both micro- and macro-levels. While
at the micro-level they emphasise the discontinuity, relativity and
specificity of time ('social time is qualitatively differentiated', 1937,
p. 615), they also suggest, like Durkheim, that 'units of time are often
fixed by the rhythm of collective life' (p.615). Indeed Sorokin and
Merton takes this position a step further. Whereas Evans-Pritchard
(1940) in the studies of the Nuer illustrates how certain activities give
significance to social-time, Sorokin and Merton adopt a position
more characteristic of the sociology of knowledge. They argue that
meaning comes to associate an event with its temporal setting, and
that the recognition of specific periods is dependent on the degree of
significance attributed to them. They show that the concept of
qualitative-time is important, not only for primitive societies, but also
for modern industrial states. They argue, variously, that, 'social time
is qualitative and not purely quantitative ... these qualities derive
from the beliefs and customs common to the group ... they serve to
4 Introduction

reveal the rhythms, pulsations, and beats of the societies in which

they are found' (p. 623). Sorokin and Merton thus outline important
analytical differences between social-time and astronomical-time -
the former being an expression of 'the change or movement of social
phenomena in terms of other social phenomena taken as points of
reference' (p.618).
Sorokin elsewhere, however (1937) notes how - in practical terms-
there is also a significant correlation between social-time and
astronomical-time; for in a clock-driven society actions are not always
afforded the time spans that seem appropriate to circumstances.
Instead actions become bound by the mechanically imposed units of
clock-time. Clock-time becomes imposed on the majority of formal
human actions, the result being that we become obsessed by the
mechanical scheduling of activities (e.g., working, sleeping, loving,
eating). Sorokin explores some of the structural features of this
temporality, such as synchronicity and order, rhythm and phases, and
periodicity and tempo (see also Moore, 1963; Lewis and Weigart,
Chapter 6 in this volume), and highlights the pervasiveness of, for
example, dual-phased rhythms (e.g., boom-slump cycles in the
economy, or movements of idealism-materialism in history) and even
triple-phased rhythms (e.g., the dialectical method of Hegel, Marx
and Engels).

Georges Gurvitch: Multiple Time-levels

As we will see in Chapter 5, one of the most far-reaching attempts to

outline the heterogeneity of social-time has been made in the work of
Georges Gurvitch (1964). In a sophisticated, if at times difficult,
thesis Gurvitch offers a typology of eight 'times' to illustrate the
temporal complexity of modern class-bound society (i.e., enduring,
deceptive, erratic, cyclical, retarded, alternating, pushing forward,
explosive). He illustrates how cultures are characterised by a melange
of conflicting times, and how groups are constantly competing over a
choice of 'appropriate' times. Gurvitch, like Durkheim, distinguishes
between the 'micro-social-times' characteristic of groups and com-
munities and the 'macro-social-times' characteristic of, for example,
systems and institutions. He makes constant reference to the plurality
of social-times, and especially how in different social classes we find a
multiplicity of time-scales and time-levels. Gurvitch suggests that
through analysing time at the societal level we can reveal a double
time-scale operating - with on the one hand the 'hierarchically
 John Hassard 5

ordered and unified' time of social structure, and on the other the
'more flexible time of the society itself' (p. 391). Thus, Gurvitch, like
Sorokin and Merton, emphasises the fact that social-time is analytic-
ally different to clock-time, for the former is, 'not always measurable
and even more not always quantifiable' (p. 19).

Wilbert Moore: Clock-time and Functionalism

Finally, although published around the same time as Gurvitch's

analysis, far removed in style is the functionalist thesis of Wilbert
Moore (1963). When Moore talks of time he is less abstract, the
inference being that he is generally, or even exclusively, referring to
clock-time. For Moore, clock-time presents itself to man both as a
scarce resource and as a mode of organising one's life. For the latter,
Moore suggests three elements as the main constituents of social-time
- synchronisation, sequence and rate. 'Synchronisation' refers to the
necessity for simultaneous actions; 'sequence' to the fact that certain
actions require a specific ordering; and 'rate' to the importance of the
frequency of events during a particular period of time. Here, unlike
social anthropologists, who highlight the subjective nature of social-
time, Moore lays emphasis on objective qualities and characteristics.
Moore suggests that social-time can be either an independent or
dependent variable. For the former, it represents the context within
which certain social processes occur; for example, social-time can be
used to measure rates of transmission or of diffusion in differing
systems. For the latter, social-time becomes a strategy, and temporal
strategies involve the purposive manipulation of time in order to
secure or display factors such as power or loyalty.

IMAGES OF TIME IN SOCIAL THEORY

In the works of Durkheim, Sorokin, Gurvich and Moore we find a

range of concepts relevant to the sociological study of time. In
particular we find concepts which enable us to dissect and explain the
temporality of social situations - e.g., by use of qualitative- and
quantitative-times; objective- and subjective-times; multiple time-
layers. From these writers, we learn how in Western sociology
although time is portrayed as a tangible and scarce resource, it also
operates as a medium of social meaning. While there is a temptation
to account for social-time by invoking quantitative criteria alone, we
6 Introduction

are made aware of the social construction of 'times', and thus that
much time-reckoning (in both primitive and industrial societies) is
qualitative in character.
Having identified some initial themes provided by writers in
sociology, we can now begin to put these into logical order. As such,
we can establish some analytical dimensions for the sociology of time.
These dimensions, which are based largely upon conceptual polarities
and dichotomies, provide one step toward the construction of a
research framework for social-time analysis.

Rationalising Competing Images of Time

When defining the nature of time sociologists typically take one of

two courses: i.e., to (a) describe differences between concepts of
'social-time' and 'clock-time' (d. Sorokin and Merton, 1937; Moore,
1963), or (b) decode metaphors of time-patterning (e.g., procedural,
mechanical, linear, cyclic, dialectical) (d. Gurvitch, 1964; Mauss,
1966). In this section, I will attempt to explain these courses by way
of general discussions around their basic themes.

Social-time and Clock-time

Although in the writings of many sociologists references to time are

accompanied by images of the clock, for many others social-time is
not equivalent to clock-time. Instead social-time refers to social
processes, and to the intersubjective conceptualisation of social life,
rather than to the mechanistic structuring of social events.
Variations of this argument have been expressed by writers in a
number of disciplines. In philosophy it is usually associated with
Henri Bergson (1910) and his suggestion that the homogeneous time
of Newtonian physics is not the time that reveals itself to man.
However it is also documented in works with a strong empirical
component. While the anthropologist Philip Bock (1964) has shown
how an Indian wake can be meaningfully understood in terms of
'gathering time', 'singing time', 'intermission', and 'meal time',
similarly the sociologist Donald Roy (see Chapter 9 in this volume)
has illustrated how the experience of work in an American machine
shop was based on a daily round of 'peach-time', 'banana-time',
'pick-up-time', 'fish-time' and 'coke-time'. In both of these cases,
none of the relevant 'times' had any direct relationship to clock-time.
A rather different sundering of social-time and clock-time is found
 John Hassard 7

in studies of mythical consciousness (see Lauer, 1980). In mythical

thought the forms of temporal casuality we referred to above are
negated by mystical forces such as magic. Cassirer (1944), for
example, cites the case of the warrior who, on being wounded by an
arrow, attends to his pain by applying ointment to the arrowhead.
Here clock-time is reversed, as the present is pulled back into the
past in order to change the course of events. Cassirer shows how in
primitive symbolism temporal intervals are not predictable and
homogeneous series, for the objectivity of the clock is unknown.
Parallel concerns to the above are witnessed in works by Evans-
Pritchard (1940) and Leach (1961), who both give examples of how in
primitive cultures social activities form the principal markers for
time-reckoning. Evans-Pritchard outlines how the temporal concepts
of the Nuer reflect both the ecological setting of the culture and the
inter-relationships within the social system. As such, the Nuer have
developed a time-reckoning system based on cyclic ecological
changes. For example, as herd camps are established in the month of
Kur, then the rationale is that, 'when one is doing these things it must
be Kur or thereabouts' (p.lOO). Similarly, as the camps are dis-
banded and members return to the village in the month of Dwat, the
logic is that 'since people are on the move it must be Dwat or
thereabouts' (p. 100).
In studies of the Kachin of North Burma, Leach (1961) notes how
there is no external objectivity to which they refer in their manifold
conceptions of time. Indeed the Kachin have no word equivalent to
our Western notion of 'time'. Instead several terms are used to
denote what we would hold to be different aspects of time; for
example, while for clock-time they would refer to ahkying, for 'a long
time' or 'a short time' they speak of na and tawng respectively; while
for Spring time they talk of na, for 'the time of one's life' they refer to
asak.
In similar vein, again, Sorokin (1937) points out that while most
societies have some form of week, the week may consist of anything
from three to sixteen or more days. Moreover, he notes how in many
societies divisions of time such as the week tend to reflect social
divisions, or else are based upon some particular criterion of social
expediency. Commonly they are based on the cycle of market
activities. For example, the eight-day week of the Khasi is based on
their system of trade whereby they hold a market every eight days.
Indeed, so central is the market system that their days of the week are
named after the principal places at which markets are held.
8 Introduction

Finally, Bourdieu (see Chapter 14 in this volume) in his study of

the Kabyle of Algeria has noted how a social-time system is created
which is not only different to clock-time but actually hostile to it. The
Kabyie live with indifference to the passage of clock-time; they are
scornful of haste in social affairs, lack any notion of precise meeting
times, and have no set times for eating. They commonly refer to the
clock as 'the devil's mill'.
While these examples from anthropology make the point that there
is no necessary correlation between clock-time and social-time, we
can argue, however, that in Western society many activities which
were once comprehendable only in terms of social-time (i.e., social
phenomena were expressed in terms of other social phenomena), are
now inextricably linked to the ordering of the clock (see Sorokin,
1937; Lauer, 1980). Instead of being assessed in terms of stages or
events, much contemporary social life is evaluated by way of a finite
allocation of quantitative temporal units (hours, years, decades). In
the wake of industrialism, and of industrial capitalism in particular,
much human existence has been transformed into a relentless effort
to avoid time-waste (cf. Taylor, 1911). Visible time-wasting is indeed
the paramount sin of the workplace. The separation of planning from
execution assures that any reflection, or apparent inaction, on the
part of workers is assumed to be idleness. (Even though many firms,
and notably those adopting the production management system
known as lust-In-Time, formally encourage worker analysis - espe-
cially quality analysis - or the discipline to stop working at discretion:
see Schonberger, 1982.) While in this Introduction we can cite only
rather obvious examples of such tendencies, further analysis (see
Thrift, Chapter 7 in this volume; Nyland, Chapter 8 in this volume)
reveals how through the history of industrialism the clock has
conditioned the activities of our working lives at deep levels.

Time Metaphors

While many writers in the sociology of time have taken the differ-
ences between clock-time and social-time as their analytical starting
point, others have delved deeper, and contrasted some of the
metaphors and metatheories which underpin these twin time con-
ceptions. In metaphor analysis, writers have generally contrasted two
main images of time -linear-time and circular-time. Here the former
represents an industrial, objective and chronological form (clock-
time), while the latter a more anthropological, experiential and
 John Hassard 9

epochal one (social-time). Often these two ideal types are juxtaposed
by way of a further conceptual cleavage, that separating quantitative-
time and qualitative-time.

Circular-time

Sociologists who discuss circular (or cyclic) forms of time tend to

concentrate either on older or primitive time orientations, or else,
when discussing modern day events, on how contemporary social
activities occur in rhythmical patterns.
For the former, Eliade's (1959) work provides major insights into
the time conceptions of past civilisations. In particular he notes how
the time conception of what he calls 'archaic man' (essentially pre-
Christian) was that of the cycle. For archaic man events unfolded in
an ever-recurring rhythm; his sense of time was developed out of his
struggle with the seasons; his time horizon was defined by the 'myth
of the eternal return'. Eliade suggests that when Christian man
abandoned his bounded world for a direct, linear progression to
redemption and salvation, then for the first time he found himself
exposed to the dangers inherent in the historical process. Since then
man has tried to master history and to bring it to a conclusion - as, for
example, Marx and Hegel sought to do. Modern man seeks refuge in
several forms of faith in order to rationalise a process that seems to
have neither beginning nor end (Diamant, 1970).
However, despite the dominant thesis among time writers being a
gradual replacement of cyclic notions by linear ones, de Grazia
(1974) argues that cyclic notions should not be thought of as extinct.
He suggests that in many parts of today's world the wheel is a better
symbol of time than the line. In many societies, the dominant time
image is of the repetition of natural and social events - 'everything
lives, dies, and is born' (p.467). Here, time is circular not linear;
biological not mechanical; broad and variable not fine and homo-
geneous. God apportions the scheme of things, not the clock.
Indeed, de Grazia (1974) distances himself from those who pro-
mote exclusively linear theories of modern social-time. He argues
that much social-time (or 'instinctual' time) is governed by the
oscillation and recurrent flow of nature. He emphasises 'natural'
social-time: time as resonant with a deeper feeling for life. And he
suggests that this is the true time which men 'pass' without reference
to the clock; it is social-time - time marked only by the social or
biological proclivities of life itself.
10 Introduction

This argument is followed, in part, by Zerubavel (1981), who also

notes how sociological explanations of periodic recurrence take re-
course to metaphors of nature (especially physical nature). Zerubavel
notes how much of our time-patterning is based on the use of natural
(predominantly scientific) analogies - as, for instance, from the
physical sciences with the revolution of the earth around the sun, or
from the life sciences with the various rhythms associated with sleep,
hunger, ovulation, or body temperature. Zerubavel argues that in
sociology this mode of expression begins with the explorations we
noted earlier by Durkheim, Mauss and Hubert into the natural
'rhythm of collective life', and is consolidated by Sorokin's analyses
of 'sociocultural rhythms and periodicities'. He develops this to argue
that since these early investigations sociologists have identified a
range of 'social cycles' affecting the rhythmic structure of social life.
For example, researchers have outlined how it is possible to identify
'uniform rates of recurrence' for activities at the micro-social-level;
and notably within relatively unstructured domains such as those of
informal relations. Often these are not merely empirical patterns, but
rather normative prescriptions. As Zerubavel (1981) notes, the
normative overtones of notions such as 'too often' of 'hardly ever'
imply that even the temporal spacing of visits, phone calls, and letters
between friends (an indicator of what Durkheim referred to as the
'moral density' of social relations) is not so much casual, but instead
governed by some regular and socially 'proper' tempo.
In contrast, however, is the argument that the overall tendency for
social patterns is - through the artifacts of modern organisation and
technical convention - for them to become displaced from nature.
Natural and biological rhythms come increasingly to occupy quite
separate domains from those of social rhythms. In modern society,
we know how pervasive is the rhythmicity imposed upon our lives by
the temporal spacing of activities at mathematically regular intervals.
Sorokin (1937), has shown how the rhythms that govern social life
are, more and more, ones which are entirely conventional and thus
divorced from nature. As time units become more artificial, so
rhymicity becomes artificial also. Zerubavel (1979b, Chapter 10 in
this volume) gives the example of the temporal organisation of the
administration of medications in hospitals. Despite its strong bio-
logical basis, principles of operations management demand the
medication times are 'rounded off to intervals of administrative
convenience. Indeed, administrative times are in general some of the
first to become divorced from natural ones.
 John Hassard 11

Overall, we can argue that increasingly our social life is structured

in accordance with 'mechanical'-time: that is, an artificial form which
is quite independent of the cyclic rhythms of man's organic impulses
and needs. Increasingly we are seen to detach ourselves from those
forms of organic periodicity dictated by nature, as instead forms of
mechanical periodicity, dictated mainly by the clock and the calendar,
come to dominate social affairs. We develop increasingly unnatural
bases for social rhythmicity. And often these forms are found to be
not only independent of natural rhythmicity, but sometimes actually
in conflict with it.

Linear-time

What, then, are the bases of the dominance of linear and mechanical
temporality? First, we can say that while Eliade suggests that pre-
Christian concepts of time were dominated by the notion of the
eternal return, for modern societies Judaeo-Christian beliefs have
long offered the image of time as a testing pathway from sin on earth,
via redemption, to eternal salvation in heaven. (Filipcova and
Filipec, 1986). We are told that in Book II of Confessions (1961)
St Augustine breaks the 'circle' of Roman time. In contrast to
Herodotus, and the notion of the cycle of human events, Augustine
dispels the 'false circle' and instead purports the straight line of
human history (de Grazia, 1974). Although the Anno Domini
chronology becomes definite only during the eighteenth century,
history is to be dated from the birth of Jesus Christ. This thesis
suggests that in the 'civilisation process' the idea of irreversibility
replaces that of the eternal return. The distinguishing feature of
ultimate progression leads on to a new linear concept of time, and
with it a sense of firm beginning.
However, as we see later, during the development of industrial
capitalism this unilinear image is joined by another, equally im-
portant, one: the image of time as a valuable commodity (see Thrift,
Chapter 7 in this volume; also Thompson, 1967). Through techno-
logical and manufacturing innovations the concept of time has
become aligned with notions of industrial progress. In the crucial
equation linking acceleration and accumulation a human value can be
placed upon time. Surplus value can be accrued through extracting
more time from a labourer than is required to produce goods having
the value of his wages (Marx, 1976). The emphasis is upon formality
and scarcity. The images come from Newton and Descartes: time is
12 Introduction

real, uniform and all-embracing; it is a mathematical phenomenon; it

can be plotted as an abscissa.
Indeed, it is during the evolution of industrial capitalism that the
hegemony of a linear time perspective is cemented. For the industrial
age, progress is the key. Here the past is unrepeatable, the present is
transient, and the future is infinite and exploitable. Time is homo-
geneous: it is objective, measurable, and infinitely divisible; it is
related to change in the sense of motion and development; it is
quantitative. Whereas in modern theology linear-time has as its
conclusion the promise of eternity, in the mundane, secular activities
of industrialism temporal units are finite. Time is a resource that has
the potential for consumption by a plethora of activities; its scarcity is
intensified when the number of potential claimants is increased.
Further, in advanced societies time-scarcity seems to make events
become more concentrated and segregated. Special 'times' are given
over for various forms of activities. Time is experienced not only as a
sequence, but also as a boundary condition. As Moore (1963)
suggests, time becomes: 'a way of locating behaviour, a mode of
fixing the action that is particularly appropriate to circumstances'
(p.7). As the linear conception of time is linked to the concept of
value then time emerges as a limited good - its scarcity enhances its
worth. Lakoff and Johnson (1980) note how our dominant concept-
ion of time is linked to three particular metaphors - time as money;
time as a limited resource; and time as a valuable commodity. They
suggest that under capitalism time and money become increasingly
exchangeable commodities: time is one means by which money can
be appropriated, in the same way that money can be used to buy
time; money increases in value over time, while time can be invested
now to yield money later (Graham, 1981).
Thus at the heart of this commodification process lies the image of
the clock. Mumford (1934) has emphasised how 'the clock not the
steam engine [was] the key machine ofthe industrial age' (p. 14). For
example, rapid developments in synchronisation were responsible for
organisations of the industrial revolution displaying such high levels
of functional specialisation. Large production-based firms required
considerable segmentation of both parts (roles and positions) and
activities in time and space. Such specialisation set requirements for
extensive time-space coordination at both intra- and inter-
organisational levels. As high levels of coordination needed high
levels of planning, so sophisticated temporal schedules were neces-
sary to provide a satisfactory degree of predictability. The basis of
 John Hassard 13

fine planning became that of sophisticated measurement, with

efficient organisation becoming synonymous with detailed temporal
assessments of productivity (see Nyland, Chapter 8 in this volume).
As the machine became the focal point of work, so time schedules
became the central feature of planning. During industrialism the
clock was the instrument of coordination and control (see Thrift,
Chapter 7 in this volume). The time period replaced the task as the
focal unit of production.
In contrast to the task-oriented experience of most historical and
developing economies, we can therefore say that under industrial
capitalism not only do workers become subject to rigidly determined
time schedules, but they become remunerated in terms of temporal
units. The omnipresence of the clock brings with it the idea that one
is exchanging time rather than skill: selling labour-time rather than
labour. Time becomes a commodity to be earned, spent or saved. In
Marx, the alienation the worker suffers under feudalism is aug-
mented, under industrialism, by him being forced to sell his labour by
the hour (see Gioscia, 1974).
In sum, then, we have suggested that the linear conception of time
became 'commodified' due to a major change in economic develop-
ment: that is, when time was discovered as a factor in production.
Time had a value that could be translated into economic terms: 'it
became the medium in which human activities, especially economic
activities, could be stepped up to a previously unimagined rate of
growth' (Nowotny, 1976, p. 330). Time was a major symbol for the
production of economic wealth. No longer was it sacred and repro-
ducable through the 'myth of the eternal return'. It represented
instead, an economic object, a symbol of production. Under indust-
rial capitalism, timekeepers were the new regulators and controllers
of work; they quantified and transformed activity into monetary
value (Nowotny, 1976). When time was deemed a valuable resource
then its users were obliged to display good stewardship; time was
scarce and must be used rationally (Julkunnen, 1977).

TIME AND SOCIAL ANALYSIS: A RESEARCH

FRAMEWORK

Having thus far outlined some basic social-time perspectives, and

latterly having explored some time metaphors and images, we now
offer a research typology in which many of the ideas introduced
14 Introduction

above are brought together. In particular, we consider issues of

quality and quantity, meaning and measurement, and their relation-
ship to the development of a research agenda for the sociology of
time. Here we draw upon the work of Max Heirich, who uses the
notion of social-time as a mediating concept for the analysis of social
change. After Heirich (1964) we suggest that the time concept can be
used in four main ways in sociological research, and that each of these
has direct implications for explaining social change and process. We
suggest that in sociological analysis time can be used as: (1) a social
factor in the explanation of structure and process; (2) a causal link
between elements in social theory; (3) a quantitative measure of these
elements; and (4) a qualitative measure of their interplay.

A Research Framework for Social-time

Time as a Social Factor

Our analysis above suggests that time influences social interaction in
two main ways - (1) as a resource, and (2) as a social meaning. As a
resource, time can be seen as a fixed-sum variable: once spent, it
cannot be regained. We have noted that as time becomes valuable it
takes on a commodity image (Thompson, 1967; Nowotny, 1976), and
that under industrial capitalism time has been regarded as an
increasingly scarce good. These images have been reproduced by the
fact that under industrialism more and more alternative uses can be
found for time. As industrialism traditionally represents a period of
rapid change, then time becomes perceived in finite intervals - it is
interchangeable for a variety of purposes, and consequently is of
greater worth.
However, when we consider time as a social factor we should not
simply objectify it as a resource. We must remember also that time
possesses social meaning (see Lewis and Weigart, Chapter 6 in this
volume; Sorokin and Merton, Chapter 4 in this volume). Time is a
medium through which complex meaning structures are generated - a
medium through which we coordinate and reproduce everyday
affairs. We learn that our attitudes to time are dynamic, and that
specific moments of time come to acquire particular meanings. The
month of May 1968 in Paris, for example, has acquired a special,
social meaning of its own. This time marked the emergence of a
specific response to a series of earlier processes. It remains, still, a
time which affects the thoughts and actions of both writers and
politicians alike (Lauer, 1980).
 John Hassard 15

In sum, then, as a social factor time can be portrayed as a concrete

facticity or as a medium of meaning. It is available as a factual
resource in the management of operations, and it possesses powerful
cultural codes for integrating everyday acts.

Time as a Causal Link

In social analysis; time can also be portrayed as a causal link between
variables in a model. While time is in itself not sufficient to establish
the existence of causal relations, it can add considerable evidence for
or against a relationship already hypothesised (Heirich, 1964). In
social theory this has most commonly been achieved by reference to
space-time relationships, and thus to the idea of time-as-context
(i.e., rather than to time-time relationships, or time-as-sequence).
In the idea of time-as-context, space and time form a backdrop
against which events assume meaning. For example, events (figures)
may be interpreted against the relationships (ground) characteristic
of particular historical epochs (e.g., the Renaissance, the Victorian
era, or the Third Reich). Here, the main characteristic of time is that
it represents a set of temporally limited structural patterns. The use
of time as a period (qualitative or quantitative) enables events to be
evaluated in terms of their relations to the larger pattern, rather than
as items which are independent of context.
Also, time-as-context can be used as a criterion for other, more
abstract relationships - that is, we can ask: do certain events occur
under different configurational patterns? The important point here is
that time serves both to segregate patterns of action and to combine
them into a larger pattern. In short, it offers the potential for
elaborating the method of correlation (e.g., Is X present whenever Y
is present? Do changes in X coincide with changes in Y?).

Time as a Quantitative Measure

Another major use of social-time is in measuring quantitative
changes in relationships. This generally involves choosing a scale for
time sequences, and then describing changes in terms of other
variables at various points on the scale. Here the structure and
dimensions of the scale can have important consequences for assess-
ing change. For example, the length of the time-period within which
an event takes place can largely determine its structural consequences.
Thus, whereas a brief loss of structure, such as in panic, may disrupt
system equilibrium, a longer breach of a similar type could destroy
the larger structure as a functioning system.
16 Introduction

The type of scale can also have implications for the kinds of
hypotheses we create. By selecting equal quantitative units (e.g.,
seconds, minutes, hours) we can use time as an interval scale.
However, for certain purposes such a scale may not be additive; that
is, a certain degree of change within a certain period may have quite
different empirical and theoretical consequences if it occurs uniquely,
is repeated in consecutive intervals, or is repeated in intervals which
are not consecutive (Heirich, 1964). What is more, the size of time-
interval will affect the type of changes that can be analysed appropri-
ately.
Alternatively, use of qualitative units (e.g., historical eras, stages
of growth or development, or subjectively perceived time-units) may
result in greater flexibility in determining the appropriate time-
interval for each case considered. The problem here is that compari-
sons, which are at the heart of the analysis of social-time and change,
appear much less precise. This approach, in essence, converts time
into an ordinal scale. We can rank cases only in chronological order,
or else according to some external criterion (e.g., X is more Z than Y
is Z).
We can, however, regain a degree of precision by arbitrarily
subdividing qualitative units (e.g., stages) into quantitative units and
then describing these in terms of duration. Not only can duration
then become an important variable in a conceptual scheme but, in
using objective, quantitative units of time as a measurement unit, we
can also talk of change in terms of rate, speed and intensity. We are
then able to note how the meaning of rate and duration, and the
degree of intensity created by a given change, vary relative to the
social system being observed. For, in the final analysis, even objec-
tively measured time has meaning only in relation to the total pattern
involved.

Time as a Qualitative Measure

Finally, in discussing time as a qualitative measure, we must note
that, strictly speaking, social change should not be confused with
social process, for there is an important difference. While social
processes can represent phases of equilibrium in a stable context,
social change implies a qualitative difference in the end state. That is,
the cumulative effect of a process of change is a set of qualitatively
different system relationships and a new form of social structure (see
Allen, 1975). For example, history shows how such changes can have
a variety of outcomes. Are not suppression, routinisation, adaption
 John Hassard 17

or revolution all possible outcomes of processes of socio-political

change? Each alternative, from suppression to revolution, represents
a qualitative change of increasing intensity (Heirich, 1964).
However, when we recognise the variety of outcomes possible
from a process of social change, the problem becomes that of
accounting for the particular cumulative effect which accrues. Here
time becomes relevant in terms of the interplay of duration, sequence,
rate and intensity (see Lewis and Weigart, Chapter 6 in this volume).
Questions arise concerning, for example, the duration that the setting
remained in its original structure, the sequence of change process
which occurred, and the rate of influence of important change
factors. As Heirich suggests, 'time as causal linkage and quantitative
measurement might be used conjointly to predict (or describe)
particular qualitative outcomes of a process of change' (p.390).
Therefore, given sufficient conceptual sophistication, it may be
possible to anticipate the rate of change in a given variable and the
time interval necessary to set a larger change process in train.
Minimum and maximum rates associated with differing levels of
structural penetration might also be anticipated. The time intervals
required for structural change might thus vary relative to the levels of
system organisation concerned (Heirich, 1964). For example, while
changes in facilities in the system should require the minimum time-
interval for completion, changes in the value system - which are
likely to be reflected at all other levels - should take much longer
(i.e., regardless of the level at which the change begins) (see Rocher,
1974).

CONCLUSIONS

In this Introduction I have attempted to do two main things - firstly,

to outline the range of concepts and perspectives available to the
sociologist of time, and secondly to explain how these concepts and
perspectives can be used to interpret relationships between time and
various facets of social life. By introducing the works of, for example,
Emile Durkheim, Pitirim Sorokin, Georges Gurvitch, and Wilbert
Moore, I have tried to show how the concept of social-time can be
interpreted from a number of perspectives and at a number of levels
of analysis. In this process social-time has been portrayed as, inter
alia, a functional structure and a subjective process, as a measure of
quality (context) and of quantity (commodity), and as a medium for
18 Introduction

encoding various natural, scientific and cultural metaphors (e.g.,

progress and relativity, line and cycle, melody and rhythm). Above
all, the aim has been to show how these various images, perspectives
or metaphors, instead of being incompatible factors, can be mediated
and harnessed in the process of developing rich explanations of time
and society.
 Part I
The Concept of Time
1 The Enigma of Time
Elliott Jaques

(From Elliott Jaques, The Form of Time, London: Heinemann,

1982.)

The enigma of time is the enigma of life: it has plagued poets and
philosophers from the beginnings of civilised thought. For life is lived
in time. Without time there is no life. But each one lives in his own
time. No two men living at the same time live in the same time. Each
one, living at the same moment, has his own personal time perspec-
tive, his own living linkage with past and future, the content of which,
and the scale of which, are as different between one person and
another as are their appearance, their fingerprints, their characters,
their desires, their very being.
That any two persons should differ in the contents of their
thoughts, desires, memories, aspirations is self-evident. People are
different. That gives richness to life. Indeed, the freedom for
individuals to be different, to behave differently and in entirely new
ways, to think differently, to be idiosyncratic, within reasonable
boundaries is the essence of freedom, of the liberty of the person, of
individual normality, of the requisite society, and of the quest for life.
But that different people live in different time-scales, or in
different temporal domains as I shall refer to them, may not be so
self-evident. Yet it has profound and far-reaching consequences for
everyone. It is through the recognition of these different time-scales
within which people live that many of the mysteries of time can be
resolved, and time itself may be understood.
The ordinary conception of time as used in clocks and in the
natural sciences will not, however, be sufficient for our purposes.
Even the time of relativity theory, the time which intermixed with
(rather than merely added to) the three dimensions of space gives the
modern four-dimensional dynamic view of the world - the physical
world, that is - will not by itself satisfy the requirements of the life
sciences. For the time of relativity theory is still the same old clock-
time used for dating simultaneous points at a distance in the physical
events. It does not live or breathe.
The things which make for life, which make life different from
physics, require for their description a sense of time which encompasses

21
22 The Enigma of Time

memories in the present of the past as well as expectations and

desires in the present of the future. Living time extends into feelings
for the past and desires for the future which no physical object can
possibly experience.
To keep our descriptions of living things alive - both individual and
social processes - requires not the cross-sectional spatial abstraction
which kills life dead, but a longitudinal temporal abstraction of living
events. Thus, our study has as its prime purpose to understand the
form of time, the nature of time, the form which living processes take
in the course of their movement in time. To understand the nature of
time is thus to enhance our understanding of ourselves, of our actions
and our social relationships, and of human life itself.

PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE

All the difficulties in understanding the meaning of time are con-

tained in the riddle of past, present, and future. Are they cotermi-
nous? Does one flow into the other? Does the future become the
present and then the past? It is these questions which were raised
centuries ago by St Augustine, and later in remarkably similar terms
by T.S. Eliot, by William Faulkner, by Proust, by dos Passos, by
Joyce, by Virginia Woolf, all of whom have attempted to reflect the
experience of time in their writing.
St Augustine stated the mystery in words which ring and echo
down through the ages:
For what is time? ... What in discourse do we mention more
familiarly and knowingly, than time? And, we understand, when
we speak of it; we comprehend also, when we hear it spoken of by
another.
And then the famous dictum:
o What, then, is time? If no-one asks me, I know: if I wish to
explain it to one that asketh, I know not; yet I say boldly that I
know, that if nothing passed away, time past were not; and if
nothing were coming, a time to come were not; and if nothing
were, time present were not (1961, p. 261).
But St Augustine did not let matters rest with mere questions to
which there were no apparent answers. With his evergreen thought,
his two-thousand-year-old modernity, his psychological insights
 Elliott Jaques 23

ahead of his time and his setting, leaping across the ages yet to come,
and entirely out of keeping with the state of development of the
human intellect and human understanding of his own time, he saw
the dilemma, the enigma, and he pointed to a significant element for
its solution. It was as though he were solving the riddle ofthe Sphinx,
recognising that time past, time present, and time future exist not just
in the mind of man but as the essence of the mind of man, in the form
of the interaction of memory, perception, and anticipation or desire,
which enables each one to pursue his life's aims. In the following
single paragraph (which is far less often quoted than his dramatic
proclamation of the elusiveness of time), he outlines the psychologi-
cal meaning of time, and does so in modern terms:
From what we have said it is abundantly clear that neither the
future nor the past exist, and ... it is not strictly correct to say that
there are three times, a present of past things, a present of present
things, and a present of future things. Some such different times do
exist in the mind, but nowhere else that I can see. The present of
past things is the memory; the present of present things is direct
perception; and the present of future things is expectation. If we
speak in these terms, I can see three times and I admit that they do
exist (1961 p. 269).
Later, St Augustine drives home his psychological analysis:
It can only be that the mind, which regulates this process,
performs three functions, those of expectation, attention and
memory. The future, which it expects, passes through the present,
to which it attends, into the past, which it remembers (1961 p. 277).
This recognition of the possible coexistence and conjunction of
time present, time future, and time past, is a recurring theme in T.S.
Eliot, in whom the Augustinian influence shines through, achieving
its fullest expression in Four Quartets:
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.

Time past and time future

What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
24 The Enigma of Time

And the end and the beginning were always there

Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now (1944, p. 7).
Here, Eliott sets out the same feeling as St Augustine about the
immediacy of time, the all-at-onceness of the past, the present, the
future, fused in the ongoing living of human experience as it is
happening, as one's feelings occur and ambitions and desires are
pursued, as one is hurt, or loving, or seeking, or creating, or working,
or performing, bringing something to fruition or beginning to feel the
pangs of frustration or of failure - all these experiences of living, of
striving to achieve in the future by mobilising one's real and current
flow of psychological existence.
Proust achieved this dramatic effect by the detailed accumulation
of events from the past, working out the way in which they remain
alive and enter into the present through the minds of each individual
actor in the drama. The unfolding of each person's living past and
desires enters into the web of interweaving human relationships that
unfolds in lace-like complexity.
In the novels of William Faulkner also, the idea of the coexistence
of past, present, and future in the human mind is put dramatically to
work. Jean Pouillion describes Faulkner's decomposition of chrono-
logy as showing:
that the present is submerged in the past, and what is lived in the
present is what was lived in the past. In this case, the past is not so
much an evocation as it is a constant pressure upon the present, the
pressure of what has been on what is ... The past is not a temporal
past, that which no longer is and can only be remembered. It is
something here and now, present in the proper sense of the word.
Inserted into time, the past was and is therefore past, but inasmuch
as it subsists, it is present (1966, p. 68, emphasis in original).
There is in Faulkner the disorganising impact upon the reader of
the way in which past and present flow back and forth into each
other, all seemingly contemporaneous, so that the present chrono-
logy takes on the sense of predestined future which heightens the
vividness and poignancy of the tragedy and grief which hang so
heavily over the characters in his novels. Everything seems ominously
fated - the future being tied to the accumulating active past.
Breaking away from the predestinating past calls for a breaking
away from a static temporality. Thus, Jean-Paul Sartre, writing about
 Elliott Jaques 25

Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, places special emphasis upon the
symbolic import of the breaking of his watch by Quentin, one of the
main characters. Quoting Faulkner, 'time is dead as long as it is being
checked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time
come to life'; Sartre adds, 'Thus, Quentin's gesture of breaking his
watch ... gives us access to a time without clocks' (1966, p. 88).
This distinction between clock-time as lifeless time and the fused
past, present (and future) as human or living time, is a crucial
distinction. Failure clearly to recognise the distinction between these
two aspects of time, and to formulate it, and to treat and to sustain
the two aspects of time both separately and in relation to each other-
rather than merely the one or the other on its own - has, I believe,
seriously impeded the growth of our understanding of time. Another
way of formulating the distinction is to separate time as flux (the
fusion of past, present, and future) and time as a chronological series
of points on a string (the face of a clock). This alternative way of
stating the issue is familiar in certain philosophical considerations of
time, which I will briefly consider in a preliminary way.

ONE VIEW OF THE PHILOSOPHICAL DILEMMA

Consideration of the nature of time pervades the literature of

philosophy. Inextricably associated with space, it lies at the heart of
the search for a coherent picture of the world - a picture which can do
justice to the requirements of science, art and culture, religious
belief, stringent contemplation and reflection, and the ordinary
common sense of everyday life. To know and to understand the main
currents and manifold strands of this massive accumulation of
thought about the nature of the world in which we live and of which
we are a part is a daunting task for the professional philosopher
steeped in the lore and knowledge in his field. It is folly for the
interested amateur to undertake any such task.
It would be equally foolhardy, however, to approach the question
of the form of time - even with the limited objective of gaining insight
into the pervasive framework of human activity and endeavour -
without trying to cull as much as possible of the wisdom accruing
from the concern of the philosophers. That wisdom confronts the
student with a bewildering range of disparate, conflicting, and
endlessly fascinating ideas. What I propose to do is to select certain
themes as background for the argument I intend to pursue. Among
26 The Enigma of Time

these, the necessary starting point must be the controversy between

the view of a discontinuous world made up of fixed and constant
entities in empty space, and a continuous world of fluxion, of the
insubstantial, of changing patterns of fields of force.
For our present purpose, the argument may be seen as stemming -
in Western thought at least - from the preoccupation of Parmenides
with Being as it is, of Democritus and Leucippus with everlasting
atoms and the space they occupied, and of Plato with eternal forms;
this will be in contrast to the view expressed in the few fragments left
from Heraclitus, expounding the uncertainty of flux.
The sources of these differences are manifold. One influence,
however, emanates from the deep-lying human feelings about change
and about stability. For Parmenides things are; Being is and will
remain so; all can be known and all can be certain. For Heraclitus all
is flowing, changing, transforming, never still, opposite becoming
opposite, the only reality being the reality of Becoming itself. In the
world of Parmenides, Being can never lead to Becoming, and time is
denied any independent reality. In the world of Heraclitus, Becoming
can never beget Being, and material substance is no more tangible
than - to use his own metaphor - the flickering flames of the fire.
Through most of history since, the secure feelings of certainty
which accompany the substantial view have held at bay the anxiety-
provoking uncertainty of the continuous-flux description which is as
difficult to grasp mentally as it is impossible to grasp physically. In
particular, the differentiation by Leucippus and by Democritus of the
permanent Being of Parmenides, into a complex of atoms of different
shapes and sizes, all located in space and as indestructible as the
common substance from which they derived, gave the intellectual
starting point for the development of science. And Plato in the
Timaeus added his powerful voice to this outlook with his argument
that the pattern of law is expressed in the form of ideal geometrical
shapes which are absolutely at rest and timeless.
The truth is that great successes were achieved when things were
somehow made to stand still long enough to be counted and
measured. The idea - the abstraction, the fiction - of the absolute
constancy of physical things (most physical things, that is) became the
necessary foundation ofthe development of scientific and mathematical
abstractions: reflected in the beauty and completeness of the Euclidean
system of axioms and theorems, in the discovery of specific gravities and
densities, and even in the technique for stopping time by recording it on
notches on a stick or on fixed blocks of space in a calendar.
 Elliott Jaques 27

By comparison with the constant spatial orientation which became

the essential underpinning for scientific development, the problem of
time, of flux, was inordinately difficult to handle. It was of great
philosophical, religious, and indeed practical interest, but was not
available to the senses in the same direct way as were physical
objects, for manipulation and study. The problem of all scientific
development from then on was established: physical objects could be
systematically studied and measured; time could not be, because it
suffered from an apparently insurmountable problem: it would not
stay still long enough to be observed, counted, and categorised: its
very essence was that it would not stand still at all.
The flux of time which makes it so difficult to get hold of, to hold
down, is partly what makes it so difficult to describe. In effect, to put
time into words is to do what words always do - they make things
stand still. Time is dynamic, words are static; words seem useful for
pinning things down, but they ruin time precisely by pinning it down.
As Hegel put it, 'words murder time'. There is in fact no great
difference between words and things and words and time, but what
was less recognised at the beginning was that the unchanging solidity
of atoms, giving the world of unchanging certainty so emotionally
acceptable to Leucippus and Democritus and their philosophical
followers through history, brought with it the problem of space within
which independent and bounded things existed. The things were easy
enough to distinguish and the atoms to hypothesise - but the nature
of space presented greater difficulties and has continued to do so ever
since. 'What is space?' has presented no easier a question, no less
enigmatic, no less mysterious, than 'what is time?'
Nevertheless, the atomic model has proved a useful abstraction. It
allows for the sense of certainty of knowing where something is and
how big it is - and therefore for apparently unequivocal counting in
research and economic trade. And it allows for the certainty of
knowing enough about what something is, how it is bounded, to
make it easy in research and in economic trade to analyse some of its
properties in combination with other things.

MOTION IN AN ATOMIC WORLD

Time, however, does not appear to figure largely in these pursuits. It

was not at first necessary for the science of statics, which was
growing, other than the gross times needed for astronomy and
28 The Enigma of Time

navigation. The development of dating and of time-of-day calculation

which was of interest from our point of view, was the dramatic and
disturbing introduction by Galileo of the study of velocity and
acceleration - studies made possible by the discovery of the pen-
dulum and of the clock trip mechanism in the West, in the fourteenth
century. It is hard now to realise how difficult it was at the time to
grasp these ideas. It meant adding the uncertainty of the feeling of a
rate of motion, and the idea of measuring it, to the certainty of the
objects which moved. And not only of velocity, but of directly
unobservable and difficult-to-grasp rates of increase or decrease in
motion. The dilemma was talking about a rate of acceleration, for
example, without being able to stop the object and observe the
acceleration at first hand.
Even so, we may note that time as construed for these purposes
was the time of Quentin's watch. It is the time of the trip mechanism;
that is to say, the time measured by stopping motion, or in effect,
stopping time every second by a cogwheel. It was this intermittently
stopped clock-time which became the time that was absorbed into the
scientific revolution of Galileo's formulation of the inertia of physical
bodies, and of Newton's mechanics.
This stopped-clock notion of time is of great interest, since in a
curious way it is static rather than dynamic; if, that is, it is possible to
think of time as static. What I mean is that it is a time that goes along
with the atomic view of the world: a time that causes itself to be
defined in terms of the apparent motion of an object from one point
in space to another, in a given period or lapse. Perhaps a better
epithet is that of mechanical rather than static time, of time that
brings dynamics to a mechanical world.
It might have been expected that with the emergence of relativity
theory, this mechanical-time would be replaced by a flux-time.
Oddly, however, this expectation was not realised. The addition of
time as a fourth dimension simply adds to the atomic three-
dimensional world of objects. Time as a fourth dimension remains
stubbornly out of phase with the isomorphic interchangeability of the
three Cartesian spatial coordinates. The problems of simultaneity
and succession, even at the speed of light, are resolved - up to a point
- but leave in their wake problems of the most serious kind, among
them the apparent death of time itself.
The world view of the special theory of relativety leads to a curious
four-dimensional block universe in which all time is present at one
dead and unchanging time, once and for all, in which all is deter-
 Elliott Jaques 29

mined, all is fixed, all is in its place. Each person simply moves on his
particular path along his particular part of this creation, like a
traveller in a train, or on a travelling staircase or an escalator - a
spectator rather than a wilful and active participant, watching life go
by against the background of scenery as it moves along, all unchang-
ing, arranged, predetermined, meaningless, inhuman, and lifeless.
Whitrow described this block universe:
Even Einstein, who made the greatest contribution since the
seventeenth century to the understanding of time ... later became
decidedly wary of the concept ... and came to the conclusion that
physical reality should be regarded as a four-dimensional existence
rather than as an evolution of a three-dimensional existence. In
other words, the passage of time is to be regarded as merely a
feature of our consciousness that has no objective physical signific-
ance. This sophisticated hypothesis makes the concept of time
completely subordinate to that of space (1975, p. 134, emphasis in
original).
And then again,
In a block universe, as we have seen, past, present, and future do
not apply to physical events, and so they neither come into
existence nor cease to exist - they just are (p. 143).
And Grunbaum makes the same point;
Our final concern in the consideration of the time problem is the
physical status, if any, of 'becoming'. Our earlier characterization
of the difference between the two directions of time does not, as
such, affirm the existence of a transient, threefold division of events
into those that have already 'spent their existence', as it were,
those which actually exist, and those which are yet to 'come info
being.' And the relativistic picture of the world makes no 'exist-
ence' but as simply being and thus allowing us to 'come across'
them and produce 'the formality of their taking place' by our
'entering' into their absolute future. This view, which some writers
mistakenly believe to depend on determinism, as we shall see, has
been expressed by H. Weyl in the following partly metaphorical
way: 'the objective world simply is it does not happen. Only to the
gaze of my consciousness crawling upward along the life [world-]-
line of my body does a section of this world come to life as a
fleeting image? (1964, pp. 658-9, emphasis in original).
30 The Enigma of Time

Perhaps it is because relativity theory employs the static spatialised

time of earlier and later - a view which excludes the process of
Becoming - that Minkowski's enthusiastic hope and expectation
about one particular consequence of the special theory has not come
to pass. He voiced what he felt would be the ordinary view of all
future generations:
The views of space and time which I wish to lay before you have
sprung from the soil of experimental physics, and therein lies their
strength. They are radical. Henceforth space by itself, and time by
itself, are doomed to fade away into mere shadows, and only a kind
of union of the two will preserve an independent reality (1908,
p.1).
Minkowski's mistake lay in his failure to note that the notion of
time encompassed a complex group of ideas, and could not simply be
tacked on to the idea of space or fused with it. Indeed Einstein stated
the issue more problematically when he pointed out:
for this theory [the electrodynamics of Faraday and Maxwell] ...
showed that there are electro-magnetic phenomena which by their
very nature are detached from every ponderable matter - namely
the waves in empty space which consist of electro-magnetic
'fields' ... Since then there exist two types of conceptual elements,
on the one hand, material points with forces at a distance between
them, and on the other hand, the continuous field. It presents an
intermediate state in physics without a uniform basis for the
entirety, which - although unsatisfactory - it is far from having
superseded (quoted in Schlipp, 1970, pp. 25,27).
In effect, not only is the nature of time problematic, so too is the
nature of space and of things and fields. Any idea of time and space
simply fusing into happy conceptual union is inevitably to be dis-
appointed when the two partners to the union are so unclear.

TIME, FLUX, AND BECOMING

There would thus appear to be several concepts of time and several

concepts of space used by thinkers, writers, poets, scientists, for their
various purposes and from their various points of view as they
approach the world in which we live. It is this multiplicity of
conceptualisations that is perhaps at the heart of the problem.
 Elliott Jaques 31

Indeed, perhaps our whole relationship to reality is, as Einstein

suggests, in an unsatisfactory intermediate state. Or is it so? Might it
not equally be that a multiplicity of conceptual frameworks is
essential to any adequate mental construction of phenomena? Let us
pursue for a moment this latter possibility.
The raw experience of space and time is that of an undifferentiated
space-time manifold. We live in a mentally constructed world of
action and of change, and as long as we do not try to formulate what
it is like - to speak about it, as St Augustine complains - we are not in
too much trouble. It is when we do try to speak about it, whether
poetically, or in story development in the novel, or in precise
mathematical language in physics, or in the analytical or propositional
language of philosophy, that the trouble starts.
There is a choice among many formulations: the undifferentiated
and uniform space; the world of things or atoms moving in undefined
space; the world of shifting fields of force like moving clouds; the
clock-time of earlier and later, which does not seem to flow; the flux-
time in which future, present, and past do seem to flow from one to
the other. At first sight, Being seems closely associated with the
atomic clock-time world and Becoming with the force-field flux-time
world. And yet such a conclusion seems too easy, premature, too
tidy. Conceptually it is as easy to interlace Becoming with Being in
the atomic earlier-later world as it is to interlace Being with
Becoming in the world of fields and flux.
There is something more to be teased out. There is another
distinction which runs through the material I have selected, and
which cries out for attention. It is the association of the flux-time of
future, present, past, with life and with psychological processes and
with the 'subjective' world; and the association of the clock-time of
earlier and later with the physical or 'objective' world.
This pair of associations of these two types of time with the
'subjective' and 'objective' worlds is in fact a matter of current
controversy among philosophers of science. Grunbaum, for example,
in a dispute with Reichenbach, quotes Bergmann to the effect that
, "Now" is the temporal mode of experiencing "ago" " and goes on to
argue that:

Bergmann's demonstration here that an indeterminist universe

fails to define an objective (non-psychological) transient now can
be extended in the following sense to justify his contention that the
concept 'now' involves features peculiar to consciousness: the 'flux
32 The Enigma of Time

of time' or transiency of the 'now' has a meaning only in the

context of the egocentric perspectives of sentient organisms and
does not also have relevance to the relations between purely
inanimate individual recording instruments and the environmental
physical events they register, as Reichenbach claims. For what can
be said of every state of the universe can also be said, mutatis
mutandis, of every state of a given inanimate recorder. Moreover,
the dependence of the meaning of 'now' on the presence of
properties peculiar to consciousness emerges from William James's
and Hans Driesch's correct observations that a simple isomorphism
between a succession of brain traces and a succession of states of
awareness does not explain the temporal features of such psycholo-
gical phenomena as melody awareness. For the hypotheses of
isomorphism renders only the succession of states of awareness but
not the instantaneous awareness of succession. But the latter aware-
ness is an essential ingredient of the meaning of 'now': The flux
of time consists in the instantaneous awareness of both the temporal
order and of the diversity of the membership of the set of
remembered (recorded) or forgotten events, awareness in each of
which the instant of its own occurrence constitutes a distinguished
element (Grunbaum, 1964, pp. 662-3, emphasis in original).

I shall have cause to return in greater detail to Reichenbach's

arguments in his The Direction of Time, and the view of others as
well. But perhaps we have proceeded far enough for the moment to
establish the true complexity of our endeavour. Not only are we
dealing with different concepts of space and time, of Being and
Becoming, of points and fields, of past, present, and future, of earlier
and later, of flux and of clocks, in the conceptualisations of physics
and the objective world, but we shall also have to pay due regard to
the possibility of there being different concepts of time for the mental
world as against the physical world, deriving from the formulation of
our subjective experience as against our objective experience, our
experience of the inner psychic world as against the outer material
world. I hope to unravel some of these complex interconnections.

eRRONOS AND KAIROS

There is, finally, one other perspective on time, which may complete
this introduction. It is a view embedded in the two different Greek
 Elliott Jaques 33

terms used in referring to time: Chronos and Kairos. In brief, the

distinction between these two terms in that of chronological, seriatim
time of succession, measurable by clocks or chronometers - chronos:
and that of seasonal-time, the time of episodes with a beginning, a
middle, and an end, the human and living time of intentions and goals
- kairos.
Professor Kermode makes much of the distinction between these
two different meanings in his volume of essays, The Sense of an
Ending (1967). He traces the impact of the dominance of each
conception of time upon the literature of a given period in a society.
When the chronological serial conception - chronos - prevails, the
outlook of the society tends toward the more scientific and logical
sense of a world which moves on from one stage to another, and that
outlook colours the literature both in content and in the way chrono-
logy is expressed in plays and novels. When by contrast the more
human cyclical sense of time - kairos - prevails, the literature tends
to be more highly charged with religious and godly ends, with apoca-
lypse, catastrophe, revelation, redemption, and the new beginnings.
Kermode was strengthened in this view by a controversy which had
raged for some forty years about the significance of the use of chronos
and kairos in the Bible. The controversy centred on the views
principally of Marsh (1952), Robinson (1950), and Cullmann (1964),
based on lexical analysis of the New Testament, that two very different
ideas of time are expressed by these two terms, and that the difference
is a matter of considerable theological import. James Barr (1969) among
others, rejects this argument, and attempts to prove that chronos and
kairos are much more interchangeable in Biblical usage.
Without attempting to assess the merits of one or the other side of
the lexical argument, and without entering into the debate over the
theological implications, we can note a most interesting and signific-
ant pair of meanings, one of which attaches to chronos and the other
to kairos, which are the general meanings in Greek whatever the
Greek Biblical usage. In the strict dictionary sense, chronos has the
simple meaning of time in the sense of a length of time or interval: it
is the time that appears in time 'measurers' or chronometers; the time
that can be numbered on a clock by making it a discontinuous
succession of points on a line. Kairos is the time not of measurement
but of human activity, of opportunity: it is the time which appears in
'kairos pros anthropon braxu metron Oxiei' - Time and tide wait for
no man - and in the name of the Greek deity, Kairos, the youngest
son of Zeus, and the God of Opportunity. Kairos relates to its close
34 The Enigma of Time

cousin kainos which signifies ~new, fresh, newly invented or novel;

Kainos in turn connects with kinein, to move, from which comes
kinesis. In short, the kairos family of terms is concerned with the
time of movement, with change, with the emergence of the new and
with active innovation.
Marsh (1952) states the distinction as between 'chronological-time'
and 'realistic-time'. The meaning of realistic-time is:
times known and distinguished not so much by their place in some
temporal sequence as by their content ... the time of opportunity
and fulfilment (p. 44).
This theme is elaborated by Robinson (1950) who describes kairos
as:
time considered in relation to personal action, in reference to ends
to be achieved in it. Chronos is time abstracted from such a
relation, time, as it were that ticks on objectively and impersonally,
whether anything is happening or not: it is time measured by the
chronometer not by purpose, momentary rather than momentous
(p.27).
The importance of the distinction here expressed lies in its
similarity to the distinction we have already seen between the
psychological-time of past, present, future, in which human experi-
ence is located, as against the objective-time of earlier and later of
the physicist. As I shall try to show, a different perspective appears
when we define our psychological and social phenomena exclusively
as events, as episodes, and become aware of their form in time, in the
time of intention and duration or of Kairos, keeping in mind always,
of course, that episodes occur in space-time. It is also of interest to
note that whereas chronos has come down via Latin into all the
Roman-based languages, kairos somehow became stuck and re-
mained in classical Greek only. This linguistic hold-up reflects the
greater ease which we feel with emotionally unencumbered chrono-
logy as compared with the more anxiety-filled experience of the time
which brings human intentions and purposes into sharp focus, with
their consequent oscillations between success and failure, catastrophe
and renewal, and between life and death.
2 The Problem of Time
Georges Gurvitch

(From Georges Gurvitch, The Spectrum of Social Time, Dortrecht:

Reidel, 1964.)

To specify what we mean by time, it is sufficient to define it as

convergent and divergent movements which persist in a discontinuous
succession and change in a continuity of heterogeneous moments. This
delimition places time outside mere philosophical theories of time.
The sociologist cannot participate in the arguments over the justifica-
tion nor the abolition of time in favour of eternity which many
philosophers from Parmenides and Plato to Hegel have been tempted
to do. As a matter of fact, the theories of the 'Living eternity' of
Plotine, St Augustine, Schelling and Hegel, who reduce human life
to divine time, seem only to present the most diffused formulas for
the destruction of real time in eternity. Our descriptive definition of
time also avoids taking a position on the subject of the primacy of
ontological-time or of 'consciousness of time'. There was a long
tradition of identifying time with the 'consciousness of time', and
the 'consciousness of time' with individual consciousness. Even
philosophers who have revolutionised the interpretation of the 'con-
sciousness of time' by rendering it problematic, as Bergson and
Husserl have done, have not been able to break away from idealistic
subjectivism. This is why, in Les donnees immediates de la conscience,
Bergson spoke of the 'qualitative duration as seen exclusively by the
deeper self' (even when it is understood as a submerged self). And
why Husserl reduced the problem of time to that of the 'phenomenol-
ogy of the interiority of the consciousness of time'.
However in Matiere et memoire and in L'evolution creatrice
Bergson accounts for the entire world process in terms of different
degrees of the 'depth of the qualitative duration', which for him
represents effective time, and takes a clearly realistic position in
regard to time. Perhaps a clear affirmation that consciousness is
immanent to being, and that the first always opens to the last, would
end the philosophers' hesitations between the subjective and objec-
tive interpretations of time. For my part, I am inclined to consider
both of these interpretations erroneous and outmoded. But this is not
directly pertinent to this study.

35
36 The ProbLem of Time

The above definition of time to which I am committed attempts to

avoid the philosophical issue and also by-passes Aristotle's classical
conception, according to which time is a measure of movement (this
presupposes that all time can be reduced to measure, and, since the
measures are integrated into a unity, there is only one single time). It
also by-passes St Augustine's conception ('I know what time is if one
does not ask me') which has contemporary supporters. For them,
time is the continuous duration of the directly experienced. This
latter interpretation eliminates all discontinuity, as well as all real
movement or more precisely, all succession in time; it denies also any
possibility of measuring or mastering time. From Aristotle I retain
the idea that time is movement (rather a plurality of movements),
and from his opponents the idea that time possesses a qualitative
element, it is not always measurable and even more not always
quantifiable.

JEAN PIAGET'S DEFINITION

The definition offered here does not depart much from the one Jean
Piaget proposed in Le deveLoppement de La motion de temps chez
l'enfant (1946). Since his definition influenced me it would be useful
to indicate how we differ. Piaget ... speaks only of 'convergency',
whereas I also insist on the 'divergency' of movements. Piaget
interprets convergency as an ordering of time, while I believe that
'convergency' is first of all simply correspondence, and then perhaps
also the coincidence of movements (simultaneity) but not parallelism,
since there are multiple ways of succession. In opposing intuitiveLy
grasped time and operative time, Piaget considered the first related
exclusively 'to accomplished efforts and to felt changes', and the
second, be it qualitative or on the contrary metric and quantitative, as
always entirely constructed because it is linked to an 'order of always
reversible succession' (pp.274-5). But I believe that Piaget has not
sufficiently taken into account the diaLectic between succession and
duration, continuity and discontinuity, heterogeneous moments and
homogeneity. He restricts the direct grasping of time and passes too
quickly from 'intuitive irreversibility' to the 'operative reversibility' of
time, thus destroying the intermediate degrees in which a large part
of time moves. For these reasons he did not achieve an adequate grasp
of the multiple manifestations of time. This derives from the fact that,
according to his own interpretation of his definitions ... time is
 Georges Gurvitch 37

founded on a subjacent rationalist philosophy. I have tried to free my

definition from this orientation as well as from all other philosophies.

IS MULTIPLE-TIME POSSIBLE?

Perhaps, even granting the definition of time as a convergency and

divergency of movements which persist in a discontinuous succession
and change in a continuity of heterogeneous moments, the question
will be raised as to whether it suffices to make the multiple manifesta-
tions of time possible. Does this definition avoid the destruction of
both the real-time and time concept? If there are multiple manifesta-
tions of time, if these are not integrated in one another and collide, so
to speak, how can the world continue to exist? And why subordinate
the multiple manifestations of time to the same time concept instead
of coining other terms for each one? Were not thinkers as divergent
as Aristotle, Kant and Hegel correct in insisting on the unity of time;
a unity that Aristotle saw in measure, Kant in transcendental form,
and Hegel in the relation of time and spirit, always one and multiple
at the same time (Zeitgeist = Geist der Zeit)?
Never has the intellectual atmosphere been as favourable to the
awareness of the multiple manifestations of time as that of the
twentieth century. Never before have the different manifestations of
social-time confronted each other as obviously as today. With the
impressive development of communications technique, we pass in a
twinkling through different manifestations and scales of time charac-
teristic of various nations, types of societies, and groups. Both
philosophy and the sciences reveal now that the asserted unity of time
was a mirage. This is the consequence of the astonishing meeting of
the Bergsonian philosophy of time and Einstein's general theory of
relativity. For this reason we should digress for a moment to analyse
the Bergsonian philosophy of time and the methodology of sciences
today.
But before we can start, we must answer to the question of the
possibility of the multiple manifestations of time and their unity. If
time is either the divergency or convergency of movements, one can
logically recognise as many manifestations of time as there are ways
of the above-mentioned convergencies and divergencies.
In principle, n + I times can exist; this is a question of the reality of
facts and of the construction of facts by the operational conceptual-
isation of the different sciences. All of these times, in spite of their
38 The Problem of Time

profound differences, possess the same formal characteristics of

convergent or divergent movements, and thus enter into the general
category of time.
As already noted, without attempts to unify the multiple mani-
festations of time into ~ hierarchised system, our personal life, social
life, or orientation in the world ... is impossible. Such unifications
are not given to us beforehand, but must be acquired through human
effort in which a struggle for the mastery of time enters. We do not
know and we shall never know if a unity of the multiple manifesta-
tions of time exists in itself. We can only struggle so that we will not be
lost in the mUltiple manifestations of time and in order to achieve a
relative unification of the scales of time. We are occupied with this
problem, more or less successfully, in our psychic life, our social life,
in our knowledge of time within and outside the sciences, in the
physical sciences as well as in the social sciences.

BERGSON AND THE PROBLEM OF TIME

In order to clarify our position we shall stop a while for a detailed

analysis of Bergson's theory of time. Bergson popularised the
opposition of two times. The first of these is heterogenous duration,
irreversible, 'in becoming' ('se faisant'), characteristic of qualitative-
time belonging to that which he called 'tension', particularly to non-
automatic memory, to the 'elan vital', to creative freedom. The
second time is homogeneous succession, reversible, accomplished-
time ('tout fait') , belonging to the 'material world'; it is a quantitative
time founded on spatialisation. Although in Matiere et memoire and
in L'evolution creatrice he discovered 'different densities of duration'
(Matiere et memoire, p. 273) and although he declared 'that there is
no unique rhythm' and that 'one can easily imagine different
rhythms, which are slower or more rapid, measuring the degree of
tension or of relaxation of the consciousness and, by this, fixing their
respective places in a series of beings' (Matiere et memoire, p. 231),
and finally, although he placed matter, biological life, the psychic and
the social, in different degrees of qualitative time, he did not success-
fully arrive at a theory of the multiplicity of time, which would appear
to emerge from his own analyses.
There are many reasons for this unexpected stalemate: [1] First,
Bergson, incorrectly, tied qualitative time to his despatialisation. He,
himself, had discovered in Matiere et memoire 'concrete extensity',
 Georges Gurvitch 39

which is qualitative and thus different from quantitative space. It

would appear to develop from this that 'tension' and 'extension'
could be both quantitative or qualitative. He, however, continued to
see in the different degrees of the density of duration, phases of
despatialisation. Furthermore, he continued to identify the concep-
tualisations of times and of extensities with their quantifications and
their spatialisation, thus over-simplifying the problems which he
himself had foreseen. [2] Secondly, Bergson was a victim of his
continuism. In spite of the fact the heterogeneous duration of
qualitative-time appears loaded with discontinuous moments, Berg-
son never was able to render them actual. In Bergson's duration
nothing begins and nothing ends. Also the degrees of density of the
duration are included in such a continuity of passage that they do not
separate nor oppose each other sufficiently. The lack of actual
discontinuity interferes with recognition of multiple times. It is here
that the constant threat of monism in Bergson arises, first psycho-
logical monism, then vitalistic and spiritualistic monism, and finally
mystic-theological monism. In his last work, Les deux sources de la
morale et de la religion, Bergson noted the stalemate of his attempts
to unite in a single movement all the realities of the world unfolding
in the qualitative duration. Then, in spite of his first inspiration to
dethrone eternity in favour of human time, he was led to a new effort
of reconciliation in 'living eternity', reminiscent of Plotine and
Augustine. [3] Thirdly, Bergson was too insistent in his different
works, sometimes on the present as an aspect of time (Les donnees
immediates de la conscience), sometimes on the past as dominant in
time (Matiere et memoire), sometimes on the future as colouring
time (worldly future in L'evolution creatrice, and on other worldly
future in Les deux sources). He was thus hindered from studying the
varieties of possible combinations and different meanings of the
present, past and future. Now, each of these aspects can dominate
over the others or be projected in the others. The future can be
rendered present and even past, the past projected into the future,
the present rendered past and the past rendered present. This im-
portant variation contributing to the multiplication of times escaped
Bergson. This is because, in spite of everything he always used
qualitative duration to develop previously accepted general philo-
sophical theses having nothing to do with the analysis of time. [4]
Finally, Bergson refused to admit that the 'construct' of the sciences,
that is their operational frames of reference, including their concep-
tualised-time, measured and quantified up to a certain point, could
40 The ProbLem of Time

be founded on experienced and grasped qualitative manifestations

of time. The times of the different sciences appeared to him always
opposed to qualitative duration and entirely spatialised. Thus Berg-
son cut the bridges between the multiplicity of times (which, in
presenting discontinuism, he had discovered) and the plurality of
times included in Einstein's theory of relativity, when he refused to
admit that the constructed times of the sciences themselves carried
the germs of the qualitative-time. It is, moreover, interesting to note
that both Gaston Bachelard, the scientific methodologist, and Jean
Piaget, the psychologist, expressed amazement at the fact that
Bergson never believed that he could learn something about time
from Einstein's theory. He was struck by how intimately time and
space were brought together in the multiple space-times and time-
spaces of Einstein. To summarise the real reasons why Bergson, after
having prepared the ground for the theory of the multiplicity of time,
had not himself proceeded towards its development, was that he
lacked the dialectic frame of mind. Nothing requires the dialectic
approach more than the problem of time.
As a matter of fact, all the characteristics of time, always in
degree~can ... be understood only dialectically: the 'discontinuous
continuity' and the 'continuous discontinuity', the duration in succes-
sion and the succession in duration, the past, the present and the
future, sometimes projected in one another, sometimes dominant
over one another, and finally sometimes reduced to one another, the
'quantitative-qualitative' and the 'qualitative- quantitative' (quantity
itself presented in the form of degrees of extensity and intensity), the
homogeneous heterogeneity, and the stable-change and the changing
stability. Bachelard sensed it well, and entitled one of his books La
diaLectique de La duree (1936). If the procedure of dialectic hyper-
empiricism (the complementarity, mutual implication, ambiguity,
polarisation and reciprocity of perspectives) is applied to Bergson's
discoveries, one arrives at the multiplicity of time directly. However,
the Bergsonian endeavour still remains a very important anticipation
of this.

THE PROBLEM OF TIME IN CONTEMPORARY PHYSICS

Let us now see how Einstein's general theory of relativity and
quantum physics have gmtributed to solving the problem of the
multiplicity of time./Elnstein demonstrated that in physics there are
as many times aythere are frames of reference and that the speed of
 Georges Gurvitch 41

movement is relative to the point of view of the observer who chooses

one of these frames of reference. That is to say, among other things,
that the time of macro-physics does not correspond to the time of
micro-physics, that the time of mechanics is not that of thermo-
dynamics, nor the time of astronomy that of physics. But a too
narrow connection between time and space, because it relates the
frameworks of time-space and space-times, both quantified and
continuous, did not allow Einstein to reveal that it is a matter not
only of the difference of measures applied to the diverse times, but
also of the qualitative differences and varied relations of past, present
and future in these times.
Now quantum physics has drawn attention to this point. It has
revealed, among other things, that the discontinuous radiations of
electrons are produced in a time resistant to quantitative measures,
time-energy cut by intervals, of which even the rhythms are un-
fathomable. In these conditions the scientific theorists are led to
speak of the 'many times in physics which sustain various relations'.
This situation is best formulated in Bachelard's book La dialectique
de la duree (1936): 'If, until now, the physicist's time has appeared to
be unique and absolute, it is because the physicist, first and foremost,
was placed on a particular experimental plane. Temporal pluralism
has appeared with relativity. There are many times for relativity, to
which, without doubt, it corresponds ... , but which do not keep
absolute duration. Duration is relative. Nevertheless, in the doctrines
of relativity the conception of duration stilI has continuity as an
obvious characteristic. This is no more so in quantum physics. All the
difficulties encountered in the assimilation of doctrines arise from the
fact that a qualitative change is explained ... [by a] change in
position. One can see that here continuity is ... a very poor
hypothesis ... It can then be presumed that quantum physics requires
the conception of discontinuous durations which do not have the
properties of chain reactions [d'enchainements ilIustrees] ... by
continuous trajectories' (pp. 90-91, emphasis in original).

THE MULTIPLE MANIFESTATIONS OF TIME IN

DIFFERENT SCIENCES

But if multiplicity of time forces itself on the natural sciences, how

can we take exception to it in the social sciences where the conflicts of
time are much sharper and much more striking? We must now answer
42 The Problem of Time

the third question formulated ... [elsewhere]: what does 'social-time'

and multiple social-time' mean? What is the specificity of these
times? Do we admit specificity and multiplicity only of real social
time of moving collectivities, or only of time constructed as oper-
ational frames of reference in sociology, or is it admitted also in time
which can be, according to the situation, experienced, perceived,
represented, symbolised and conceptualised, and also in time which
can sometimes be quantified?
What is the meaning of time of inanimate nature, physical-time,
astronomical-time, time of living nature, time of vegetable and
animal life, time of species and organisms, time of the human body,
psychic-time and within it collective psychic-time, intermental
psychic-time, individual psychic-time, and again, psychic-time of
intellectual emotive or voluntary colouration. The spheres of reality
which we can distinguish live in very different times, since the
divergency and convergency of their movements are in correlation
with the specificity of the first. The accentuations of present, future
and past, of continuity and discontinuity, of duration and succession,
of qualitative and quantitative, differ in all of them. In physical reality
the difference between present, past and future tends to be obliter-
ated. In the reality of stars past and future obliterate the present. In
biological-time time is non-reversible and past, present and future
oppose each other while augmenting discontinuity and the qualita-
tive. In the time of the human body carrying the traces of psychic-and
social-time, time is more discontinuous and more qualitative than all
the other times mentioned up to now. Here abrupt changes of
relations between present, past and future are sometimes manifested.
In psychic-time, already full of meanings, the present is accentuated
by breaking with the past and the future, etc .... Thus, long before
the different sciences began to construct their specific operational
frameworks of time in which the object of their studies is placed, the
multiplicity of time is forced on us by direct contact with the different
spheres of reality. In the construction of time by different sciences as
operational frameworks appropriate to their study, these initial
tendencies of reality are brought into the open and conceptualised.
From this point of view we can make the following observations:

(1) Macro-physical-time does not correspond to micro-physical-

time, the first time tied to the calculation of probability and large
numbers, the closest approach to quantified succession, and the
second being the time of radiations of electrons, whose relative
continuity, if one can presuppose it, is only hypothetical.
 Georges Gurvitch 43

(2) The time of thermodynamics does not correspond to time

of mechanics, not to the time of macro-physics. This time of the
intensity of thermic phenomena, in raising the problem of their
extinction, accentuates the future and the present more than the
past, and reveals itself to be more qualitative than the time of
mechanics.
(3) Time of astronomy cannot be reduced to any of the times
constructed by physics. It is essentially a hypothetical time, tied to the
quasi-infinite distance of light, where the present is obliterated, the
past and the future alone remaining in play.
(4) The time of chemistry is different from the time of physics as
well as of astronomy. The present is projected in the past and in the
future and accentuates the passage from discontinuity to continuity;
and vice versa.
(5) In the time of geological strata, as stated by Michael Souri in
his book Le temps (1938, pp. 15-20) the past and the continuity are
emphasised but the qualitative is not sacrificed to the quantitative
very much. It is like astronomical-time in that it is a highly hypo-
thetical time.
(6) Biological-time (where botany-time and zoology-time can be
distinguished) obviously cannot be reduced to any of the preceding
times. Here it is a matter of cumulative-time proceeding by leaps,
time of evolution interrupted by discontinuities, vital-time where the
non-reversibility and the future proclaim their rights and where the
qualitative begins to dominate. M. Lecomte de Nouy in his book Le
temps et la vie (1936) is a protagonist of the specificity of this
biological-time. However, he did not distinguish between real-time
where vegetable and animal life abound, and the time constructed by
biology as a science. He was not yet ready to pay attention to the
difference between biological-time and the physiological-time of the
human body, as well as to time as reality and as it is constructed by
physiology and anthropology.
(7) In this time, since it deals with the human body, not only is
the biological side considered, but also the psychological and the
sociological aspects. This is the time of changes of the human body
and the time of the ages of man. Now, as Marcel Mauss has shown in
his remarkable study, 'Les Techniques du corps' (reprinted in
Sociologie et Anthropologie, 2nd edn, 1966, pp. 365-86), some move-
ments of the human body arise from society as do the techniques of
breathing, walking, 'manner of remaining upright', of reproduction,
of eating, rowing, even of sleeping, etc. Man's life cycle is also, very
deeply, penetrated by the social reality. His 'ages' are socially defined
44 The Problem of Time

and vary according to the type of global societies. The human and
social meanings, penetrating into the time constructed by physiological
anthropology, accentuates the ruptures between the past, present
and future. Differentiation of ages and individual variation in longevity,
and also the possibility of abrupt changes in these elements, emerge
from this discontinuity between past, present and future.
 Part II
Social-time
3 Time, Technics and
Society
Radhakamal Mukerjee

(From R. Mukerjee, 'Time, Technics and Society', Sociology and

Social Research, 1943,27 pp. 255-66).

Man's conduct and values are circumscribed by society. He plays the

role selected for him by society and appropriates his limited categor-
ies of values from a niche that society carves out for him. Both his
status and mobility are incidents in a dynamic social process of which
he is an active partner in the limited universe that niggardly nature
and doxial destiny have chosen for him. This dynamic process
embraces both social continuity and social change and involves the
concept of time.
Now time in life and society is something very different from time
in the starry heaven. Astronomical-time is uniform and homo-
geneous, ceaselessly flowing at a constant rate, and is a myth of the
mathematician. The time which is real, concrete, and objective in
man's world is related to his experience of the rhythm of life
processes in their relations to the environment and, second, experi-
ence of the rhythm of activities of the group with which his own
activities synchronise in the process of social adaptation.
It is a law in the living world that physico-chemical and biological
processes in organisms, within favourable temperature limits, are
increased by an approximate constant (two to three times usually) for
each 10 degrees of increase in temperature. This is the well-known
Van't Hoff's formula which underlies the universal variation of the
metabolic rate in response to environmental changes. The rate of
metabolism measures biological-time, which accordingly varies with
age. To the old, time appears to pass rapidly, since the solar time
envelope is relatively constant, while physiological-time, proportional
to reciprocal rates, is faster. According to Lecomte du Nouy [1936],
for example, for parents of 40 and a child of 10, one year for the child
represents the same amount of physiological-time as three years for
the parents.
Man's experience of the rhythm of his own internal activities, such
as the heart beat, inhalation and exhalation, the menstrual cycle, the

47
48 Time, Technics and Society

recurrence of hunger, relaxation, and sleep, and of the cycle of the

phenomena of nature, is built up into the consciousness of time. He
feels hungry and wants rest and sleep at regular intervals, and thus
the major physiological needs and their recurrent experience and
satisfaction at stated intervals give clues to the passage of time. More
significant than the mental construct of duration is the formation of
regular habits. Such ever-recurrent habits of individuals as those of
seeking food, work, relaxation, and sleep weave into the conscious-
ness automatic patterns of activities which not only express man's
time-sense but also aid him in his inner and outer adaptation.
Biological-time is manifest in man's most stable and generic habits in
respect to bodily functions.
Psychologists also have discerned rhythms of growth in mental life
and crises of adolescence and senescence. The psycho-physical state
or maturation of the body-mind and the content of time being
crowded and interesting or simple and tame, underlie differences of
time-estimate by individuals. The perception of events in successive
order, due to the fading of one image and the dawning of another,
and the capacity for grouping successive images into a whole,
measure psychological time. A strongly felt emotion or a stirring
experience shortens duration as a mental construct; 'One crowded
hour of a glorious life is worth an age without a name'. This has been
explained by William James thus:
In general, a time filled with varied and interesting experiences
seems short in passing, but long as we look back. On the other
hand, a tract of time empty of experiences seems long in passing,
but in retrospect short (1919, p. 624).
Laboratory experiments demonstrate that, when there is greater
need-tension, accompanied by strain and sometimes emotional ex-
citement, time-interval is estimated as shorter than periods in which
there is less of these. It is well known that man loses the sense of time
in sleep, and in the stage while daydreaming or using his imagination.
In the thrill of sexual activities, aesthetic delights, or mystical experi-
ences or through the use of drugs time loses its precision for the
individual. Time-sense is considered to depend on basic cell metabol-
ism. Quinine makes time-intervals seem longer than they really are,
and thyroxin shortens the interval. Alcohol lengthens the interval.
Caffeine shortens it. These are laboratory findings, time-estimation
apparently depending upon the metabolic rate of the individual.
Time-perspective varies not only according to a state of tension or
 Radhakamal Mukerjee 49

ennui, but also according to the differences of intelligence, learning

capacity, and foresight, to the differences between youth and age,
and according to the boundaries of social space of individuals.
Individuals are found to differ in respect to the estimate of immediate
or deferred needs and consequences of action, to the thought [of] and
discounting for the future, and to precision and computability of
time ... One may thus speak of personal-time.
Social-time is yet different. Superimposed upon the unique in-
dividual experiences of biological and psychological duration is the
rhythm of recurring social events and activities which determines
time-reckoning in society. For social adaptation requires that [that]
should not be the unreliable time-experience of individuals, but must
be invariable and common-time for all individuals on the basis of
which alone cooperation in economic and social activity is possible.
Even man's physiological needs and satisfactions are determined
by the social milieu. Malinowski observes,
Man does not depend on the physiological rhythm of hunger and
satiety alone; his digestive processes are timed and trained by the
daily routine of his tribe, nation or class (1939, p. 11).
Early man's time-reckoning had its source in the seasonal course of
organised economic activities. Hunting folks, whose activities were
intermittent, hardly developed a calendar in the fashion of pastoral
and agricultural folks. The shepherds were the world's first stargazers
and astronomers; they are known to have reckoned time according to
the life-round of flocks and herds which they controlled. The seasonal
migration to distant pastures was imperative for their collective
existence and welfare. It was in the agricultural stage, however, that
man's timetable was for the first time systematically drawn up; it was
determined by the routine of agricultural practice, at first collectively
regulated, which became a powerfully entrenched social habit. In the
formative stages of civilisation it was this agricultural routine that
saved the children of the soil from misery and starvation. Indeed with
the advent of agriculture man acquired regular habits of work,
recreation, rest, play, and sleep for the first time. This was perhaps
the single most momentous phase in his psychology that contrib-
uted to his advance.
The agricultural routine in its turn was governed by the rhythm and
cycle of nature's activities, by the sequence of the agricultural seasons
with their distribution of sunshine, humidity, and rainfall and the
ecologic[al] cycle of soil recuperation and vegetative growth. Not the
50 Time, Technics and Society

rutting season of the animals or the time when the young are born as
among the shepherds, but the sprouting and falling of the leaves, the
ripening of grains and fruits, snow and rainfall became the means of
time-reckoning of the agriculturists.
The social and economic rhythm of urban industrial society is far
different. In industrial society the occupational order, day by day, has
nothing to do with the phenomena of nature; it is largely governed by
the speed of the machine system, whose rhythm does not follow the
rhythm of life. The vast, intricate, and elaborate division of labour,
spatially distributed in both space and time, which characterises
industrialism demands a meticulous coordination of activities according
to anticipated and scheduled time-intervals, and imposes upon the
people closer and closer limits of mechanical time, reckoned in seconds
and split seconds, which have nothing to do with the normal rhythm of
vital activities. And the least delay or deviation from the scheduled time
throws the system of transportation and technology out of gear, and
may lead to general misunderstanding and even accident and disaster.
On the other hand, people's rest and work, leisure and social contacts
are governed, not by the rhythm of man's organic impulses and needs,
but by that of mechanical-time as time marches on.
The transportation system that operates in industrialised communi-
ties at tremendously high speed and with meticulous punctuality
forms the backbone of industrialism. It brings passengers and goods
from thousands of miles to the towns, factories, and establishments
exactly according to the scheduled time, and the speed of traffic is
progressively accelerated all over the world. Train-timing governs the
tempo of industrial operations and the intervals of most social
contacts in modern urban-industrial life. As a matter of fact, the
introduction of the train and the steamer with their scheduled timing
is the first step of education in precision and punctuality in rural
society [see Chapter 7 in this volume].
Such change of habits is as much necessary for the urban in-
dividual's survival as for the efficiency of the mechanised urban-
industrial society. The rural dweller who remains unadjusted to the
tempo of the urban environment is a misfit. He is a danger both to
himself and to the community, in which the lapse of a single individual
may throw the entire mechanised system of the city out of gear. Modern
industrial society lays down, therefore, a number of laws and regula-
tions to check the aberrant and unpunctual individual, whose behaviour
stereotyped in the rural milieu is now a menace to the social weal.
Can mobility and tempo be increased indefinitely? Different
 Radhakamal Mukerjee 51

industrial societies show different rates of mobility. Mobility is a

process which still remains incomplete in modern industrial society. It
is yet in progress. The appropriate measure of its progress is the
tempo which is being continuously accelerated. Vast masses of men
move in quick tempo, not spasmodically or chaotically; but the move-
ments of different groups and regions in a highly differentiated
society fit into one another harmoniously. The punctuality, computa-
bility, and precision which the complicated and expanded nature of
modern industrial society forces upon the people reduce their lives
largely to a meticulously accurate and inelastic routine process. In
such a mechanical routine the fast tempos of functions in the different
parts of society slide into one another harmoniously on the basis of
time. This makes man's contacts transitory, fractional, and imper-
sonal, even measurable in terms of time.
The agriculturist has his regular hours, but there is hardly any
fixity about these. In the monsoon season in southeastern Asia he
toils in the field from early dawn to nightfall. Sudden outbursts of rain
or a few weeks of drought change the timetable of everybody
connected with agriculture. In industrial society no worker is ex-
pected to work beyond the six- or eight-hour day, and if he does work
he gets overtime. Nor is he at work on weekends and Sundays. Not
merely the hours of work but also those of food, recreation, and rest
are precisely determined by the rigid requirements of the urban
schedule. The clock and the calendar regulate, punctualise, and
quantitatively evaluate most of the organised activities of a highly
mechanised civilisation. The results are, on the one hand, the
acceleration of the tempo of human life and functions that must make
adjustments to the rigidities of a mechanical system and, on the
other, the dominance of pecuniary values, which have combined to
make human interaction largely ecological - i.e., impersonal, anony-
mous, and calculating.
Since mobility and tempo are profoundly transforming man's
ecological, economic, and personal relations - and through these the
family and other primary groups, economic organisation, and the
state - it is not easy to see to what extent the norms of mobility will be
modified in response to the needs of human nature or to what degree
man's social habits and patterns of group relations and individual
behaviour will be transformed in consonance with these norms. Can
the mechanical rhythm supersede with impunity the rhythm of life
and growth? Can the tempo be quickened indefinitely without injury
to man, his contacts, relations, and values?
52 Time, Technics and Society

There is a growing recognition that the chaining of the human

worker to the swiftly revolving factory wheels and the excessive
tempo are overtaxing his physique and mental endurance and
alertness and are resulting in an increase of degenerative wear-and-
tear, accidents, and occupational mortality. It is by no means clear,
however, how much the tempo of work for the machine-tenders
should be reduced and whether the hazardous and exacting machines
which overstep the limits of reasonable caution and control should be
excluded. Significant in industrial production are the intensive split-
ting up and specialisation of work and the serialisation of machines
... The relative tempos of the different parts of the machine system
are thus coordinated with one another. A reduction of the tempo in
one part would involve diminution in all others and decrease in the
general rate of production, which may imply bad economics in a
system of giant, mechanical power production.
On the other hand, the issue in which the health, joy, and
creativeness of millions of workers are involved should not be
decided by a narrow technicism. Stuart Chase (1937) has stressed the
tendency in technology for the machine to do the drudgery that was
once performed by human hands. The application of this principle
with the different branches of standardised mass production is by no
means definite and clean cut. But that repetitive work in machine
technology reduces the mental level of workers has now been proved
by psychological investigations. Case studies of industrial workers,
compelled to do unskilled and uncreative labour, show that morons
often welcome repetitive industrial tasks, but that the intelligent
workmen especially feel dissatisfied and frustrated and are keyed to
the emotional and intellectual level of morons (Elliott and Merrill,
1938).
No doubt, machine and speed in many branches of production and
departments of life have reached beyond the capacity of man and his
social habits to adapt, and this has increased the incidence of nervous
instability and breakdown and of social disintegration. To decrease
the speed of the machine system and industrial organisation and to
subordinate the machine to human elements are the major insistent
problems of modern technology.
Technology has been the major factor in the growth of the beehive
city with its slums and tenements, its excessive tempo of life and
criminal behaviour patterns; and it is a new technology with its
ecological redistribution of men, utilities, institutions, and ethics. In
this dynamic technological age social science should give a more
 Radhakamal Mukerjee 53

adequate consideration to the social effects of machines and tech-

niques so that not only the present lag between mechanical change
and change in social habits and institutions may be avoided, but the
discovery of inventions may be directed toward building up a better
society and a higher scale of values which overreach the values of
mere mechanical and technical efficiency.
The diminution of the machine system, the reduction of mobility
and tempo of life, and the breaking up of the large city into great
numbers of rural-industrial habitations which is stimulated by the
spread of the network of electricity and motor transport, by the
diversity of prime movers, by the employment of light metals and
precious elements and by the use of such modern implements as
telegraph, telephone, teletypewriter, and television are thus seen to
be in accord with a new scale of human values which redefines
industrial and technological efficiency in terms of health, happiness,
and serenity of life.
Excessive mobility and excessive tempo show the irresponsibility
and extravagance of the colossal machine system; an excessively big
city also oversteps the dimension necessary to keep alive those subtle
and deep joys and intimate personal loyalties that living in communi-
ties of small size can inspire. As necessary as the slowing of tempo in
the machine system is the regulation of the size of a town or city on
the basis of both social coherence and industrial efficiency. The city
of the future cannot be permitted to overstep a certain density of
population and a certain size in the interests of social efficiency and
collective participation of the citizens in its functions and activities.
There is another aspect of machine technology which has a
tremendous psychological and sociological significance. In rural society
work is intermittent and less strenuous and the tempo is slow, but
there is some task, some job for each rural dweller which absorbs his
energies and interests. Slack seasons in agriculture, when work in the
field is periodically reduced, are filled up by subsidiary employment
in cottage handicrafts and industries, by a round of marriages and
family visits, or by collective festivals, plays, pageants, and other
forms of recreation. There are, of course, the cycles of heavy rainfall
and drought which disclocate the agricultural routine and cause
widespread unemployment and famine. But the peasant builds up not
merely his economic defences of irrigation and appropriate agricul-
tural practices but also adaptive social habits against the catastrophes
of famine and unemployment.
The machine system in modern industrial society is, however,
54 Time, Technics and Society

responsible for unemployment on a scale unprecedented in its

magnitude. It is estimated that in the United States alone during the
period 1920-31 over 3 million wage earners were displaced in
manufacturing industries because of increases in technological and
managerial efficiency. In spite of the rapid growth of the physical
volume of production, there were 841,000 fewer workers employed in
1928 than in 1920.
More significant than the economic loss are the demoralisation, un-
certainty, and despair associated with unemployment. Many workers
also drift into habits of vagrancy and delinquency. The poignancy of
the situation is revealed by the fact that during the depth of the
depression in the United States thousands of children, among them
many girls, wandered homeless over the nation. In industrial society
sooner or later the right of every individual to work for minimum
security becomes a social imperative. The evolution of a highly
complex and mechanised society makes it impossible to rely upon the
traditional personal ideals of resourcefulness and enterprise as
adequate for provision of sustenance and security.
Different industrial countries, according to their social and histori-
cal conditions, are refashioning their social and economic structure to
safeguard regularity of work and income. Some countries have,
indeed, curtailed various economic freedoms that have grown in the
wake of the freedom of mobility and competition in the liberal
democratic tradition in order to safeguard a minimum security and
standard of living. With reference to the demand it makes both for
adjustment of the tempo and mentality of the individual and for the
collective process of maintaining a technologically efficient and
continuous flow of production, the machine system has proved too
inexorable and has resulted in profound individual maladjustment
and disorganisation, which offset its marvellous mechanical gains.
The remedy lies in fresh inventions which may restore the rhythm
of human life and growth in the field of mechanised industry, in a new
technology which relocalises industry and population and reorients
rural-urban employment, and in the transformation of the economic
organisation so that it may safeguard the standard of living and
ensure reasonable stability for the mass of the workers. Excessive
mobility and tempo at the cost of individual health and poise and of
social integration and security have been the outcome of technics. It
is technics, again, that will cure the present maladjustment in the
sphere of human habits, relations, and values and usher in the new
society and culture. But this it can do only when sociology yields a
 Radhakamal Mukerjee 55

more adequate understanding of the relations between technics and

human nature and discovers new social controls and regulative
devices for dealing with the human misfits and maladjustments that
arise out of the necessities of quick adaptation in a technological age.
Personality is much less flexible than the machine system. We
have, therefore, to look more toward changes in technology for
reducing the inevitable lag between man's progress in the material
sphere and progress in his personal and moral relationships. Science
and technics, controlled and manipulated by the minority, have
proved heedless of individual and social disorganisation. Planned
science and technics, guided by a sociology of inventions, may direct
these latter for the recovery of human values and the continuance of
cultural evolution on the basis of greater mastery over the physical
environment and larger, and more wholesome, socially directed
leisure.
4 Social-time: A
Methodological and
Functional Analysis
Pitirim Sorokin and Robert Merton

(From P. Sorokin and R. Merton, 'Social Time: A Methodological

and Functional Analysis', American Journal of Sociology, vol. 42,
1937, pp. 615-29.)
No concept of motion is possible without the category of time. In
mechanics, for example, time is considered the independent variable
which is a continuous function of the three coordinates which
determine the position of a particle. Time is likewise a necessary
variable in social change. The adequacy of the concepts of
astronomical- or calendrical-time in the study of the motion or
change of social phenomena thus represents a problem of basic
importance. Are periods of years, months, weeks, days the only, or
even the most readily applicable, temporal measures in a system of
social dynamics? Most social scientists have proceeded on the tacit
assumption that no system of time other than those of astronomy or
the imperfectly related calendar is possible or, if possible, useful.
They have assumed a time, the parts of which are comparable, which
is quantitative and possessed of no qualitative aspects, which is con-
tinuous and permits of no lacunae. It is the object of this ... [study]
to demonstrate that in the field of social dynamics such restriction to a
single conception of time involves several fundamental shortcomings.
Newton's formulation of the concept of a time which is uniform,
infinitely divisible, and continuous probably constitutes the most
definite assertion of the objectivity of time. In the realm of astronomy
the modern doctrines of relativity have shown, from one point of
view, the contingent nature of Newtonian time. From another angle
such philosophers as Bradley, Berkeley, and Kant, and, more recently,
Spencer, Guyau, James, and Bergson, have levelled criticism against
the universal applicability of such a concept. In the field of sociology,
with the exception of certain members of the Durkheim school, very
little attention has been devoted to this fundamental category.
That the astronomical is not the only possible concept of time is

56
 Pitirim Sorokin and Robert Merton 57

evident after a brief consideration. In philosophy there exists what

may be called 'ontological-time'. Aristotle and Zeno, to choose at
random, both conceived of a time which is non-material, completely
subjective. For Kant, time is the formal a priori condition of all
perceived phenomena. Berkeley and Bradley condemn time as a
mere appearance having no objective reality. James, on the other
hand, sees the concept of an 'objective'-time as a useful fiction.
Bergson holds that 'imaginary homogeneous time is an idol of
language, a fiction' (1919, p. 274).
Concepts of time in the field of psychology are also quite different
from that of astronomy. Time is here conceived, not as 'flowing at a
constant rate, unaffected by the speed or slowness of the motion of
material things' (Maxwell, 1978, p. 28), but as definitely influenced by
the number and importance of concrete events occurring in the
particular period under observation. As James pointed out:
in general, a time filled with varied and interesting experiences
seems short in passing, but long as we look back. On the other
hand, a tract of time empty of experience seems long in passing,
but in retrospect short (1919, p. 624).
Thus, in actual perception, we are far from experiencing the ideally
conceived time which aequabiliter fluit. Experiments in the field of
psychology have found a difference between the individual's estimate
of duration and the actual duration of astronomical-time elapsed
(Sturt, 1925). In the experience of the individual, time is far from
being 'infinitely divisible', Zeno's age-honoured paradox of Achilles
and the tortoise notwithstanding. Various experiments have shown
that individuals cannot distinguish time-differences of less than one-
hundredth of a second (Sturt, 1925).
The very introduction of the concept 'mental age' in psychology is
evidence of the methodological inadequacy of astronomical chronol-
ogy in this field. It is found empirically that there is no constant
relation between chronological and mental age, so that many psycho-
logical considerations of human behaviour in relation to 'age' de-
mand a temporal frame of reference different from that ordinarily
employed. As we shall see, this indictment is even more telling in the
social field.
In the field of economics it has likewise been recognised that
astronomical- or clock-time is not always applicable. For example,
Marshall, in his famous analysis of economic equilibrium as de-
pendent upon 'long' and 'short' periods over which the market is
58 Social-time: Methodological and Functional Analysis

taken to extend, early perceived this inapplicability of astronomical-

time (Marshall, 1925). As Opie (1931) puts it:
When he [Marshall] distinguished long and short periods he was
not using clock-time as his criterion, but 'operational' time, in
terms of economic forces at work. Supply forces were given the
major attention, and a time was long or short according as it
involved modifiability of fixity in some chosen forces on the supply
side. The greater the modifiability of the supply forces, the longer
the period of time under discussion, irrespective of clock-time
(pp. 19 -9, our italics).
The concept of economic time has been expressly singled out for
treatment by Voegelin (1924) and, somewhat less analytically, by
Streller (1926), but it is also tacitly assumed in much of the analysis of
Bohm-Bawerk, Jevons, Effertz, Wicksell, and many other economists.
These various concepts of time and, above all, the revolutionary
changes in the astronomical field itself engendered by Einstein's
analysis of the notion of simultaneity illustrate the essentially oper-
ational criteria of time. If we seek the operations which enable us to
determine the time at which social events occur, it becomes manifest
that even today all such determinations are by no means referred to
astronomical or even calendrical frameworks. Bridgman (1932) has
generalised this class of facts, saying that 'the methods which we
adopt for assigning a time to events change when the character of the
events changes, so that time may appear in various guises' (p. 97) ...
Social-time thus expresses the change or movement of social pheno-
mena in terms of other social phenomena taken as points of
reference. In the course of our daily activities we often make use of
this means of indicating points of time. 'Shortly after the World War',
'I'll meet you after the concert', 'when President Hoover came into
office', are all related to social, rather than astronomical frames of
reference, for the purpose of indicating specific points of time - 'time
when'. Moreover, such references express far more than the nominally
equivalent astronomical or calendrical referrents, ('1918-9', '11',
'March 1929'), for they usually establish an added significant relation
between the event and the temporal frame of reference. For example,
the very choice of President Hoover's assumption of office as an
indication of the time at which, say, 2,000 postmasters were replaced
by others tells us far more than the statement that such replacements
occurred in March ... 1929. In other words, the calendrical reference
itself becomes significant only when it is transformed into social-
 Pitirim Sorokin and Robert Merton 59

time. The methodological importance of this will be discussed later.

In a similar fashion we indicate durations of time by such refer-
ences as 'for a semester', 'for a working day', 'for the duration of
Lent'. These are references to generally comprehensible time-
durations without any mention of astronomical phenomena, since
these social intervals may vary independently. Such designations, if
they are not survivals of a very common means of indicating a tract of
time among primitive peoples, at least perform the same function.
To indicate the duration of time, primitive peoples make use of
other means, derived from their daily business, which have nothing to
do with time-reckoning: in Madagascar, 'rice-cooking' often means
half an hour, 'the frying of a locust' , a moment. The Cross River natives
say: 'The man died in less than the time in which maize is not yet
completely roasted' - i.e., less than about fifteen minutes; 'the time in
which one can cook a handful of vegetables' (Nilsson, 1920, p. 42).
The time-expressions, both of duration and indication, are in
reference to social activities or group achievements. Those periods
which are devoid of any significant social activity are passed over
without any term to denote them (cf. Best, 1922). Time here is not
continuous - the hiatus is found whenever a specific period is lacking
in social interest or importance [see Chapter 13 in this volume]. The
social life of the group is reflected in the time-expressions. The names
of days, months, seasons, and even of years are fixed by the rhythm
of collective life. A homogeneity of social beats and pulsations of
activity makes unnecessary astronomical frames of reference. Each
group, with its intimate nexus of a common and mutually understood
rhythm of social activities, sets its time to fit the round of its
behaviour. No highly complex calculations based on mathematical
precision and nicety of astronomical observation are necessary to
synchronise and coordinate the societal behaviour.
Thus, the Khasis name their months according to the activities
which take place in each: 'the month for weeding the ground', 'the
month when cultivators fry the produce of their fields', etc. (Gordon,
1914, p.193). In the Meithesis tribe all time reckonings are in
accordance with the chahitaba: each year is named after an important
personage (Hodson, 1908). Codrington (1891) says of the Melanesian
system that 'it is impossible to fit the native succession of months into
a solar year; months have their names from what is done' (p.340).
Among the Navajos, 'the names of the calendar months are vividly
descriptive of the life of the family, as well as of the life-round of the
sheep controlled by them' (Coolidge and Coolidge, 1930, p. 60).
60 Social-time: Methodological and Functional Analysis

We see then, that systems of time-reckoning reflect the social

activities of the group. Their springs of initiation are collective; their
continued observance is demanded by social necessity. They arise
from the round of group life, are largely determined by the routine of
religious activity and the occupational order of the day, are perpetu-
ated by the need for social coordination, and are essentially a product
of social interaction. Durkheim (1947) lucidly observed in this
connection that a 'calendar expresses the rhythm of collective
activities, while at the same time its function is to assure their
regularity' (p. 11).
Agricultural peoples with a social rhythm different from that of
hunting or of pastoral peoples differentiate time-intervals in a fashion
quite unlike the latter. Periodic rest days seem to be unknown among
migratory hunting and fishing peoples or among nomadic pastoral
tribes, although they are frequently observed by primitive agricul-
turists (Webster, 1916). Likewise, a metropolis demands a frame of
temporal reference entirely different from that of a small village. This
is to say, time-reckoning is basically dependent upon the organisation
and functions of the group. The mode of life determines which
phenomena shall represent the beginning and close of seasons,
months, or other time units. Even in those instances where natural
phenomena are used to fix the limits of time periods, the choice of
them is dependent upon the interest and utility which they have for
the group. Thus, the year among the Hebrews, 'as naturally it would
with an agricultural people', depended upon the annual course of the
crops (Woods, 1911). The system of time varies with the social
structure.
Astronomical-time is uniform, homogeneous; it is purely quantita-
tive, shorn of qualitative variations. Can we so characterise social-
time? Obviously not - there are holidays, days devoted to the
observance of particular civil functions, 'lucky' and 'unlucky' days
market days, etc. Periods of time acquire specific qualities by virtue
of association with the activities peculiar to them. We find this
equally true of primitive and more complex societies. Thus, says
James:

An ingenious friend of mine was long puzzled to know why each

day of the week had such a characteristic physiognomy for him.
That of Sunday was soon noticed to be due to the cessation of the
city's rumbling, and the sound of people's feet shuffling on the
sidewalk; of Monday, to come from the clothes drying in the yard
 Pitirim Sorokin and Robert Merton 61

and casting a white reflection on the ceiling; of Tuesday, etc ....

Probably each hour in the day has for most of us some outer or
inner sign associated with it as closely as these signs with the day of
the week (1919, p. 623).

Taosim prescribes, according to the 'magical universistic' book of

chronomancy, 'the propitious days on which to contract marriages, or
remove to another house, or cut clothes; days on which one may
begin works of repair of houses, temples, ships' (de Groot, 1912.
p.245). The Mohammedans consider Monday, Wednesday, Thurs-
day, and Friday to be fortunate days; Tuesday, Saturday, and Sunday
to be evil and unfortunate days. Friday is observed as a holy day, a
day of rest, by the Mohammedans, in the same way as Saturday by
the Jews and Sunday by the Christians. Among the Greeks the
calendar had a definitely sacral character with a complete designation
of lucky and unlucky days. Thus, the fourteenth as a good day to
break in cattle (cf. Hesiod, 1858).
We need hardly remark that we are here not concerned with the
validity of what is expressed by these beliefs. They are, in any case,
social facts; they reveal the various qualities actually attributed to
definite units of time; they serve to indicate that a merely quantitative
measure of time will not account for the qualities with which the
various time units are endowed by members of a group. Quantitative
approaches ignore the fact that 'the human mind does tend to attach
an unusual value to any day in the calendar that is in any way out-
standing' (Kroeber, 1923, p. 262). From this it does not necessarily
follow that social-time has no quantitative aspects, but it does appear
that it is not a pure quantity, homogeneous in all its parts, always
comparable to itself and exactly measurable. In judgements of time
there enter considerations of aptitude, opportunity, continuity, con-
stancy, and similarity, and the equal values which are attributed to
time intervals are not necessarily equal measures.
These differences in quality lead to the dependence of relative
values of time-durations not only on their absolute length but also on
the nature and intensity of their qualities. Quantitatively equal
periods of time are rendered socially unequal and unequal periods
are socially equalised. For example, 'the numerically equivalent parts
of the Hindu Kalpas are not conceived as being of equal duration'
(Hubert and Mauss, 1909, p. 208). Or, similarly, the Chongli measure
long periods of time by generations (the term of office of each set of
elders) which may be quantitatively unequal but which are nevertheless
62 Social-time: Methodological and Functional Analysis

regarded as equal by virtue of their identical qualitative aspects

(Mills, 1911).
Summing up, we may say that thus far our investigation has
disclosed the facts that social-time, in contrast to the time of
astronomy, is qualitative and not purely quantitative; that these
qualities derive from the beliefs and customs common to the group
and that they serve further to reveal the rhythms, pulsations, and
beats of the societies in which they are found.
Mathematical-time is 'empty'. It has no marks, no lacunae, to serve
as points of origin or end. Yet the calendar-maker requires some sort
of starting-point or fixed datum. Some beginning, arbitrary or not,
must be set in order to initiate any system of time-reckoning which
purports to be continuous. For this purpose 'recourse has generally
been had to the date of some civil historical occurrence conventionally
selected' (Philip, 1921, p.48). In all cases the point of departure is
social or imbued with profound social implications; it is always an
event which is regarded as one of peculiar social significance.
Thus, there have been introduced such social frames of reference
as the death of Alexander or the Battle of Geza among the Babylon-
ians, the Olympiads among the Greeks, the founding of Rome (anno
urbis conditae) and the Battle of Actium among the Romans, the
persecution of Diocletian and the birth of Christ among the Christ-
ians, the mythological founding of the Japanese Empire by Jimmu
Tenno and the discovery of copper (Wado era) in Japan, the Hegira
among the Mohammedans, the event of the white pheasant having
been presented to the Japanese emperor (Hakurchi era) (d. Ginzel,
1906). 'Egypt never had any idea of dating the annals except by the
years of rule of the reigning Pharaoh' (Foucart, 1911, p.92). The
Armenians likewise reckoned by the number of years of the kings or
of the patriarchs. From these few examples culled from an almost
inexhaustible store we see some justification of the proposition that
nations form their eras in terms of some remarkable event which has
social implications.
Thus, we cannot carryover into social-time the characteristic of
continuity which is postulated in the Newtonian conception of
astronomical-time. Critical dates disrupt this continuity. Nilsson,
whose study of primitive time-reckoning is perhaps the most
thorough, is insistent on this point. The pars pro toto principle of
time-reckoning (i.e., the counting, not of units as a whole, but of a
concrete phenomenon occuring but once within this unit) suggests
that calculations of time are essentially discontinuous. The natural
 Pitirim Sorokin and Robert Merton 63

year may be continuous, but that of the calendar has both a beginning
and an end, which are frequently marked by temporal hiatus and are
usually observed with some sort of social ceremony.
The common belief which holds that divisions of time are deter-
mined by astronomical phenomena is far from accurate (cf. Nilsson,
1920). Our system of weekly division into quantitatively equal
periods is a perfect type of conventionally determined time-
reckoning. The Khasi week almost universally consists of eight days
because the markets are usually held every eighth day. A reflection of
the fact that the Khasi week had a social, rather than a 'natural',
origin is found in the names of the days of the week which are not
those of planets (a late and arbitrary development) but of places
where the principal markets are held. In a similar fashion the Roman
week was marked by nundinae which recurred every eighth day and
upon which the agriculturists came into the city to sell their produce.
The Muysca in Bogota had a three-day week; many West African
tribes a four-day week; in Central America, the East Indian Archi-
pelago, old Assyria (and now in Soviet Russia), there is found a five-
day week; the population of Togo had a six-day week; the ancient
Hebrews and most contemporary civilised societies, a seven-day
week; examples of the eight-day week may be had among the
Romans, Khasis, and many African tribes; and the Incas had a ten-
day week. The constant feature of virtually all these weeks of varying
lengths is that they were always found to have been originally in
association with the market. Colson (1926) indicates quite clearly that
the earliest forms of the continuous week of which we have any
knowledge were justified by the groups which used them on grounds
which have nothing to do with the moon. The appearance and spread
of this time-unit was always in conjunction with some periodically
observed social event and did not come about through observation of
the heavenly bodies. Moreover, as Hutton Webster (1916) per-
spicuously suggests, some phase of the social structure usually
accounts for the variations in the length of the week.
The shorter intervals of three, four, and five days reflect the simple
economy of primitive life, since the market must recur with sufficient
frequency to permit neighbouring communities, who keep on hand
no large stocks of food and other necessaries to obtain them from one
another. The longer cycles of six, eight, and ten days, much less
common, apparently arise by doubling the earlier period, whenever it
is desired to hold a great market for the produce of a wide area
(Webster, 1916).
64 Social-time: Methodological and Functional Analysis

In like manner the duration of the month is not necessarily fixed by

the phases of the moon. Mommsen (1885) states, for example, that
among the Romans there was a calendar system 'which practically
was quite irrespective of the lunar course' and which led to the
adoption of 'months of arbitrary length' (p. 279). This same disregard
of the moon's course in the determination of month durations has
continued to the present. Unequal periods of astronomical-time are
socially equated, as is evidenced by the practice of paying monthly
salaries. The equality of months is conventional, not astronomical;
social duration does not equal astronomical duration, since the
former is a symbolic, the latter an empirical, duration.
Even today the pervasive 'colouration' of astronomical-time by
social considerations is manifest - witness the new convention of
'daylight-saving-time'. The desired result, an increased number of
daylight hours for recreation and leisure, could have been attained
simply by shifting working hours to 8.00 - 4.00. But the '9.00 to 5.00'
designation has become so deeply rooted in our economy that the
presumably less violent innovation of changing the numerical desig-
nations of units within the 24-hour cycle was deemed preferable. The
conventional nature of time designation is thus clearly emphasised.
All calendrical systems have one characteristic in common. They
arise from, and are perpetuated by, social requirements. All social
events which are periodical, which demand, at a certain time, the
presence of a number of individuals (particularly when they come
from different social groupings or from some one large social group)
necessitate some common means of time designation which will be
mutually understood by those concerned. Religious ceremonies,
rites, seasonal festivals, hunts, military expeditions, markets, inter-
tribal conferences, and the like - all of which demand the complex
cooperation of many persons at a fixed time - are the origins of a
strictly defined system of time-indication. Those systems of time
which are common among small, closely interwoven groups partici-
pating in the same social rhythm are no longer adequate as the field of
interaction expands. Individuals coming together from varied social
and cultural backgrounds require some temporal scheme which will
be equally intelligible to all if they are to synchronise and coordinate
their activities.
In ancient cities there first arose the significantly large congregation
of individuals with different backgrounds. Then it was that there
became manifest the necessity of creating a frame of reference which
would be mutually comprehensible. Thus, among the Latins:
 Pitirim Sorokin and Robert Merton 65

When city life began it was naturally found necessary to have a

more exact measure of the annus and the religious events included
in it. Agriculture was the economic basis of the life of the people;
and in keeping up the agricultural religious rites within the city it
was convenient, if not absolutely necessary, to fix them to particu-
lar days. This was, beyond doubt, the origin of the earliest (?)
calendar of which we know anything (Fowler, 1911, p. 133).

Similarly, it was necessity for regulating the religious cult that 'first
created the calendar in Greece' (Nilsson, 1920, p. 366). And, accord-
ing to Spinden, even the apparently strictly astronomical calendar of
the Mayas was fundamentally for religious purposes (1928, p. 7).
The foregoing argument may be summarised by a number of basic
propositions. Time systems are numerous and varied, differing also in
their effective applicability to events of different character. It is a
gratuitous assumption that astronomical or even calendrical time
systems are best fitted for designating and measuring simultaneity,
sequence, and duration of social phenomena. All time systems may
be reduced to the need of providing means for synchronising and
coordinating the activities and observations of the constituents of
groups. The local time system varies in accordance with differences in
the extent, functions, and activities of different groups. With the
spread of interaction between groups, a common or extended time
system must be evolved to supersede or at least to augment the local
time systems. Since the rhythm of social activities differs in different
groups or within the same highly differentiated society, local systems
of time-reckoning are no longer adequate. Even bionatural events
(e .g., maturation of crops) no longer suffice as a common framework
of temporal reference as the area of interaction is enlarged, since
these phenomena do not occur simultaneously in different areas. The
final common basis was found in astronomical phenomena and in the
more or less widespread diffusion of conventionalised time con-
tinuities ... [T]he social function of time-reckoning and designation
as a necessary means of coordinating social activity was [thUS] the
very stimulus to astronomical time systems, the introduction of which
was made imperative by the inadequacy of local systems with the
spread of contact and organised interaction and the resulting lack of
uniformity in the rhythms of social activities. Astronomical time, as a
'time esperanto', is a social emergent. This process was more rapidly
induced by urbanisation of otherwise chaotic, individually varying
activities.
66 Social-time: Methodological and Functional Analysis

Local time systems are qualitative, impressed with distinctly local-

ised meanings. A time system aimed to subsume these qualitatively
different local systems must necessarily abstract from the individual
qualities of these several systems. Hence, we see the important social
element in the determination of the conception of a purely quantita-
tive, uniform, homogeneous time; one-dimensional astronomical-
time was largely substituted for multi-dimensional social-time.
For facilitating and enriching research in the field of social dyna-
mics, the concept of social-time must be reintroduced as an auxiliary,
if not as a successor, of astronomical-time. The search for social
periodicities based upon the unquestioned adoption of astronomical
criterions of time may have been largely unsuccessful precisely
because social phenomena involve 'symbolic' rather than 'empirical'
equalities and inequalities; social processes which at present seem to
lack periodicities in terms of astronomical measures may be found to
be quite periodic in character in terms of social-time. It is at least
worthy of trial. The possible objection that such efforts would simply
resolve themselves into correlations between different sets of social
phenomena is tenable only if one ignores the fact that the usual
procedures simply involve correlations between astronomical (or
calendrical) and social phenomena. Moreover, what are the theoret-
ical grounds, tacit or expressed, for expecting correlations between
astronomical and social sequences? And, finally, what is the possible
significance of such correlations when they are found? The fact is -
and to the best of our knowledge its implications have been persist-
ently overlooked - that when social and astronomical ('time') pheno-
mena are related, other social correlates of the same astronomical
phenomena must be ascertained before these relations take on any
scientific significance. Otherwise, these constitute but empirical
uniformities which remain theoretically sterile. If we are to enhance
our knowledge of the temporal aspects of social change and pro-
cesses, we must enlarge our category of time to include the concept of
social-time.
5 Varieties of Social-time
Georges Gurvitch

(From Georges Gurvitch, The Spectrum of Social Time, Dortrecht:

D. Reidel, 1964.)

SOCIAL-TIME

Social-time is the time of convergency and divergency of movements

of the total social phenomena, whether the total social phenomena are
global, group or micro-social and whether or not they are expressed
in the social structure. The total social phenomena both produce and
are products of social-time. They give birth to social-time, move and
unfold in it ... Social-time thus cannot be defined without defining
the total social phenomenon.
The term 'total social phenomenon' was coined by Marcel Mauss.
He was inspired at first by a threefold protest against the decomposi-
tion of the social reality; and finally against the opposition between
society and man taken individually. 'After having too much divided
and abstracted, it is necessary' for the sociologist, Mauss wrote, 'to
reconstruct the whole in its irreducibility'. The different social
activities (religious, magical, technical, economic, cognitive, moral,
juridical, political) can ... be understood, only as manifestations of a
same whole which is the total social phenomenon. It would, at the
same time, be extremely misleading to consider these phenomena in
a congealed state, in 'rigor mortis' (cadaverique) so to speak,
according to the expression of Mauss. These turbulent forces are
more 'than the particular or the sum of institutions, more than all the
organizations' and even more than all expressions of social reality in
structures. The total social phenomena are the source of life and of
social action, the 'collectivities acting'. Finally, and here Mauss
agrees with Karl Marx, there is a tendency towards correspondence
between total social phenomenon and total man. There is no eco-
nomic man, political man, man as subject of law, as moral agent,
homo faber and homo sapiens, one separated from the other. Man
exists only as all of these and more besides. This 'total man' cannot be
reduced to his mental life, not even to the collective consciousness.
He is a body as much as he is a participant of societies, of classes of

67
68 Varieties of Social-time

groups, of We-nesses: all representing total social phenomena. And

by this reciprocal participation, the total social phenomenon partici-
pates in man as much as man participates in the whole. The tendency
towards the correspondence, or better yet, towards the 'reciprocity of
perspectives', between the total social phenomenon and total man, is
expressed by Mauss in the most obvious manner.
In order to come closer to the total social phenomena, these actual
always changing totalities of participation of the human in the
human, it is indispensable to draw on points of reference, never
indicated by Mauss. These consist in their depth levels on the one
hand, and in their astructural, structurable, and structured elements
on the other ... , The total social phenomena have an ontological
primacy over all their depth levels, such as the ecological base,
organisations, rites, procedures, practices, fashions, fads, patterns,
social roles, collective attitudes, signs, signals, symbols, ideas, values,
effervescences, collective mentality. From the exterior crust of the
social - its ecological base (geographic, demographic, instrumental)
passing through organisations, regular behaviour, patterns, signs and
symbols, to innovating collective behaviour, to the collective ideas
and values and to the mentality which grasps them intuitively or
which creates them - the pulsation of total social phenomenon is
manifested in a perpetual coming and going. All these levels per-
meating each other and struggling with each other are animated by
the varied pulsations of continuity and discontinuity. Moreover, their
accentuations change with each type of total social phenomenon, be
it a We, a group, a class or a global society. Better yet, these
accentuations also change with conjunctures within the same struc-
ture. Peaceable, agitated, revolutionary, daily routine (funerals,
weddings, hunts, wars, internal or external struggles) influence these
accentuations.
The interpenetrations and perpetual conflicts between these astruc-
tural, structurable and structured elements (the structures being
multiple hierarchies in precarious balance) are accompanied by
pitched battles between the spontaneous and organised elements of
the social life. The social structures trying to utilise them, one against
the others, are another point of reference for grasping the life of the
total social phenomena. As a matter of fact, the total social phenomena,
while subjacent to the web of all these elements and all these
struggles, are never entirely expressed in any of them and always
represent more than their interpenetration and, evidently, more than
their sum.
 Georges Gurvitch 69

It is in the study of these divergencies, tensions, conflicts, antagon-

isms, as well as the complementarities, mutual implications and
reciprocities of perspectives between the depth levels on the one
hand, the structures and astructural elements on the other ... , that
one becomes aware that the discontinuities and continuities between
the levels of total social phenomena can ... be studied [only] with the
dialectical approach. This is the only way to grasp the social totalities
in their fluctuations and all the lacerations and participations belong-
ing to them. If, after having found the total social phenomenon,
Mauss did not conceptualise it with sufficient clarity, it might very
well be because he had repudiated the dialectic. We maintain that the
study of social-time doubly calls for the dialectic, as neither the
concept of time nor the social reality can be clarified without it.
In order to elaborate a more concrete notion of the specificity of
social-time, we shall try to delineate in our next section the different
times which are met and which collide in the different depth levels of the
total social phenomena and in the opposition between the astructural,
structurable and structured elements of these same phenomena.

VARIETIES OF SOCIAL-TIME

We have defined Social-time as the convergency and divergency of

movements of the total social phenomena, giving birth to time and
elapsing in time. Specifically, the total social phenomenon is an actual
total participation of the human in the human involved in an endless
movement ebb and flow. The necessity for establishing a multi-
dimensional perspective in order to grasp the total social phenom-
enon cannot be over-emphasised. In other words, the frame of
reference must include the depth levels and the complicated play of
astructural, structurable and structured elements. Social-time, to
which maximum human meaning is grafted, is extremely complex and
full of the unexpected. We must try to arrive at a more concrete idea
of social-time which in order to study the different manifestations of
social time collide and combine in the involvement of different levels,
at the very heart of the total social phenomenon.
A sociological conceptualisation of the multiple manifestations of
social-time must first be presented. The social manifestations of time
are of so complex a character, in their variations and interpenetra-
tions, that they cannot be described and studied without an operational
framework, which only sociological theory can elaborate and present.
70 Varieties of Social-time

This does not mean that sociology alone is qualified to study the
spectrum of social-time, which also presents an object of the other
social sciences, particularly of historical knowledge. Whether it is a
matter of real social-time alone, or whether it is also the awareness of
this time as it is grasped intuitively, perceived, symbolised, concep-
tualised, measured or mastered will not be prejudged. By mastered, is
meant, as we already said, the efforts displayed in certain structured
social frameworks to rank the manifestations of time in a hierarchised
scale. In any case, to analyse the real social-time and the many ways
of becoming aware and mastering it, a sociological conceptualisation
is needed.
In Determinismes sociaux et liberte humaine (1955; 2nd revised
edn, 1963) a general scheme of the kinds of social time was
constructed in order to study the times corresponding to the different
depth levels of social reality and to the different micro-social group
and all-inclusive total phenomena. This scheme mentioned in the
Introduction is now presented in detail.

(1) Enduring-time (time of slowed down long duration): Here

the past is projected in the present and in the future. This is the most
continuous of the social-times despite its retention of some propor-
tion of the qualitative and the contingent penetrated with multiple
meanings. For example, the ecological level moves in this time,
particularly its demographic aspect. The past is relatively remote, yet
it is dominant and projected into the present and the future: the latter
thereby risks annihilation. It loses much of its concrete and qualita-
tive colouration, and for this reason can be expressed in ordinary
quantitative measures more easily than all other times. The quantita-
tive measures, however, always remain inadequate. Kinship and
locality groupings, especially the rural, are the particular groupings
which tend to move in this time. Among the social classes it is the
peasant class, and among the global societies the patriarchal struc-
tures, [that] appear to actualise this time.
(2) Deceptive-time: Under the guise of long and slowed down
duration, it masks the virtuality of sudden and unexpected crises. In
this 'surprise-time' a rupture between the past and the present occurs,
reinforcing discontinuity. The organised level of social life unfolds in
this time. This is a time of paradox, simultaneously slowed down and
agitated. It is a time of long duration dissevered by abrupt crises and
unforeseen explosions, interrupted by a flood of discontinuity. This
time belongs also to large cities, and to passive communions, as well
 Georges Gurvitch 71

as to political 'publics'. Among the global societies, it is also the time

(along with other times) of the charismatic theocratic structures,
which were meant to be everlasting, yet knew revolutions, as Ancient
China and especially Egypt give evidence.
(3) Erratic-time (time of irregular pulsation between the appear-
ance and disappearance of rhythms): An enigmatic series of intervals
and moments placed within duration. This is a time of uncertainty par
excellence where contingency is accentuated, while the qualitative
element and discontinuity become prominent eventually. The present
appears to prevail over the past and the future, with which it
sometimes finds it difficult to enter into relations. For example, it is
the time of social roles and of collective attitudes, where regulated
social roles collide with repressed, aspired [to], fluctuating and un-
expected social roles. This is the time of the technical patterns,
particularly in the societies of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
In the mirco-social sphere this is the time of mass sociability,
especially of the passive mass sociability. This is the time of global
societies in transition, as our society of today so often is.
(4) Cyclical-time (in which an apparent precipitation masks a
withdrawal into itself, 'a dance on one spot'): The past, present and
future are mutually projected into one another with an accentuation
of continuity and a weakening of contingency, while the qualitative
element is brought into sharp relief. This is often the time of
communion sociabilities when they take on a mystic character. This
time visibly prevails in the mystic--ecstatic groupings (churches, sects,
mystic--ecstatic cults). It is predominant in the archaic societies where
the mythological, religious and magical beliefs play such an important
part. It is true, however, the magic, in-as-much as it competes with
religion, overflows cyclical time.
(5) Retarded-time: Is a delayed time whose unfolding is awaited
so long that, although the future is actualised in the present, it is not
efficient. In this delayed time no equilibrium between continuity and
discontinuity is attained. They tend to be equivalent, but the
qualitative and contingent elements are reinforced. As examples, this
is the time of the social symbols, always outmoded at the very
moment when they are crystallised. Because they are awaited for so
long, they often tend to be jaded very soon after they are expressed.
Among the manifestations of sociability, it is community sociability
which usually emphasises retarded time. Community holds strongly
its symbols and promotes jural regulations whose procedures pre-
ferably take place in delayed time. The groupings that move in
72 Varieties of Social-time

retarded time are closed groupings or those to which admission is

difficult: for example, the nobles, the landed gentry, certain corpora-
tions whose members are selected, particularly the licensed pro-
fessions such as academic faculties and more broadly public service
and the professions. Among the global societies, it was the feudal
society at the degree that feudal bonds predominated.
(6) Alternating-time: Time alternating between delay and advance,
where the realisation of past and future compete in the present. Here
discontinuity is stronger than continuity, without accentuation of the
qualitative element and without enhancement of contingency. This is
the time belonging to patterns, rules, signals, signs and collective
conduct of some regularity. Here delay and advance struggle end-
lessly, as they are both of equal strength. The victory of one over the
other can ... end [only] with a very bitter struggle and the issue is
always precarious. This is often the time of communities when their
tendency to immobility is shed. This is the time of the economic
groupings, at least when other factors do not intervene to complicate
matters. Finally, this time had first place in global societies at the
inception of capitalism and when absolute monarchs ruled.
(7) Time in advance of itself (or time pushing forward): Is a time
where the discontinuity, contingency, and the qualitative triumph
together over their opposites. The future becomes present. This is the
time of collective effervescences, of aspirations toward the ideal and
the common values, and of collective acts of decision and innovation.
This is also the time of the active masses and communions in revolt.
As a rule, it is the time of the proletarian class. This time was
predominant in competitive capitalism, as has been indicated in my
Determinismes sociaux et liberte humaine.
(8) Explosive-time: Where the present as well as the past are
dissolved in the creation of the immediately transcended future. In
this time discontinuity, the contingent, and the qualitative are
maximised and their opposites reduced to a minimum. This is the
time of acts of collective creation, which, insofar as they are
effervescent conduct, always intervene in social reality, but which,
from a subjacent level, become apparent and dominant during
revolutions. This is the time of creative Communion. In centralised
and pluralistic collectivism there is an attempt to make this time
dominant. In a more technicist form, there is at least a pretension
toward having this time playa supporting role for organised capital-
ism and fascism. However, it is often so in appearance only, since
it is only a matter of the time of the 'sorcerer-apprentice'. The
 Georges Gurvitch 73

explosive-time, when it is effective, endangers the global and partial

structures which move there, live dangerously and it involves max-
imum efforts.

It is now desirable to clarify an important question we raised at the

outset; the problem of knowing 'how to distinguish social-time
studied by sociology from that studied by history'. In other words, 'is
there a difference between sociological-time and historical-time?'
Here it is necessary to distinguish between the reality studied, the
method applied to this study and the object which is the result of the
marriage of the first two elements. To end the confusion between
history as reality and historiography as science, it must be recognised
that historical reality is a special part of social reality. Historical
reality is the promethean [collectivity], in which the We-nesses,
groups, classes, global societies become aware of themselves and of
their ability to transform themselves and to modify the total social
phenomena, especially the corresponding structures and organisa-
tions. Every total social phenomenon of global character, where the
awareness of possible revolution or counter-revolution surges, as
provoked by the collective will of the participants, is an historical
society. Historical reality, which exists outside of all historical method
and all historiography, asserts and accentuates discontinuity because
of its inherent prometheism.
But if we move from reality to method, we note a paradox. History
as science applies a much more continuous method than does
sociology. The method of sociology is typological, that of history is
particularising to the limit. The object of sociology is the typology of
total social phenomena, types of micro-social elements, types of
groups, types of classes, types of global societies, and within most of
them, types of movements of structuration and destructuration of
total social phenomena. The latter are placed by sociology in
reconstituted-time according to the criteria of a present given society,
from the angle of a particular social class or of a specific group. In this
reconstructed-time the past is rendered present or the present is
rendered past. From the methodological point of view, sociology is
much more discontinuous than history as it is led to emphasise the
discontinuity of types, scales and hierarchies of the multiple mani-
festations of time. History, on the contrary from the methodological
standpoint, is led to fill in the ruptures and gaps, to throw up bridges
between the social types, to pass without solution of the continuity
from one global structure to another by linking together the move-
74 Varieties of Social-time

ments of different global social phenomena which go beyond them.

The historians do this in reconstructing the transition between total
phenomena and thereby re-establishing the continuity of time.
The paradox of continuity in the science of history which studies
the historical reality inclining toward discontinuity, and of discon-
tinuity in sociology which studies a more continuous social reality
than that of history, is derived from three sources: [1] the ambiguity
of historical time; [2] the total social phenomena invading and over-
throwing the social structures and their types with volcanic impact;
[3] the character of causality in history, unique at the same time it is
closely-knit. Only the first point interests us here. I have already
discussed this question in two writings; 'La crise de I'explication en
sociologie', in La vocation actuelle de la sociologie (vol. II, 2nd edn,
1963, Chapter XVI, pp.462-81) and in my book Dialectique et
sociologie (1962, pp.224--32).
In this last book I developed my point of view most completely. In
my former writings I reduced the ambiguity of historical-time to the
fact that it has already elapsed, is already completed, while
sociological-time is in the process of happening. I added that
historical-time is reconstructed according to criteria of present
societies and groups, which is the reason historians are driven to a
constant rewriting of history, rendering historical-time both more
alive and more ideological. Finally the ambiguities of historical-time
lure it into 'forecasting the past' and projecting this prediction into
the future. I still maintain that these are necessary characteristics, but
they do not suffice to explain the dialectic relations between the
multiple manifestations of social-time studied in sociology and in
history, or more precisely, the dialectic between the multiplicity of
sociological-time and of historical-time.
Historical reality, as I have already noted, is a circle inscribed
within the larger circle of social reality. The multiple manifestations
of social-time in historical reality are made prominent by their liaison
with prometheism which emphasises the alternating time of irregular
pulsation of the time in advance beyond itself, and finally the time of
creation. However, in historiography, actual historical-time is recon-
structed from the ideological point of view of the historian who is
tempted to select certain of these times and exclude others. Then the
manifestations of historiographical-times do not correspond exactly
to those of reality, but to those of the multiple interpretations of the
continuity of time. Thus even at the core of historiography the two
aspects of the multiplicity of time compete. This competition be-
 Georges Gurvitch 75

comes far more dramatic than can be revived by the historians of the
different societies and groups. They cannot succeed in reviving the
unfolding time except at the price of projecting their own present into
this time. They cannot realise this projection without supposing a
continuity between the different scales of time belonging to these
varied societies.
The fact that the historical method is individualising, that it must
emphasise the unique and unrepeatable character of the flow of
events, leads to the reinforcement of the ties between cause and
effect. It certainly helps the historian to underline the quasi-infinite
particularities of historical-time which are still much more varied than
the time which is of sociological interest. But the time of historians,
specific as it may be, remains continuous, not only because it is
projected and reconstructed, but because it assures the passages and
transitions between the times of different scales of time belonging to
these varied societies.
The dialectical ambiguity of historical-time, as well as its multi-
plicity, is [thus] manifest everywhere:
(a) It is in the contradiction between the time of historical reality
and the time which is projected by the historians.
(b) It is in the competition between the dual multiplicity of
historical-time: real multiplicity and interpreted multiplicity.
(c) It is in the opposition between their multiplicity, real and
projected at the same time, and their continuity which is always taken
for granted.
(d) It is in the individualising and singularising of historical-time
which ... serves [only] to reinforce their constructed continuity.
(e) It is in the fact that the time which has been unfolding, which
is in a sense completed, has very few traits in common with time in
the process of being made.
(f) Finally, it is even in the contract between historical-time and
sociological-time. In spite of all their conflicts and tensions they need
one another, they are dialectically complementary and often mutually
imply each other.
The historians present their disagreements in the interpretation of
historical-time to the sociologists. They also remind the sociologists,
with discoveries of the particularly rich variations of historical-time
and their different unifications, that the continuous transitions be-
tween the global social phenomena of different types go beyond their
structures. The sociologists provide the historians with points of
76 Varieties of Social-time

reference for their particularising analysis of discontinuous social-

time. They also help the historians take into account the ideological
character of their own perspectives of time, revealing how necessary
it is to limit the continuity between the scales of time. The sociologists
explain why the historians are pushed to this continuism by their
reconstructing, projecting and individualising method.
The sociologists are much more broadminded than the historians.
Recently Fernand Braudel claimed (cf. his study 'Histoire et Sociolo-
gie, Traite de Sociologie (vol. 1, 1958; 2nd edn, 1963, pp. 96-7) that
only the historians are able to arrive simultaneously at the multi-
plicity and the unity of time 'in the white, violent, unitary light' which
is indispensable to the time of historians. Why? Because ... [Braudel]
believes that the historians alone possess the secret of surpassing 'the
narrowest issues of events' and have access to the 'longest durations'.
Since no argument is advanced to support this thesis, if it is not an
article of faith, it must be based on an assumption that historians
alone are able to study the total social phenomena of global
character, alone are able to show that these phenomena go beyond
the structures, and finally alone have the ability to reveal the varying
unifying interpenetraations of social-time. However, as we have
already implied ... ,all these presuppositions ... give evidence [only]
of an imperialistic frame of mind inclined to favour historical science
over sociology and to ignore the dialectic between both. We can only
take cognizance of this frame of mind, regret it, and hope that it will
be reappraised so that true cooperation can be established between
sociology and history to study the multiplicity and varied unifications
of social-time.
6 The Structures and
Meanings of Social-time
J. David Lewis and Andrew J. Weigart

(From J. D. Lewis and A. J. Weigart, 'The Structures and Meanings

of Social Time', Social Forces, 60, 1981, pp. 432-62)

In the years since Sorokin and Merton published their groundbreak-

ing article [1937, see Chapter 4 in this volume] on the sociology of
time inviting us to probe its qualitative and meaningful features, a
number of insightful books and articles have dealt with aspects of
social-time. Most sociologists, however, treat time as incidental to
other sociological problems rather than meriting investigation in its
own right. Consequently, there is a dearth of theoretical work on the
sociology of time that might lead to a general paradigm for integrat-
ing the disparate empirical studies in this developing subfield.
More regrettably, many sociologists do not include time as a crucial
variable in their studies, or else they introduce the temporal dimen-
sions of social organisation and interaction in an ad hoc fashion to
assist explanation of social behaviour. If social-time received the
attention it deserves in sociological investigations, no study of human
organisation and interaction would be considered reasonably com-
plete unless it examined their temporal organisation. Sorokin (1943)
stated, 'Human life is literally an incessant competition for time by
various activities with their motives and objectives' (p. 209). Presum-
ably, sociologists experience this competition with at least as much
intensity as most others in modern societies: and yet, ironically, they
often neglect its importance in the lives of those whose actions they
intend to explain (cf. Hendricks and Hendricks, 1976).
Typical temporal demarcations are the concepts of past, present,
and future. Each of these times can be defined with physical or social
points of reference. Physical-time so expands into the past and future
relative to the human context that we rarely refer to points in
physical-time more than a few million years ago or a century in the
future. Events in physical-time outside these limits concern astro-
nomers and theologians but few others. In contrast to reckoning time
by a succession of physical events such as the orbit of earth around
the sun, time can be humanised by establishing temporal references

77
78 Social-time: Structures and Meanings

to social events. When we say, 'I'll meet you after the game', we are
using social-time rather than physical or mechanical mathematical-
time, as would be the case if we were to say 'I'll meet you when the
sun is at its apex', or 'at 120'clock noon'. As Sorokin and Merton
observed, physically-based time-reckoning inexorably marches on in
relatively homogenous units, while social-time unfolds with varying
rhythms; sometimes rapidly, sometimes slowly, and sometimes with
breaks (e.g., sleep or holidays).
We experience time both as physical passage and as a social
procession. This intermingling of physical- and social-time is clearly
displayed by the way we use the calendar. Significant social events
such as the death of Christ are taken as temporal markers from which
astronomical time-units are defined. Similarly, when we refer to a
child's mental age we are simultaneously taking social-,
psychological-, biological-, and physical-time into account. Being
reminded that an event took place 'shortly after World War II'
communicates more social meaning than being told that it happened
in 1947. We tend to locate social events temporally with respect to
other social events or periodicities and to use wholly physical time-
reckoning devices simply to 'mark time' between social events of
interest.
Social periodicities do not appear when time is measured by merely
physical succession. Social phases and cycles are identifiable in social-
time which may even appear non-periodic in physical-time. Sorokin
and Merton explain:

The search for social periodicities based upon the unquestioned

adoption of astronomical criterions of time may have been largely
unsuccessful precisely because social phenomena involved 'sym-
bolic' rather than 'empirical' equalities in in-equalities; social
processes which at present seem to lack periodicities in terms of
astronomical measures may be found to be quite periodic in
character in terms of social time (1937, p. 626).

The unevenness of social-time compared to physical-time emerges

in reflection on the wealth of social meanings attached to events
occurring in the development of the average American male between
the ages of 12 and 18 as compared to, say, the ages of 32 and 38, or
the impact of such colossal events as the Great Depression (Elder,
1974) which have lasting effects on individual lives. These major
points in social-time enter the definition of human generations and
 J. David Lewis and Andrew J. Weigart 79

are more useful sociologically than defining generations in physical-,

biological-time (see Mannheim, 1952; Ortega, 1962).
This discussion suggests not only that social-time is quite distinct
from physical-time but also that it permeates every region of social
life. This pervasiveness can be elaborated theoretically by identifying
the different types of social-time operating at different levels of social
structure. To do this, however, we need an adequate theory of social
structure. There are various views among social theorists about
aspects or levels of social structure: How many distinct levels or
components of social structure exist? How should they be described?
Some theorists propose such aspects or levels of social structure as
the individual, group, morphological, systemic, and cultural (e.g.,
Udy, 1968), while others find fewer levels of social structure or
describe them differently. Most sociologists, both classical and
modern, would agree that social structure can, and, for analytical
purposes, should be conceived as embracing several more or less
clearly definable parts or levels of analysis - for example, individual,
group, societal and cultural levels.
Consequently, we treat the individual, group, and cultural level as
the most common divisions represented in existing theories of social
structure, and we use this tripartite division as the point of departure
for the development of a typology of social-times. That is, we show
that each of these levels has its own forms of social-time: at the
individual, 'self-time'; at the group level, 'interaction-time' for
informal interactions and 'institutional-time' for bureaucracies and
other formal organisations; and at the broad, societal-culturallevel,
'cyclic-time' (the day, week, and seasons) which cuts across the entire
society.
To simplify the presentation of this typology of social-times, ...
[we first] discuss ... self-time and interactional-time as representing
the micro-level of social organisation, and this is followed ... by an
analysis of institutional-time and cyclic-time which constitute the
macro-level of temporal social organisation. The aim of these two
sections, then, is to provide a 'purposive, planned selection, abstrac-
tion, combination ... of a set of criteria' for building a 'constructive
typology' of social time to foster the development of sociological
theory (McKinney, 1966, p. 25) ...
[W]e [then] move toward a substantive theory of social-time which
yields a useful formulation of the aforementioned processual ques-
tions and tentatively suggests the social processes by which they are
produced and may be partially resolved. The three key concepts we
80 Social-time: Structures and Meanings

use - embeddedness, stratification, and synchronicity - are diversely

present in the extant literature on the sociology of time, but they are
not systematically investigated individually, much less in relation to
each other. Our purpose ... is thus to formulate an orderly set of
propositions around these three leading concepts which may serve as
a basis for future theoretical and empirical work. Finally, ... we offer
examples of how a researcher might deduce testable hypotheses from
the set of inter-related propositions we have developed.

BIOGRAPHICAL AND INTERACTIONAL STRUCTURES OF

SOCIAL-TIME

Self-time

Heidegger stated flatly, 'there is no time without man' (1972, p.16).

This statement is patently absurd if taken as an assertion about
physical-time as process or pure duration. Of course, such was not his
intention; nor did he intend that the statement be interpreted as a
reference to social-time. As an existentialist, Heidegger was in-
terested in time as it appears immediately in the experience of the
solitary ego. We might call this 'self-time'. What Heidegger wished to
point out is that without a sentient, rational being there is no past,
present, or future, nor even a before or after. These structures are
imposed on the world by our minds. They are not given in existence;
they are projected onto existence in the form of remembered pasts,
experienced presents, and imagined futures.
Heidegger claimed, moreover, that time is actually four-
dimensional. The relations between past, present, and future depend
on a fourth temporal structure that, following Kant, he called 'nearing
nearness' or 'nearhood' (Nahheit) (p. 15). It is the temporal equiva-
lent of our experience of nearness in the spatial sense. When, for
instance, we are in a car speeding along a road, we see objects in the
distance slowly approaching us, quickly passing, and then fading
away again in the distance. In addition to the experience of objects,
we experience the process itself of their becoming near and distant.
This is the experience of 'nearing nearness' in the spatial sense.
Similarly, temporal 'nearing nearness' connects past and future to the
present in that experience of events in the past and future are ordered
with respect to their nearness or remoteness to what is taken as
present. Hence, Heidegger conceives of the present as reaching out
 J. David Lewis and Andrew J. Weigart 81

in both directions to embrace the past and future, not as an

instantaneous razor's edge on which we are perched. Just as objects
appear differently depending on their spatial nearness, events also
appear differently when they are temporally near than when the
'same' events are temporally distant. Temporal panic is a reaction to
the nearing time which is approaching faster than the person's ability
to finish the present act (Lyman and Scott, 1970). During eras of
rapid social change, self temporal panic becomes cultural 'future
shock' (Toffter, 1971).
Unlike physical-time, self-time is not homogeneous. Events in the
individual's life which are quite distant in physical-time may be rep-
resented in consciousness as vividly as memories of what happened
five minutes ago. Cottle (1976) refers to this as spatial-time in that
our memories can manipulate events in time as if they were ordinary
material objects that can be moved around at will. Spatial-time
contrasts with the linear conception of time, by which events occur in
an inviolable temporal sequence. In spatial-time, we can bring a past
event into the present and make it into a different event; histories and
life stories are never fixed. During totally engrossing activities such as
playing chess, performing surgery, or rock climbing, self experiences
a formless sense of flow in which time seems to cease (Csikszent-
mihalyi, 1975). The types of experiences one has, their temporal
nearness, and their spatial forms in memory assure that each person's
sense of 'self-time' is unique and has significant effects upon inter-
action with others.

Interaction-time

Whenever two or more people are interacting directly, self-time is

partially overlaid with a different typ~ of time frame, namely,
'interaction-time'. Since it is an intersubjective reality, interaction-
time is only partly within the experience and control of each self. The
flow of interaction-time depends on the (incompletely predictable)
actions of the other as well as the prevailing rules which define
appropriate 'turns' in interaction. The relative social statuses of the
interactants entail norms that govern turn-taking and other temporal
intervals in interaction time (cf. Schegloff, 1968).
In addition to generalised cultural norms of interaction-time such
as turn-taking, there are special interactional rules which develop
among such social dyads as friends, best friends, acquaintances,
strangers, adversaries, bitter enemies, or sales person-customers.
82 Social-time: Structures and Meanings

When one person appears to be following rules of interaction-time

which the other views as inappropriate for their presumed relation-
ship as he or she defines it (e.g., meeting a friend on the street and
treating him with nothing more than a curt 'hello' normally reserved
for acquaintances or even strangers), some type of account or
conversational repair work is immediately called for. Otherwise,
their relationship is subject to redefinition (Scott and Lyman, 1968).
A critical structural feature of social-time which influences the
temporal organisation of interaction is the fact that all social acts are
temporally fitted inside of larger social acts. We call this time
embeddedness. For example, a person who stops during the rush hour
to buy a newspaper on the way to the bus stop shows that the
interaction-time available to chat with the newsvendor is quite
limited; conversely, the newsvendor knows that he should not
attempt to engage customers in protracted exchanges. To do so
would profoundly disrupt the orderly flow of daily life for everyone
involved and, indirectly, countless others. The dire consequences of
even small deviations in the temporal progression of embedded
actions are painfully illustrated by the reverberations which follow
when an international airport is forced to shut down for only a few
hours, or when a big job falls through just as a big debt falls due!
Time embeddedness is reflected in the multiple perSpectives which
make up social worlds and the multiple roles which make up self-
awareness (Mead, 1934; Tillman, 1970).
Time embeddedness forcefully affects the definition and process of
interaction in those instances where one or both persons have their
temporal structures tightly embedded (e.g., 'I am sorry, but 1 must
leave because 1 have another appointment'). Tightness of time
embeddedness varies by social class and age group, and it is closely
correlated with one's image of the future. Cottle and Klineberg
(1974) note that humans spend relatively little time in the present
compared to other animals; our thoughts and actions are oriented
toward the future and (to a lesser degree) the past. One of the most
pleasant aspects of pure recreation is that it allows us to live wholly in
the present as the experience of passing time temporarily ceases.
Probably, small children are most present-oriented and older persons
are past-oriented. For this reason, elders tend to be less emotionally
anxious in contemplating an uncertain future than are young adults
who not only have a much longer future-oriented temporal horizon
but are also far more preoccupied with attempts to control oncoming
events as they become both near and distant.
 J. David Lewis and Andrew J. Weigart 83

Persons differ in salient time focus according to whether their

primary concern is with short-term or long-term futures (Polak,
1973), and whether they take a fatalist or self-determinist view of
their futures (Bell and Mau, 1971). These variations in future-related
temporal structures have implications for the way in which people
manage interaction-time and the time embeddedness of their lives.
One extreme implication is demonstrated in the experience of two
persons who grow old together (Schutz, 1962). The past and futures
of long-time friends or lovers are intersubjectively experienced as so
intermeshed that their interaction-time takes on special qualities of
shared experience not found in any other interactional context.
Members of living groups, like families, must synchronise their
variously embedded times if they hope to attain temporal coordina-
tion among themselves as competent family members (Kantor and
Lehr, 1975).

INSTITUTIONAL AND CULTURAL STRUCTURES OF

SOCIAL-TIME

Not only are self-time structures embedded within interactional-time

structures, but both of these micro-level temporal structures are, in
turn, embedded within the larger macro-level temporal orders of
social institutions and of the culture. This embeddedness constitutes
the temporal integration of the different levels of social structure and
gives rise to the need for temporal 'stratification' and 'synchronicity' -
two concepts which we develop here and in [the following section].
The distinction within the macro-level structures of social-time
between institutional and cultural structures is based on their differ-
ences in both form and scope. Within the institutional realm,
individual organisations (school, factories, etc.) which make up each
institutional sphere construct their own time schedules and rules.
Although they may (and typically do) take into account time
structures of other organisations with which they must conduct
exchanges, the norms and sanctions governing the use of time in any
particular organisation extend directly only to its own members. On
the other hand, there are culturally-based time structures (day, week,
seasons) which extend in some form or other to all functioning
members of society.
In industrial societies, there is also a marked difference in
form between institutional and cultural time structures. The most
84 Social-time: Structures and Meanings

fundamental difference is that the cultural structures, such as the day,

week, and seasons, recur in endless cycles or what we simply term
cyclic-time, whereas most organisations operate on linear-time in
which persons and objects pass through temporal frameworks that
are non-repetitive at irregular intervals. For these reasons, we
separate the discussion of macro-temporal structures into the two
... [categories:] cycles of [social-]time and institutional-time.

Cycles of Social-time

The future in social-time is not the colourless, textureless, empty

expanse it appears to be in purely physical-time. On the contrary, it
contains all our hopes, fears, and aspirations. As such, we approach it
not as a smooth and standard sequence of ticks of a clock to be lived
through, but rather as a sequence of whole blocks of time which
contain partially predictable and broadly recurring sets of meaningful
events. It is around these blocks of time that we construct the cycles
which organise social-time into smaller and larger temporally embed-
ded structures. We turn now to a description of the three cycles that
in our society are based more or less on three natural sequences
defined as meaningful units of time. We call the social cycles
corresponding to these three units the daily round, the weekly
routine, and the yearly season.

The Daily Round

The physical day with its sequence of darkness and light and the
gradations of dawn, morning, afternoon, evening, twilight, and night,
provides the basis in everyday life for the quotidian social temporal
structure, or daily round of activities. The daily round is marked by
the two organic events of waking in the morning and falling asleep at
night. A modern industrialised and rationalised society can function
only if most of its members follow a highly patterned and dependable
daily round. Simmel (1971) observed that the portable timepiece or
wristwatch helped create a mental life for urban-dwellers which
enables them to mesh their daily rounds with a precision unattainable
in a rural setting where time is marked by more natural rhythms (e.g.,
the crowing of a rooster). Unlike the farmer, city-dwellers must
synchronise their watches with those of millions of others ... [T]heir
participation in the maze of daily rounds is [thUS] so carefully coordin-
ated that each day society's daily round is launched precisely on time
(cf. de Grazia, 1962). Not to have the correct time in modern society
 J. David Lewis and Andrew J. Weigart 85

is to risk social incompetence. Consequently, the offer of correct time

is a form of mutual aid which cannot be refused, even among city
strangers who may have nothing more in common than their collec-
tive bondage to clock-time.
In some ways, our subservience to rigid clock-time constitutes a
form of alienation from what would be the ordinary course of social
events not dictated by clocks. Church services, college courses,
television programmes, lunch-time, and many other activities are
orchestrated so as to 'fill up' precisely the length of clock-time
allotted for them and to end on time, regardless of the social or
psychological state of the participants. By thus reifying clock-time,
we rob the social world of much spontaneity, creativity, and novelty.
As smaller and smaller units of clock-time become invested with
increasing significance, everyday life may resemble the tight temporal
structure of total institutions in which the daily round is precisely
regulated (Goffman, 1961). With this tightness come greater stress,
tensions, and time-induced anxiety. Ironically, despite the stress-
producing effects of reified clock-time, we not only expect rigorous
temporal control of events but positively value it, as is evident from
the anger and frustration felt when scheduled events are delayed,
postponed, or cancelled. Perhaps in societies less mechanised and
bureaucratised, spontaneous disruptions of the routine course of
social life are more welcomed, or at least less threatening.

The Weekly Routine

The daily round occurs within another temporal structure - the
weekly routine. The seven-day week ofthe Western calendar reflects
an ancient religious motif of six days of work followed by a day of
religious activities and physical rest. The establishment of Sunday as
a day for religious observation is an example of the traditional power
of organised religion in structuring the calendar in such ways as to
foster religious consciousness through the creation of holy days. The
attempt to secularise the calendar in the French Republican calendri-
cal reform of 1793 was met by stern resistance, and its failure
demonstrates the deeply rooted institutionalisation of the Western
temporal framework (see Zerubavel, 1977).
Nevertheless, the definition of Sunday and the activities legitimately
performed on that day have changed significantly in recent decades.
Professional sports now fill the relatively empty temporal slot avail-
able on urban Sunday afternoons. The takeover of Sunday for
spectator sports was completed with the coming of television.
86 Social-time: Structures and Meanings

Another example of the secularisation of 'the Lord's Day' was the

battle over retail and commercial establishments doing business on
Sunday. While many laws prohibiting Sunday business operations
have been repealed, the battle is still being waged for sale of over-
the-counter alcohol. Finally, the secular shift is further manifested in
declining attendance at Sunday church services and the shift of
church services to other days of the week. During the historical
period which included the secularisation of Sunday, the labour
movement was winning a shorter work week. These two develop-
ments help divide the week into two distinct periods: work-days and
the weekend.
The importance of the weekend as the dominant temporal marker
of the weekly routine has gained highly symbolic recognition. For
example, the national sacred days, like birthdays of Washington and
Lincoln, are now moved to Monday regardless of the actual day of
the week on which the birthday falls, further strengthening the
weekend as a socio-cultural time out (Lyman and Scott, 1970). The
meaning of the weekend as a period of time free from mundane work
is so firmly ingrained in our culture that even patients in mental
institutions appear to take time off from their crazy behaviour on
weekends, provided that the hospital staff is properly attentive to
their symptoms of craziness on weekdays (Melbin, 1969). Even
needed professionals like doctors, dentists, and clergy now take off
for all or part of the weekend. The borrowing of the English term,
weekend, by European languages indicates diffusion of this temporal
meaning.
The daily round is itself modified depending on the day of the
week. The folk definition of 'blue Monday' receives empirical sup-
port from a study of American boys' evaluation of the days of the
week (Osgood, 1974). The days were ranked in the following order of
positive to negative evaluation; Saturday, Friday, Sunday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, Thursday, and last, Monday. The negative meaning and
effects of Monday are firmly signified by the fact that, of men having
no previous history of heart disease who suffer a sudden-death heart
attack while at work, fully 75 per cent die on Monday (Rabkin, 1980),
and, of those who died at home, 46 per cent died on Monday. The
weekly routine suggests that Americans live for the weekends while
merely living through the weekdays. The fact that most special events
and leisure activities are appropriately scheduled for weekends is a
significant occupational disadvantage for those whose occupational
time is structured so that days off occur on weekdays rather than on
 J. David Lewis and Andrew J. Weigart 87

weekends. Clearly the meaning of the weekly routine is an important

feature of our everyday lives, and a full understanding of ourselves,
our family, our neighbours, our health, and our job requires that we
grasp the meanings of the phases in the weekly routine and how they
merge with institutional demands.

The Yearly Seasons

Like the days of the week, the weeks of the year have special
meanings. for such purposes as paying bills, weeks are temporally
organised into monthly cycles, but months are generally less signific-
ant in our lives than are the seasons in which they are grouped (see
Michelson, 1971). Particularly in the temperate zone, the four
seasons provide a powerful natural sequence which humans have
from the most ancient times transformed into socially meaningful
periodicities. The seasons elicit different affective responses from
individuals depending on their social class. For example, the junior
executive moves to the cool of the lake cottage and enjoys a leisurely
season of work-plus-recreation during the hot months of summer.
The executive lives a summer season with a meaning contradicted by
that of the inner city ghetto janitor for whom the summer season
brings stifling heat, humidity, smog, constant street life, thin tempers,
and the threat of riot over a long, hot summer. The meanings of the
yearly seasons thus affect our everyday lives relative to our position
in society (cf. O'Rand and Ellis, 1974).
Two significant changes come with the seasonal cycles and add to
their distinctive social definition. First, our life-styles reflect changes
in weather and temperature as we adopt the food, clothing, work,
and recreational activities appropriate for the season. Second, each
season is characterised by dominant holidays: Christmas-New Year,
Easter, Fourth of July, and Halloween-Thanksgiving. The meaning
and mood of each season are set by its principal holiday, and this aura
penetrates our lives from season to season probably far more than we
realise consciously, whether we react with joy or depression.
An evaluation of the seasons and months of the yearly cycle is also
included in the study of teenage American males (Osgood, 1974).
Winter is evaluated lowest, mainly due to the lowest month of the
year, February, a slightly better evaluation of January, and a
somewhat more positive evaluation for December. There is a sharp
rise in positive evaluation for March, and somewhat more for April
and May, resulting in a combined judgment of Spring as the second
more positive season. The positive judgement peaks for June, the
88 Social-time: Structures and Meanings

highest of all months, followed by a slight drop for July, the second
highest month, followed by a sharp decline for August, almost to the
level of March. Altogether, Summer is the highest ranking season. In
interpreting these findings, we must recall that they refer to teenage
males. Persons of other social status, or from differing geographical
regions, would likely offer different rankings.
This discussion of the yearly seasons finishes the temporal cyclic
structures based rather directly on cosmological sequences and the
biological necessity to alternate periods of activity and passivity.
Since the seasonal sequences are objectively in nature, they are
universally available for temporal meanings. Through symbolic trans-
formation, these sequences enter our lives and become part of the
reason why we think, feel, or decide in one way or another at this
particular time. People committed to an astrological interpretation,
for example, fashion their lives differently from disbelievers. So, too,
a Christian structures the yearly seasons, weekly routines, or daily
rounds differently from a Jew; or a 70-year-old farmer differently
from a 26-year-old apprentice carpenter.
Cyclic- and repetitive-time is essential for the experience of stabil-
ity and sameness, even as time passes. Day follows night and night
succeeds day; weeks cycle recurrently; yearly seasons repeat them-
selves. The great temporal order and permanence of the cosmos is
experienced through the cycles which provide the basis for repetitive-
time.

Institutional Timetables and Individual Careers

We have two experiences of personal time. The first we share with all
living organisms: life begins, we grow, age, and die. In everyday life,
however, these physical stages are symbolically transformed into
socially and psychologically defined stages and personal identities (cf.
Erikson, 1959). It is this second biography, the social biography,
which is of particular interest to sociologists. The temporal structures
of biological 'living clocks' (Ward, 1971) control our physical biog-
raphies. Extreme life-styles can somewhat slow down or speed up the
ageing process but, in any event, the living clock marches onward.
A very different type of clock - social-time - regulates our social
biographies. Society tells us when it is time to vote, drink alcohol,
drive a car, go to war, go to school, marry, run for political office, and
retire from work. In our society, we are physically mature before we
are defined as socially adult. This lack of correspondence between the
 J. David Lewis and Andrew J. Weigart 89

two biographies places teenagers and young adults in our society in

an awkward and ambiguous position. In away, herding large
numbers of these persons into colleges provides an appropriately
ambiguous environment where they may be conveniently stored
during a psycho-social moratorium until, it is hoped, their two
biographies are synchronised.
Society lays out a time track for persons, and, from the track, we
derive appropriate timetables and schedules (Roth, 1963). The
schedules force each individual to construct a biography by passing
through statuses partly determined by nature but more importantly
by the conventional structures of social life. This biographical time is
marked by the individual's 'status passage' (Glaser and Strauss, 1971)
through the various positions and identities available in society.
Clearly, the availability of these positions is strongly influenced by
chronological age, sex, race, and social class of origin. Such factors
determine at what point in social time, if any, these positions and
identities become available to the individual. The timing of such
access is as socially consequential in many respects as is the simple
fact of access - a factor rarely appreciated in the usual types of
research in social stratification and mobility (see SanGiovanni, 1978).
The passage of the person through a number of statuses which are
meaningfully related to each other in a recognised sequence makes
up a career (Hughes, 1971; Roth, 1963). Instead of the common
definition of career in the occupational world, we use the term to
refer to 'the moving perspective in which the person sees his life as a
whole and interprets the meaning of his various attributes, actions,
and the things which happen to him' (Hughes, 1971, p. 137). In this
sense, career refers to sequences of statuses which make up a unified
time period, like the four years in high school or a mother's child-
bearing career. Over a period of social time, people develop a
perspective through which their various careers are endowed with
certain valuations and meanings. And each career is subject to
reassessment as the person passes from one to another.
Careers establish a critical sense of social-time: Like a clock, social
biographical-time runs or ticks away as the individual passes not
only from status to status within an institution such as high school,
but also from institution to institution as from high school to the
labour force to the retirement home. This is why social-time moves
rapidly from birth to adulthood and much more slowly thereafter, as
the older individual typically goes through fewer (and socially less
significant) status passages. However, the pace of status passages
90 Social-time: Structures and Meanings

increases again in the later years as people often experience retire-

ment, the death of a spouse, declining health, changed living arrange-
ments, and the like.
Most statuses have their own socially prescribed durations. A
career has its timetable (Roth, 1963) which contains a schedule
allocating the normal time for each person to pass through the
designated statuses. To pass through at a faster or slower rate results
in being identified as a social or age deviate, as having extraordinary
personal traits producing the departure from age-graded normalcy
(SanGiovanni, 1978). The prospect of being singled out as abnormal
is often sufficiently disconcerting to compel individuals either to
under-or over-achieve in an effort to conform with the timetable -
another example of fitting social activities to the dictates of social-,
calendar-, and clock-time. Where the timetables are arranged in
sequences, to be off schedule on one timetable condemns one to
arrive early or late at the next.
Consider a typical middle-class biography. The infant is born in a
hospital, in a highly organised setting which sets the style for
standardised statuses. Even before the child enters kindergarden, he
or she has probably experienced the bureaucratic timetables of a pre-
school, day-care centre, or nursery school. Each of these institutions
has well-established criteria of efficiency, standardisation, and rela-
tively clear markers of progress. This is anticipatory socialisation for
the next 12 to perhaps 25 years during which the person's educational
career unfolds within the bureaucratic organisation of the schools.
When this person enters the occupational world, a different, but
equally demanding, timetable appears. A significant difference be-
tween such free professionals as artists or writers and most other
workers, especially blue-collar workers, is their relative freedom
from control by clock-time (see Sennett and Cobb, 1973): they are
not as constrained to a rigidly prescribed daily round (Zerubavel,
1979a, 1979b). Unlike the factory worker, the free professional can
avoid the daily grind of rush-hour traffic, the long lines at the grocery
store from 5 to 6 o'clock in the evening after work and, most of all,
the rigid hours put into work and their distribution on a daily,
weekly, and seasonal basis. From the standpoint of social stratifica-
tion, this is an intangible, though real, advantage. Indeed, some
people gladly exchange more tangible benefits, including money, in
order to have it.
There is, as well, a definite stratification among the times we
have described. Generally speaking, organisational-time demands
 1. David Lewis and Andrew 1. Weigart 91

precedence over interaction-time, and interaction-time, in turn,

demands precedence over self-time. Two employees, for example,
would get into serious trouble with their supervisor if they habitually
allowed their lunch-hour conversations (interaction-time) to extend
beyond the time allotted for lunch (organisational-time). Similarly,
one would risk being defined as quite rude were one to begin working
on a grocery list (self-time activity) in the middle of a conversation
(interaction-time). There are, of course, special circumstances in
which this ordering of temporal stratification may require reversals of
the usual priorities, but such exceptions are relatively uncommon and
demand an appropriate account (Scott and Lyman, 1968). The
creation and maintenance of social order requires social stratification,
and there are strong sanctions to assure the stability of this system,
since stratified times are also embedded within each other.
The rigidity of bureaucratic timetables is a consequence of the
future-oriented character of organisational-time. Organisations are
more consistent, systematic, and rational (in the Weberian sense) in
their temporal orientation toward the future than are most indi-
viduals. Bureaucracies continually estimate the time required to
complete current projects and anticipate timetables of future pro-
jects. Once resources are allocated based on these timetables,
workers are under pressure to comply with the timetables. Even
though companies which have cost overrun provisions in their
government contracts may not suffer economically if they deviate
from the timetable, they nevertheless endure political pressures from
both the government and the public. Although tight temporal struc-
tures are more characteristic of bureaucratic organisations than of
other types of organisations, even voluntary associations tend to
make escalating demands on one's schedule and total time commit-
ment once one assumes a central role in the organisation (Moore,
1963). The basic social source of rigidity in organisational-time is its
high degree of stratification and embeddedness. In factories and
many other types of organisations, production is organised according
to a fixed sequence of phases or stages. When one phase of the
process takes too long, it disrupts the timing of other phases. This has
clear policy implications for anyone seeking to instil greater temporal
flexibility in an organisation (e.g. 'f1exitime').
In summary, organisational-time has the same basic dimensions
found in other types of social-time. The principal difference, how-
ever, is that in organisational-time these dimensions (future orienta-
tion, 'blocking', stratification, embeddedness, etc.) are far more
92 Social-time: Structures and Meanings

structured and contain much less undefined or free time. This is one
of the features of organisational-time which makes it difficult to
coordinate the simultaneous social-times which continuously impinge
on one's everyday life. Self-time, interaction-time, biographical- /
career-time, organisational-time, and other forms of social-time
would be difficult enough to manage alone, but we must face the
enormously more complex task of somehow coping with the cross-
cutting temporal demands they exert on us at single points in
physical- / astronomical-time. Try as we may to keep these times
segregated in physical-time, they all have the nasty, imperialistic
feature of invading other temporal realms.

TOWARD A PARADIGM FOR THE SOCIOLOGY OF TIME

The exploration of social-time is a deeply fascinating and in principle

inexhaustible inquiry into a basic feature of human sociality. Time,
like space is a deep process/structure of human life at the conjunc-
tion of physical and symbolic reality made meaningful as a symbolic-
ally transformed environment (Harre, 1978). We have touched on
only a few facets of social-time. The primary consideration is that
social-time be interpreted as another form of human meaning con-
structed in the process of interaction, limited by the physical realities
of organism and nature, and structured into the institutions and
organisations of each society (Berger and Luckmann, 1966; Blumer,
1969; Mead, 1934; Sorokin, 1943; Zerubavel, 1979a).
We emphasised three features of social-time which are at the heart
of our constructed typology: embeddedness, stratification, and
synchronisation. Embeddedness recognises that human life and the
social actions which constitute it are a complex overlap of actions
and meanings at various stages of enactment. A seemingly privileged
middle-aged male careerist gradually senses the tensions of a mid-life
crisis as he makes the inevitable transition into another season of
life. A constitutive feature of the middle-aged person's experiences is
the embeddedness of social-time: he discerns the fundamental
anxiety-generating fact that he, like us all, will soon die and can count
on only fifteen or twenty years of productive life; this dawning
awareness is embedded within a marriage which is presumably
running its course for the rest of his life, no matter how long or short;
embedded within these social-times is that stage of his career which
has now plateaued for the foreseeable future, the time of his children's
 1. David Lewis and Andrew 1. Weigart 93

education which is now more expensive than ever, and the last
vigorous period of his physical life for living out youthful fantasies or
fulfilIing adult plans. No wonder he senses temporal panic (Lyman
and Scott, 1970).
Temporal embeddedness works as a mechanism making the experi-
ence of self-continuity, a permanent identity across differing situa-
tions, plausible. Temporal embeddedness is a plausibility structure
for the experience of the unity and continuity of an increasingly
complex modern self (d. Berger and Luckmann, 1966). In traditional
religious societies, self-time is embedded in a transcendental-time:
the afterlife, eternity, or the colIective life of the group. The social
organisation of religion supplied the plausibility structure for a sense
of self-continuity and identity throughout life and after death (BelIah,
1968; Berger, 1967). In secular and pluralistic modern society,
temporal embeddedness is limited to the mundane realities of life-
course, career, institutional timetables, and personal plans; it offers a
more precarious continuity of subjectivity and self but it is the only
type of plausibility available to moderns (Berger, et al., 1973: Toffter,
1971).
The second feature of social-time is its stratification. ExperientialIy,
as the phenomenologists emphasise, time and space extend out from
the felt and embodied present with self as the 0,0 coordinates.
SociologicalIy, however, if we study the organisation of time in
Durkheimian terms, its objective and constraining facticity and the
organisational power or interactional sanctions attached to conformity
or deviations from that time, then time devolves on individuals from
the societal and cultural levels. The state telIs individuals when they
can vote, marry, enter contracts, possess civil rights, or qualify for
social security. Self-time, in this paradigm, is like an experiential,
imperfectly transparent amniotic sac within which we live and
through which we experience the myriad of objective- and con-
straining-times structuring our experience.
As a central structural feature of human life, the stratification of
social-time works as a mechanism making the experience of self-
control and social control plausible as a single reality. The objectivity
of human life derives in part from its locations in the stratification of
social-times, within which the self acts now as a free individual, now
as a folIower of timetables of the state, now as moving through the
career scheduling of an institution. The objective predictability of
individual action is ensured by the objective social-times structuring
everyone's life. Properly meeting the expectations of timing stratified
94 Social-time: Structures and Meanings

into a society warrants a person's moral character and displays his or

her normalcy. To fail to time one's life according to the stratification
of social-times elicits labels of laziness, shiftlessness, untrustworthi-
ness, and clearly inferior selfhood - constant puritan reactions to
those who do not time their lives according to that of modern
bureaucratic society. Such negative responses have cause in spite of
faulty interpretation: it is not only that time is wasted, a form of one
of the Seven Deadly Sins (Lyman, 1970); but also that the absence of
a common stratification of social-time makes it impossible to plan - a
key modern organisational and psychological feature.
As the third structural feature of human life, synchronicity is a
derivative of temporal embeddedness and stratification and works as
a mechanism for making the rationality of human action and planning
plausible. Rationality involves the ordering of actions and expecta-
tions as means for the achievement of future goals. Such ordering is
an intersubjective emergent: rationality is essentially a public reality
by which a number of individuals make the same sense of the future.
Synchronising one's life is a public achievement which merges the
unbridgeable individuality of personal existence constituted out of
embedded time with the irreducible collectiveness of social order
constituted by stratified social-times. The synchronicity of an entire
society continually recreated by the billions of multifarious actions of
millions of citizens makes plausible the rationality of that social
order. Breakdowns, strikes, terrorist attacks, earthquakes and other
societally un synchronised events challenge the public rationality.
The formal organisations of modern society are marvels of syn-
chronicity, captured in the split millisecond timing of a moon landing
or the carefully calculated pace of an assembly line. These are also
the most rational of institutions - as long as they remain sychronised!
The complexity of modern society is directly related to the increased
synchronisation of stratified and embedded times. Thus do personal
lives take on the rationality of their historical period by synchronising
themselves with their structured environment (Harre, 1978). In this
way, the objective and constraining structure of stratified-times
becomes the subjective and meaningful embeddedness of self-times,
and persons live synchronously, and thus plausibly, with their
historical times. The external structure of social-times become the
taken-for-granted normal form of each person's existential-time (cf.
Cicourel, 1974). They feel at home.
When our typology of social-times is theoretically integrated
with the concepts of temporal embeddedness, stratification, and
 J. David Lewis and Andrew J. Weigart 95

synchronicity, we have some of the necessary building blocks for a

formal theory of social-time. To illustrate this potential, we extract
and relate key propositions and corollaries which are implicit in our
discussion thus far. Given its preliminary quality, it is offered as an
outline to be refined by future theoretical and empirical work.

Proposition 1

The greater the number of temporally embedded events between two

points in physical-time, the shorter is the perceived temporal distance
between the points [see Figure 6.1].

T1-------I-------I-------T2
(Temporal distance between T1 and T2 appears relatively long)

TL _ _ I ---I ---I ---I ---I --- T2

(Temporal distance between T1 and T2 appears relatively short)

Where II = two temporally embedded acts and T1 and T2 = two points in

physical- or clock-time.

Figure 6.1 Temporally embedded events and perceived temporal distance

Corollary:

1.1 Increasing the social integration of an individual by adding

more social roles causes him her to perceive an increase in the pace of
social-time, thus reducing perceived temporal distance between
points of physical-time.
1.2 Because older persons have longer temporal 'horizons' or
memories a year appears as a temporally shorter distance to someone
80 years old than to someone 8 years old.
Among a group of interactors, as the number of embedded events
within the space of a given span of physical-time increases, the
interdependence among the actors increases. For instance, people
have to be available for interactions at precise and predictable points
in time (appointment schedules, etc.) in order for the expanded set of
embedded acts to be completed within a fixed cycle of clock-time.
This coordination of embedded interaction times is possible only if
there is an increase in the temporal synchronicity of the various
96 Social-time: Structures and Meanings

social-times involved. Therefore, analysis of the social consequences

of temporal embeddedness leads directly to the matter of synchronicity.
As Durkheim observed, the most fundamental process of social
change has been the transformation from mechanical to organic
solidarity. The functional interdependence of diverse social roles
which characterises the organic mode of solidarity is most pro-
nounced in contemporary industrial societies. Concurrent with the
changes in the social organisation of other institutional spheres there
has been a sweeping reorganisation of social-time (self, interactional,
institutional-organisational). Generally, these changes may be de-
scribed as a quantum leap in the temporal synchronisation within and
among the elements of every level of social structure. The concept of
synchronisation refers to the process of fitting together different time-
tables so that highly complex and intricately embedded sequences of
social action unfold on schedule according to all of the relevant
social-times involved in the process.
It is possible to trace the social consequences of this ever-growing
synchronicity not only for the organisation of society at large but also
for the consciousness of its individual members. These consequences
are displayed by the following set of interrelated propositions and
corollaries:

Proposition 2a

The greater the interdependence of actors, the greater the necessity for
temporal synchronisation.

Proposition 2b

The degree of difficulty in temporal synchronisation is a positive

exponential function of the number of timetables involved.

Corollaries:

2.1 As synchronisation pressures increase in a social system, the

norms of interaction-time and organisational-time increase in number
and specificity. This has feedback effects which further increase
synchronisation pressure.
2.2 Synchronisation in one subunit of an organisation creates
synchronisation pressure in related units.
2.3 As synchronisation advances, smaller and smaller units of
physical time become socially meaningful.
 J. David Lewis and Andrew J. Weigart 97

2.4 As smaller durations of physical time become socially mean-

ingful, the perceived 'scarcity' of physical-time increases (Iutcovich
etal., 1979).
2.5 As perceived scarcity of physical-time increases, perceived
control of events in one's life decreases. This sensed loss of control
eventually leads to anxiety, depression, feelings of role incompetence,
and similar psychological symptoms of temporal panic (Bull, 1978;
Cottle, 1976; Lyman and Scott, 1970; Q'Rand and Ellis, 1974).
If, as we have suggested above, the continuing demand for
temporal synchronicity in modern societies leads to an increase in the
perceived scarcity of time, one should be able to apply the same
principles of social stratification to social-time as have been applied to
other scarce resources. As the scarcity of a resource increases, its
value increases, thus intensifying competition to acquire it. This
competition for time assures that, given the basically fixed quantity of
clock-time available, any reallocation of clock-time for one social-
time (self-time, interaction-time, organisational-time) necessarily
requires, as argued ... [above], adjustments of clock-time allotted
among other social-times. The competition among social-times is,
therefore, a nearly zero-sum game. Because of this increased demand
on clock-time and its limited supply, the only solution to the issue has
been the development of a stratification of social-times. The relations
of temporal stratification to temporal embeddedness and synchron-
icity, along with some of their social consequences, are given in the
following propositions and corollaries:

Proposition 3

Social-times are stratified in the following hierarchy (from highest

priority to lowest): cyclic-time, institutional-organisational-time,
interaction-time, self-time.

Corollaries:

3.1 Time scarcity is generally passed down the hierarchy of social-

times. (For example, perceived scarcity within organisational-time is
resolved by methods which increase the scarcity of interaction-time
(e.g., working overtime) which, by the same process, creates tem-
poral pressures leading to greater scarcity of self-time.)
3.2 The most effective way to create more self-time is by flight
and escape, not by planning (Cohen and Taylor, 1978).
98 Social-time: Structures and Meanings

3.3 The greater the impersonalisation of occupational roles, the

less self-time is available in the work setting and the more rigid are
the cycles which define the temporal structure of the occupation
(Zerubavel, 1979b).
3.4 (In conjunction with Propositions 2a, 2b, and their corollar-
ies.) In a social system, as the extent of temporal embeddedness and
its attendant disruptions of temporal sychronicity increase, the
stratification of social-times become more formalised and rigid
(Iutcovich et al., 1979).
3.5 Like other social stratified systems, the stratification of social-
times is supported by an ideology and by sanctions.

In the following section, we suggest possible fieldwork strategies

for empirically testing our propositions and corollaries regarding the
theoretical relations among temporal embeddedness, synchronicity,
and stratification. This discussion indicates the empirical import of
our model, and, consequently, areas where concrete research may
contribute to further theoretical refinements of our typology and
propositions/corollaries.

RESEARCH IMPLICA nONS OF THE THEORY

If, as our theory asserts, social-times are embedded within each other
in the ordinary course of everyday life, the ideal research sites for the
study of social-times are those social settings in which each of the
types of social-time is maximally distinct and observable in its
operations. Formal organisations (e.g., schools, hospitals, military
installations, etc.) offer such sites. It is not that organisational-time
constraints do not enter into social interactions in more informal
settings such as weekend gatherings among friends. They certainly
do. But the methodological problems of studying the relations among
social-times are far more complex in these informal settings, because
different individuals have different configurations of organisational
time-shaping interaction-time activities. In contrast, a single organ-
isational time structure dominates interactions in formal organisa-
tions and its features are relatively visible to the researcher. Until
theory and research in the sociology of time advance beyond their
presently modest level, we should concentrate research efforts on the
simplest cases first. Zerubavel's (1979b) study of the temporal
organisation of hospital life illustrates this advantage.
 1. David Lewis and Andrew 1. Weigart 99

A se<;ond consideration in the selection of research sites for the

empirical investigation of our propositions/corollaries would be the
degree of recent disruptions of temporal synchronicity in the organ-
isation of social-times during periods of temporal strain or adjust-
ment among different types of social-time. By studying organisations
undergoing significant changes in their temporal organisation, we can
better explore the processes by which embeddedness, synchronicity,
and stratification break down and are reconstituted.
Let us illustrate one such possible research setting in which
elements of our theory could be tested effectively. A researcher could
study an industrial manufacturing firm for a period of time before and
after it has reorganised its factory. This would occur, for instance, if
the company were diversifying its product line or revamping its
production technology. New work schedules would emerge, new
status-roles would be added, others would be redefined, and the
older patterns of social-time would no longer synchronise within the
new organisation of the factory. A before-after research design
would assist in the identification of those structures of social-time (of
all types) of the older organisation which conflict with those arising
from the changes instituted in the organisation. Regarding the
measurement instruments of the study, some combination of survey
questionnaires, structured interviews, and direct observation could
be employed.
Shifting attention to the possible concrete tests of our propositions
and corollaries in such a research setting and design, several testable
hypotheses may be deduced. From proposition 1 and Corollary 1.1
we would hypothesise that employees whose jobs have expanded as a
result of the reorganisation of the factory (i.e., they have more
official duties, must interact with a larger number of individuals in a
given span of clock-time, etc.) will perceive a shorter distance
between points of clock-time than they did prior to the changes. The
latter could be measured by a Likert scale composed of such items as:
'When I look at my watch, it is often later than I would have
expected.' We would also hypothesise similar differences between
managers and assembly-line workers.
From Proposition 2b, we hypothesise that, for those subunits of the
factory which are directly interdependent with a larger number of
other subunits, there will be a greater number of modifications of
organisational timetables extending over a longer period of calendar-
time, and this increase will be exponential rather than linear. The
researcher would have to engage in on-site fieldwork to determine
100 Social-time: Structures and Meanings

the informal interdependencies that exist in addition to those officially

recognised in bureaucratic hierarchies and rules. The number of
modifications of official schedules and the total duration of timetable
instability are more easily observable and quantifiable.
As synchronisation pressures increase in the organisation, the
corollaries of Proposition 2a and 2b should become applicable. We
know that synchronisation pressure is increasing on a timetable when
it must be coordinated with a growing number of other timetables,
and, from Proposition 2b, we hypothesise that the degrees of
freedom available for scheduling events which require the coordina-
tion of multiple timetables shrink drastically as more and more
timetables must be taken into account. Corollary 2.1 predicts that
one way in which the organisation adjusts to this pressure is by
tightening the norms regulating social-times. For example, the allow-
able coffee breaks or other time-outs may become fewer in number,
shorter in duration, or subject to stricter sheduling. From Corollary
2.2, we would predict that even the lower levels of the organisation
(secretaries, plant workers, foremen, etc.) indirectly receive syn-
chronisation pressures as pressures grow at the upper levels. Corol-
lary 2.3 can be checked by comparing individuals' daily appointment
schedules before and after the organisational changes. Finally, the
psychological correlates described in Corollaries 2.4 and 2.5 could be
investigated by interviews or survey questionnaires.
From Proposition 3 and its corollaries, we hypothesise that these
disruptions of organisational-time have derivative effects on
interaction-time (both inside and outside of the organisation) as well
as on the self-time of members of the organisation. According to
Corollary 3.1, we would expect definite changes in the form and
substance of communications in the organisation. As perceived
scarcity of organisational time increases (measured by survey ques-
tions such as 'It seems 1 hardly have enough time to get my work done
every day' or 'I seem to accomplish fewer of my daily work goals than
1 used to do'), individuals will engage in less interaction-time
activities while still on the job. The trend will be toward short,
organisationally instrumental conversations. This variable can be
measured by timing the length of telephone calls within the firm and
by doing a content analysis of conversations and inter-office memos.
Many other effects, ranging from more working lunches to less after-
work drinking and socialising, can be expected as a result of the
intensification of temporal stratification. At some point, absenteeism
will increase as a result of stress-induced illness (Corollary 2.5) or the
 1. David Lewis and Andrew 1. Weigart 101

demands of self-time for escape (Corollary 3.2). Last, but certainly

not least, there will be an increased scarcity of outside-time, leading
to strain within members' families and alteration of friendship
networks.
From this suggestion of a possible strategy for empirically testing
propositions derived from our theory, it is evident that, because the
theory incorporates multiple levels of social structure, it is pregnant
with potential empirical interpretations. Moreover, these interpreta-
tions are open to investigation through survey research, interviewing,
content analysis, participant observation and other standard socio-
logical methodologies. Although we have not developed a completed
research design, further refinements of this preliminary design should
yield fruitful research opportunities.

CONCLUSIONS

As the complexity of industrial societies grows through increasing

rationalisation of institutions, the temporal embeddedness of events
in organisational-, interactional-, and personal-time structures be-
comes more complex. Consequently, the synchronisation of acts and
actors within organisational timetables and individual biographies
becomes far more problematic, and often can be resolved only by
robbing clock-time from some other form of social-time. As a result,
the stratification of social-times becomes more pronounced, leading
to social-time conflict with ramifications throughout the whole struc-
ture of society, profoundly affecting the quality of life of its members.
Hence, it is no accident that the development of a typology of social-
times and the specification of research implications of our theory
reach into a wide range of specialities within sociology - a final
reminder of the critical importance of social-time to sociology and to
society.
 Part III
Capitalism
7 The Making of a Capitalist
Time Consciousness
Nigel Thrift

(From 'Owners' Time and Own Time: The Making of a Capitalist

Time Consciousness, 1300-1880', Australian National University,
1980.)

it is a myth that industrial man was made by the machine; from its
first origins industrialism is the application of calculative rationality
to the productive order (Giddens, 1973).

INTRODUCTION

The history of capitalism in England can be written as the collapse of

a society based upon two dimensions, a system of instrumental action
of work and the economy and a system of symbolic interaction of
communication and culture, into a one-dimensional society. In this
process the cultural is gradually incorporated into the economic as a
formal rationality (based upon quantification and calculation) which
comes to figure in all human individual or group projects and pushes
practical rationality to one side. Slowly but surely English society
becomes the domain of technique with the result that dissent be-
comes 'sterile instead of productive or humane' and the life of
understanding is increasingly constrained 'to fragments of reciprocal
irony or isolation' (Steiner, 1978, p. xi). The capitalist order takes the
form of a 'new hegemony' based upon routinised, reciprocally con-
firming, calculative practices and projects grounded in a functional,
spatial and temporal differentiation of production and consumption,
thus increasing the division not only of labour but also of space and
time.
This ... [study] concentrates on just one element in this process
of disenchantment and re-enchantment of the English habitus, the
change in consciousness of time over the period from the fourteenth
century to 1880, a period that sees the demise of feudalism and the
rise of industrial capitalism. Over this period it is possible to chart the
gradual diffusion of a new type of time, based upon calculative

105
106 A Capitalist Time Consciousness

rationality, from a point where it has melted into the interstices of

practical consciousness and become just another part of the ordinary,
taken-for-granted world of lived existence implied by the concepts of
habitus and hegemony.
The ... [study] is planned as follows. In the next section the first
stirrings of the new type of time consciousness in the mediaeval
period are noted. Then I trace the increasing diffusion of this new
type of time consciousness as everyday economic calculation in the
period from 1550 to 1750, a period in which the foundations are laid
for the gradual triumph of the new time consciousness under the
harsh rule of industrial capitalism in the nineteenth century, the
subject of a separate section. Then one episode in the diffusion of the
new time consciousness is described so as to show the regional
specificity and uneven development of this process. Finally, some
brief conclusions are provided. The ... [study] can be no more than a
sketch for a much larger and more detailed project but, hopefully, it
presents at least an outline of the key changes in the external-internal
dialectic (Pred, 1981b) of the new mode of social-time.

FIRST PERIOD: ISLANDS OF TIMEKEEPING IN A SEA OF

TIMELESSNESS, 1330-1550

the [bishop Hugh Oldham] was very temperat yn all his doings and
for his dyet as it was accordinge to his estate so was he therein verie
precyse to kepe his prefixed and accustomed houres namely at XI
of the clocke for his dinner and at V of the clocke for his supper
and for this purpose he kept a clocke in his howse and appoynted
one specyal man to kepe the same: but many tymes by reason of his
business he would breake his houre and then must clocke keper
frame his clocke accordingly for how so ever the days went the
clocke must stryke XI or five accordinge as my lorde was to dyne or
supp: whereupon many times some of the household would ask the
clocke keper what tyme of the daye it was he would answear as it
pleaseth my lord and when he was ready to go to dinner or supper:
The bishop understanding herof would of many of purpose aske his
saide man what was the clock and he would answer him as pleaseth
your lord for if you be redy to go to dinner the clock will be XI
whereat the bishop would smyle and go his waye (from The
Commonplace Book of John Vowell, unpublished).
 Nigel Thrift 107

Until the fifteenth century sundials were probably the chief formal
device used for telling the time in England, often located on church
walls. But beginning in the fourteenth century, church clocks and
public clocks began to be erected in most cities and large market
towns and it seems that by the seventeenth century most English
parishes possessed a church clock albeit, because of their inaccuracy,
set by sundial (ct. Thompson, 1967). It is, however, debatable
whether these clocks had any great effect on the majority of the
populace (cf. Ie Roy Ladurie, 1978). For the peasant the daily round
was still predominantly task-oriented and accordingly flexible,
although into this flexibility would have been woven a number of fixed
points in time based on events like meals and liturgical hours signified
by visual, aural and physiological references as well as simple and
perennial devices like the position of the sun itself or the stick stuck
into the ground to act as a primitive sundial (cf. Thrift, 1977b).
In the mediaeval period the week was, in all probability, not a
common unit of time amongst the peasants. In such circles the term
was rarely used, nor were references to the lunar calendar or names
and days of the week. The rhythm of the year was the twelve months
and four seasons intermixed and sometimes isomorphic with the
more formal church calendar and a ritual calendar. A 'calendar' of
this kind was meant for use. It was not a formal, written-down affair.
Rather it was an assemblage of different but inter-related practices
and traditions, a store of practical knowledge (ct. Bourdieu, 1977;
Parkes and Thrift, 1980). Thus it was a religious calendar, a secular
calendar (referring to annual fairs, days for paying rent, etc.) and a
quite accurate agricultural almanac, complete with lucky and unlucky
days. The peasant knew that 'lambs conceived at Michaelmas would
be born before Candlemass; that the ploughing should be over by
Andrewmass; that ewes could go to tup at Luke; that servants were
hired at Martinmas and that hay fields should not be grazed for more
than a fortnight after Lady Day' (Thomas, 1971, p.738). Such a
calendar was a self-evident organising principle and one of the chief
integrating forces of rural communities.
The organisation of the day, week and year in rural areas in
mediaeval times was therefore rhythmic rather than measured. From
the anthropological literature it is possible to reconstruct this kind of
time experience. Since temporal reference points would have been
'islands of time', self-enclosed units rather than segments of a
continuous line, it might be expected that there would be an uneven
108 A Capitalist Time Consciousness

quality to time. Punctuality would be almost unknown and would be

dependent on referencing of events. Perception of the past and future
would be truncated or blurred. There would be a general use in
speech of the present indicative tense. History would be almost
unknown, especially further back in time, with the notable exception
of 'a few scraps of eschatology derived from Christianity and other
beliefs' (Ie Roy Ladurie, 1978, p. 281). It is a piece of academic folk-
wisdom that is often elevated to the status of fact that there is nothing
more foreign to such pre-capitalist communities than the representa-
tion of the future 'as a field of possibles to be explained and mastered
by calculations'. But it is more accurate to say that only one future
would have been envisaged and that would have been the model of
society that already pertained. It is not, therefore, that no future
would have been imagined, only that the future would have been
imagined to be in the same form as the past. The goal of the daily
project was simple reproduction. The difference is the same as that
between hoarding and accumulation for profit (Bourdieu, 1963 [see
Chapter 14 in this volume], 1979).
If the future is not postulated as a field of infinite possibilities it is
because the order founded and defended by tradition is viable only
when it is seen, not as the best possible, but as the only possibility,
that is to say, only by the elimination of the whole range of
collateral possibilities which challenge the inexorability of its
dictates. It is essential to the survival of traditionalism that it
should not recognize its own exclusion of unknown alternatives
(Bourdieu 1963, p. 70).
But there were islands of more exact timekeeping even in the
mediaeval period. These were the monasteries and the towns. The
monasteries had particular need for exact timekeeping with daily
prayers and observances, although their exactitude would have
varied by religious order (cf. Foucault, 1977; Mumford, 1934).
In the towns of the period the evidence also points to the fact that
time sense was more exact. It was in the towns that bells and church
clocks were first introduced. It was in the towns that they were
needed. 'In cities and towns', as one fifteenth century writer put it
'men rule them by the clock' (Thomas, 1971, p. 744). The coordina-
tion of projects associated with trade required more exact timekeep-
ing. Various occupations needed more exact timekeeping in certain
operations (for instance, metal working). Sand glasses were widely
used in timing these operations. The need for calculation in mercantile
 Nigel Thrift 109

transactions was becoming paramount. Writing became more im-

portant and with it the use of more exact dates (d. Clanchy, 1970,
1979). Each and every unit of time was therefore not only more
widely used but was also used with more exactitude; this is certain in
the case of the week, for instance (Glasser, 1972). It is also certain
that the needs of a new, more formal calculation based on money and
credit would have invested many inhabitants of the towns with a
longer future time horizon (cf. Bourdieu, 1979). However, time
experience of the town still had a rhythmic quality to it owing to a
calendar that was an amalgam of the agricultural year, the ritual
calendar, the church calendar and specific civic and guild observances
(Phythian-Adams, 1972). The result was that the year was marked in
a rather different way from that of Homans's (1941) open field
husbandman, but it was still marked.
In the mediaeval town, therefore, the 'time of the merchant' was
already beginning to triumph over the 'time of the church' (d. Ie
Goff, 1960, 1963, 1977). But it was a slow process. In Coventry from
1450 to 1550, for instance, a kind of truce between the two types of
time had been called with half the year given over to religious
observances and the other half to civic duties and ceremonies
(Phythian-Adams, 1972).

SECOND PERIOD: THE TRIUMPH OF LENT, 1550-1750

Shalstone
Saturday, September ye 23d 1738
Master Parker
This is the third day you have been from my worke, tho you
promised faithfully you would never leave it till you had finished it;
if you don't come on Monday next I will set somebody else to
worke upon it. I think you are avery unworthy man to neglect it so
this fine weather I am
Your friend to serve you
Henry Purefoy
Use all possible diligence in your calling ... Every business will
afford some employment sufficient for every day and every hour.
John Wesley, Sermon L. [From Briggs, 1969]
Until the 1650s there was only a scattering of household clocks in
England. Clocks occur in only eight out of 266 Devon and Cornwall
110 A Capitalist Time Consciousness

household inventories made in the period 1531 and 1699, for instance
(Ponsford, 1978). Most people still relied upon public clocks and
bells, increasingly rung at fixed times. In Exeter in 1562, for example,
the mayor ordered that, as in London so in Exeter, 'a bell should be
rung every morning and evening in the parish of St Mary Major, for a
whole quarter of an hour from 4 o'clock in the morning from Whit
Sunday until September and at all other times at 5 o'clock in the
morning, and every evening at 9 o'clock' (Ponsford, 1978, pp. 45-6).
This state of affairs meant that in the mid-sixteenth century time-
keeping could still be a hazardous affair, especially in the rural areas
where many were still out of earshot of bells and not in sight of
clocks. Amongst the Kent and Surrey gentry, for instance, 'the
general absence of chronometers together with bad roads and in-
clement weather hardly encouraged punctual, well-attended or con-
certed meetings' (Clark, 1977, p. 119). But, starting in 1658, house-
hold clocks began to spread widely in England (ct. Thompson, 1967;
Cipolla, 1967; Ward, 1966). Grandfather clocks also started to diffuse
after the 1660s. Pocket watches, however, were still rare until 1674
when improvements to the escapement and the spiral balance-spring
gave accuracy a premium over simple show. By 1680 the English
clock and watch-making industry had become the most important in
Europe, reaching its peak in 1796. By 1750, therefore, clocks and
watches were widespread in England especially in the larger towns.
For instance, in 1718 the Frenchman Mission observed 'there are now
a great many Clocks in London, so that you have little advantage by
them in your houses; but the Art is so common here, and so much in
vogue, that almost every Body has a watch, and but few private
Families are without a Pendulum' (quoted in Briggs, 1969, p.43,
emphasis in original). But the cost of clocks and watches almost
certainly assumed that ownership of this new time was restricted to
'the gentry, the masters, the farmers and the tradesmen' (Thomp-
son, 1967, p. 67).
It is certain that widespread changes in the consciousness of time
did therefore take place in the period from 1550 to 1750 that laid the
foundations for capitalist-time. The Reformation was the first blow to
pre-capitalist-time in this period. The secular made more and more
inroads into the sacred, particularly with the dissolution of the
monasteries. Those church calendar ceremonies that survived (apart
from the major holidays like Christmas and Easter) were usually able
to be justified on simple functional grounds (for instance, coinciding
with annual fairs) or because of their agricultural significance.
 Nigel Thrift 111

Amongst the upper and middle classes the spread of petty and public
grammar schools in more rural areas with their associated timetables
also began to have effects on time consciousness. But, even here,
'absenteeism was probably common, stemming not only from the
problem of the poor pupil and the demands of the agricultural year,
but also from a traditional concept of time which had bare respect for
the chronometer and was grounded in task orientation' (Clark, 1977,
p.195).
The Puritans changed much of this. They urged a regular routine of
six days' work followed by rest on the Sabbath. By the end of 1600
their ideas were probably generally accepted in theory although not
necessarily adhered to in practice (d. Thomas, 1971). Obviously the
gradual change in working habits brought about by these ideas was an
important step towards the social acceptance of the modern notion of
time as even in quality. More important still, however, was the
increasing cash economy and the need for precise calculation. By the
mid-seventeenth century many farmers 'calculated their expectations
of the employed ... in dayworkes' (Thompson, 1967, p.61). Still
more difficult calculations were also performed. As Thompson puts
it:
this measurement embodies a simple relationship. Those who are
employed experience a distinction between their employer's time
and their 'own' time. And the employer must use the time of his
labour and see it is not wasted: not the task but the value of the
time is dominant. Time is now currency: it is not passed but spent
(Thompson, 1967, p. 21, emphasis in original).
For many workers, therefore, the day was gradually being more
and more noticeably split up into owners' time, the time of work, and
their own time. A time (in theory) for leisure. The day would be the
subject of increasing alienation.
The combined economic and 'moral' Puritan theme of calculation
of time as money and the zealous husbandry of time was eventually
taken up in the eighteenth century by the Methodists and Evangel-
ists. But the spread of change brought about in time consciousness by
these influences should not be overstressed. For instance, after the
Restoration there was a resurgence in the strength of traditional
convictions in English society, supported by many of the gentry
(Min gay , 1976). Indeed, since England in the seventeenth century
was still a predominantly agrarian society, the Puritans were to some
degree ahead of their times. The Puritan outlook was essentially
112 A Capitalist Time Consciousness

urban in character. But it was the seasonal cycle that still shaped most
Englishmen's worlds and would do so well into the eighteenth
century. That self-justifying epistemology built on oft-repeated prac-
tice guaranteed a continuing place for festive intervals, usually built
on technical functions like parish feasts, livestock fairs and hiring
fairs as well as the usual holidays (d. Malcolmson, 1973; Thomas,
1971; Redlich, 1965). Even the work patterns of the towns and the
new industries were, to some extent, still captives of lack of economic
calculation amongst the workers. Thus workers left work when they
had earned enough money for the week. There was also still a
seasonal pattern of demand from the countryside (Briggs, 1969;
Stedman Jones, 1971). Popular resistance in England in 1751 to the
changeover to a Gregorian calendar with the rallying cry 'Give us
back our eleven days' underlines the continuing taken-for-
grantedness of this taken-for-granted world (d. Thrift, 1977b).
But the preconditions for capitalist-time had been laid by 1750 not
only in the minds of those now in the process of forming a capitalist
class but also in the minds of the workers. Inroads into traditional
time consciousness would now be swift. Somewhere between 1800
and 1850 a point would be reached where clocks and watches existed
amongst all classes (Thompson, 1967). It is hardly a coincidence that
this diffusion should occur at the exact moment when the develop-
ments of the industrial revolution would demand a greater synchron-
isation of labour.

THIRD PERIOD: THE IMPRISONING, 1750-1880

Disembedded from human experience, its transcendent elements

suppressed, time was now perceived as an objective force within
which people were imprisoned (Hearn, 1978).

For the English upper classes consciousness of the new time had
come early. Old customs based on temporal inexactitude, for in-
stance the system of lighting a taper in the window when callers are
welcome and keeping a permanently laid table in case of callers, gave
way to the most rigid social timetabling and a fixed social calendar of
an almost Byzantine social complexity. Clock-time was fetishised.
Meal-times, work-times, dressing-times, visiting-times; all activities
were made temporally exact and exacting since breaches of timekeep-
ing 'were treated as much a moral lapse as a breach of good taste'
 Nigel Thrift 113

(Davidoff, 1973, p. 35). Gongs and house bells were first introduced
into the upper class household in the early nineteenth century.
Dressing for dinner had become common by the 1860s. In the matter
of calls, the leaving of cards was used as the basis for a new, complex
and precisely defined system of social interaction with very exact
response-times. In the early part of the nineteenth century such social
timetables were relatively simple. For instance, 'the official timetable
for visiting was 3 p.m. to 4 p.m. for ceremonial calls, 4 p.m. to 5 p.m.
for semi-ceremonial calls and 5 p.m. to 6 p.m. for closer friends and
family. Sunday was traditionally a day for closer friends and family'
(Davidoff, 1973, p.43). By the latter part of the century these
timetables had become far more elaborate.
By contrast to this opulent and mannered lifestyle the agricultural
worker's lot remained much as it always had been, or got worse.
Weekly wage labour became more and more common and task-
oriented piece-work less and less common. Complaints against time
wasted at seasonal fairs, market days, and the annual parish feasts or
'wakes' became a concerted attack on the farm worker's free time
and certainly resulted in a drastic curtailment of wakes [Table 7.1].
This diminution was not unconnected with the fact that, at the
beginning of the period, most workshops were outside municipal
limits and existed in what were rural areas where the old rhythmic
time consciousness still persisted. Thomas Hardy, in The Mayor of
Casterbridge (1886, p.324), lets a farm labourer explain that the

Table 7.1 The curtailment of wakes in the Northampton area

Period of time 1724 mid-1840s

January to early May 1 1

Around Whit and Trinity Sundays 4 15
Late June to early July 38 31
Second half of July 20 6
Early August 1 6
Around 15 August 14 5
Late August/First half of September 22 o
Second half of September 16
Around Michaelmas 31
October 18 20
Around All Saints' Day 33 7
Rest of November and December 23 11
205 118
114 A Capitalist Time Consciousness

death of Henchard took place 'about half-an-hour ago, but the sun;
for I've got no watch to my name'.
But it was in the industrial sphere with the rapid growth of an
industrial workforce that time consciousness now decisively changed.
In the cities enclosure did not, as in the country, take place just in
space but also in time.
In the cities time became the nexus of class struggle, being invested
now with not just a use value but an exchange value (cf. Marx, 1976).
With the recasting of the worker's time sense assured by a new labour
process relying on the all-pervasive clock, time became a formal,
measurable quantity able to become a commodity. The increasing
division of labour and associated deskilling allowed labour power to
become a commodity measurable in units of clock-time. But not only
the sphere of instrumental action was affected. Gradually clock-time
would become the reference point and a gradual separation of work-
time from personal-time would take place (cf. Pred, 1981a) in which,
paradoxically, work-time and 'leisure' -time would gradually become
more alike.
The period of 'manufacture' expanded the social productivity of
labour by the multiplication of detailed functions, subordinating large
areas of the country and many branches of production to the urban
capitalist. The subsumption of labour to capital remained, however,
external and formal. Production was only modified by subdivision of
tasks; the labour process stood much as it had in the pre-capitalist
period. With the advent of production based on machinery comes the
period of 'modern industry', real subsumption of labour and the
factory system. Whilst the introduction of machinery into production
took place in England from the last third of the eighteenth century,
the period from that time until 1880 can now be seen to be a period of
gradual adjustment to modern industry, with manufacture and modern
industry coexisting side by side and the latter only very gradually and
unevenly subsuming the former according to branch of production
and region (cf. Samual, 1977; Gregory, 1978, 1980). Modern industry
required the transformation, both technical and organisational, of the
productive process with big cities as the main source of labour power.
But, above all, modern industry required worker discipline if machine
and man were to be integrated. This requirement, in turn, demanded
that the worker to be trained to take for granted a new time structure
suited to this reorganisation.
The villager, the farmer and the outworker, none of these needed
to confront the problem of compartmentalised and artificially regulated
 Nigel Thrift 115

time. 'The task and not the timepiece still regulated productive
activity' (Thompso!l, 1967, p. 73). But, as human activity was geared
to the machine synchronisation or 'entrainment' to the productive
process was required. This process of retiming man's consciousness
took place in two dimensions, that of instrumental action and that of
symbolic interaction.
In the sphere of instrumental action the main need was for
discipline.
What was needed was regularity and steady intensity in place of
irregular spurts of work; accuracy and standardisation in place of
individual design; and care of equipment and material in place of
pride in one's tools (Pollard, 1964, p. 213).
The old habit of leaving off work when enough money had been
earned for the week had to be eradicated now that machinery was
involved. Three basic methods of time discipline were used -
deterrents, wage incentives and the formulation of a new work ethos
(d. Pollard, 1964; Thompson, 1963, 1967). Outright use of deterrents
like dismissal, fines, and punishments were more usual at the
beginning of the third period. At this time a number of innovations
intended to promote 'time-thrift' amongst the workers were intro-
duced. At the scale of the day bad timekeeping was punished by
devices such as severe fines. Often the gates of the factory were
locked exactly at the start of the work-day. By the mid-nineteenth
century, however, wage incentives had become more common.
The formulation of a new work ethos was no more subtle. Apart
from the moral blandishments of numerous Victorian clerics and the
Samuel Smiles and Hannah More [figures] (Thompson, 1967), the
main thrust was aimed at everywhere imposing the new temporality
on people's consciousness. Clocks stared from walls, the factory
hooter and the knocker-up cajoled and reminded. 'Timetables' (a
word peculiar to the nineteenth century) and lists of rules were
prominent in all factories (and, in the last quarter of the nineteenth
century, in the new offices).
But the more subtle conditioning took place in the sphere of
communicative interaction, in particular in the areas of education and
leisure. In education many of the new working class elementary
schools and Sunday schools were quite explicitly 'abstract machines'
(d. Pred 1981a) aimed, amongst other things, at inculcating the habit
of time discipline into children. In these schools 'the division of time
became increasingly minute; activities were governed in detail by
116 A Capitalist Time Consciousness

orders that had to be obeyed immediately' (Foucault, 1977, p. 150).

Just as in factories there were fines (and other corporal deterrents),
there were even monetary incentives (note McCann, 1977; Jones and
Williamson, 1979):
the drive for popular education at the end of the eighteenth and
the beginning of the nineteenth centuries also gained some impetus
from hopes that the elementary school could be used to break the
labouring classes into those habits of work discipline now necessary
for factory production. Sunday schools were commended for pro-
viding a spectacle of order and regularity: and for making workers
both more 'tractable and obedient' and more punctual in their
attendance. Putting little children to work at school for very long
hours at very dull subjects was seen as a positive virtue, for it made
them 'habituated, not to say naturalized, to labour and fatigue'.
One effect on education of industrial capitalism was therefore to
add support for the penal and disciplinary aspects of a school,
which were seen by some largely as a system to break the will and
to condition the child to routinised labour in the factory. Only later
did it become apparent that an industrial society also needed the
mass distribution of a wide range of intellectual skills which could
only be acquired through education (Stone, 1969, p. 92).
In the area of leisure the problem of time discipline was part of the
more general problem of how to keep order and discipline. Leisure-
time had to be put to use and related in some way to work, otherwise
it might become dangerous distraction. Of course, at first, the very
length of the working-day acted as a decisive authority constraint on
recreation. But as a general decrease in working hours took place
during the course of the nineteenth century considerable numbers of
hours were opened up for recreational activities. But, at the end of
the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth century a legal and
moral assault of great ferocity had been made on popular (and
boisterous) recreations limiting them in time and space, an assault
only aided by the new built environment which had, for instance, few
playing fields or other facilities at this time (e.g., Malcolmson, 1973).
Thus, when time for recreation again became available, the almost
empty stage enabled the rise of such organised and commercialised
recreations as railway outings (first introduced during or even
before 1844), new spectator variants of old sports (such as cricket or
football), as well as activities like Bible study groups. The new recre-
ations were based on paying consumption rather than participating
 Nigel Thrift 117

production and could be more easily confined to particular locations

and precise time slots (cf. Meller, 1976).
This truncation of traditional working class recreational habits was
combined with a gradual undermining of the traditional working
calendar and working week with the intent of making them, like the
day, more regular. The richer fabric of the traditional holiday
calendar with its associated wakes and pleasure fairs, was gradually
worn away and replaced with a piece of shoddy. The working week
was also made more regular. 'Saint Monday' was one casualty -(cf.
Thompson, 1967; Reid, 1976). Monday had been a customary
holiday for workers in small scale domestic and outwork industries
and in the pits. It was also common in some of the new manufacturing
industries. The day, which was often portrayed by contemporary
writers simply as a day of drinking and gambling, had, by the mid-
century, become a rather more staid affair as the old recreations gave
way to new recreational pursuits, like cheap railway excursions,
cricket, and so on. But a complete weekday off was obviously
inconvenient to capitalists and the available evidence suggests that
the institution of a Saturday half-holiday was used as a bargaining
counter by employers to rid themselves of the Monday holiday (cf.
Reid 1976). The adoption of the new holiday, partly in place of the
old, varied spatially and temporally and was a function, at least in
part, of local factors like worker resistance and strength of the
indigenous half-day movement. It is interesting to note that Saint
Monday was still in existence, therefore, in some trades which had
unmechanised small workshop production in the late nineteenth and
early twentieth century.
There was, of course, worker resistance to all these moves but it
tended to be fragmented. There were triumphs, however. The
various shorter hours movements had considerable success with the
result that over the half-century from 1836 to 1886 average hours
were reduced by one fifth (Burnett, 1974) with the Ten Hours Act of
1847 forming the most important milestone. The 1870s saw important
gains with the Bank Holiday Acts of 1871 and 1875 establishing four
days in the year (Boxing Day, Easter Monday, Whit Monday and the
first Monday in August) as national (though unpaid) holidays (cf.
Pimlott, 1947; Walvin, 1978). Gradually relative replaced absolute
surplus value. But the shorter hours campaigns show the rub. For the
workers were not now fighting against the new idea of time, only for
adjustments to it (de Grazia, 1962). From now on they would win
battles but the war was lost. Time was now money, not tasks.
118 A Capitalist Time Consciousness

By 1880 a new set of strategies of control had sprung up that

gradually replaced the older strategies which were overwhelmingly
based on simple coercion. Now that the foundations had been laid
direct coercion or rule (Gramci's 'dominatio') was replaced by a more
pervasive and more effective hegemony relying on a culture based on
economy. The idea of punishment was replaced by the idea of reform
with an emphasis on self-improvement. In the sphere of instrumental
action, as workers were socialised to the new work regime, a new
terrain of class struggle was formed based upon the arrangement and
length of work-time and the rates for the job but not on the existence of
work-time itself. That a part of the day was called 'work-time' became
part of the taken-for-granted world. The symbolic point for the occur-
rence may be the Ten Hours Act of 1847; in reality, of course, it was
an uneven process of capitulation over space and in time, taking place
at different rates in different regions (ct. Gregory, 1978, 1981).
In the sphere of symbolic interaction the same process of formation
as a hegemonic control occurred. In education, there was a gradual
replacement of schools that were essentially military regimens with
policing functions in which time was simply a vacuum to be filled by
disciplined, moral activity. The base could be built upon. For
instance the timetable of pauper schools now:
specified an alternation of religious and secular activities, punctu-
ated by outdoor exercise in the playground and, in the case of
industrial and workhouse schools, interspersed with periods of
supervised labour. This careful scheduling gave a moral value to
time itself as a structured deployment of supervised activity. 'The
moral training pervades every hour of the day, from the period
when the children are marched from their bedrooms in the
morning to that when they march back to their bedrooms at night'
(Jones and Williamson, 1979, p. 89).
The schools were becoming increasingly 'anthroponomic' (Ber-
taux, 1977), reorganised not just to produce workers but to produce
and distribute different kinds of workers. There was a renewed
emphasis on the three Rs, and on the needs of an institutionally
diversifying capitalism. The symbolic turning point was probably the
year 1861, when the criteria applied by the inspectorate of state schools
changed from simple inspections for 'moral tenor' to consideration of
levels of elementary skills as well. The question had changed from
the existence of the system itself to how the system might be refined.
In the sphere of leisure, recreation also became increasingly ordered
 Nigel Thrift 119

and confined in space and time. Games of fixed length took place in
walled-off spaces. A number of symbolic dates might be given to the
commencement of this proess of consumption instead of production
of leisure - the first railway excursions in the 1840s perhaps, or the
founding of the Football Association in 1863 and the first professional
clubs in the late 1870s. There are many claimants (cf. Magoun, 1938;
Delaney, 1963; Keeton, 1972).
But perhaps the most important factor in terms of incorporation of
the time sense of the working class was the new economic rationality.
For at some point, consumer demand, dialectically intertwined with
the development of consumer industries, became a popular economic
aspiration (Reid, 1976). Bishop Berkeley's 'creation of wants' trium-
phed. Allied with this development were the growth of savings and
credit institutions like building societies and insurance companies,
and the appearance of new forms of usury like hire purchase.
Consequently, a new importance was attached to regular wages and
to 'planning ahead'. No more would workers turn up to work only
until they had enough money for the week. The new economic
calculation put a financial value on future time so that an objective
future became a part of the habitus of the worker. Not only present
but future time was now money. An indefinable but important cusp
was reached similar to the one Bourdieu documents for Algerian
workers in a later time period:

It appears that for a person to be able to take his destiny in hand by

the organization of resources, by the establishment of a balance of
assets and liabilities, thrift, the management of capital for invest-
ment or credit, or by improvement of productive techniques, it is
necessary for him to retain a minimum of control over his present
and over his environment. The demonstration of this was provided
by a factory in Algeria in 1954. It was decided to raise wages by 20
per cent; the workers, conforming to the logic of the traditional
spirit, reduced their working time by one fifth. Wages were then
doubled, thus reaching 240 per cent of the initial rate. The
consequences of this second increase were radically different from
those of the first. As if a threshold had been broken, the workers
showed a desire to work, to earn even more, to work overtime, to
anticipate the future by thrift. It was as if the whole of their attitude
toward the world had undergone a complete restructuring as a
result of the modification of a single trait, as if, freed from his
anxiety over subsistence, the individual suddenly discovered that
120 A Capitalist Time Consciousness

he was capable of taking his own future in his hands (Bourdieu

1963, p.71) [see Chapter 14 in this volume].
Workers therefore both gained and lost in the exchange of a
present for a future and culture for economy.

AN EPISODE IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF CAPITALIST TIME

CONSCIOUSNESS: A CASE STUDY OF THE DIFFUSION OF
GREENWICH MEAN TIME

the railway and the telegraph times are

here from 'Lunnon town';
I wonder if the Lunnon time will
be the next thing down
(Woolmer's Exeter and Plymouth Gazette, 14 August 1852,
quoted in Ponsford, 1978, p. 11).
This final section provides a case study of the interplay between the
development of precise and coordinated timekeeping and time con-
sciousness (cf. Thrift, 1977a; Parkes and Thrift, 1979; Smith, 1976;
Ponsford, 1978; Howse, 1980). Whilst the section shows the old pre-
capitalist-time in its death throes, it also shows that the process of
diffusion was uneven. The transformation took place at different
rates in different places depending upon a number of different factors
(cf. Gregory, 1978, 1981).
It was only in the year 1784 that the first regular stage coach service
was set up (between London and Bristol). But the innovation spread
quickly and by 1785 regular stage coach services were in operation
from London to 25 towns (Baywell 1970; Wright, 1968). The new
regularity had immediate social effects, for instal)ce on some London
working habits:
Incoming mail was formerly opened late in the morning, dealt with
at leisure during the day, and the replies sent out in the evening; it
did not matter that clerks worked late, so long as they caught the
midnight post for which boxes closed at 11. Now all the mails left
the GPO at 8pm; the boxes closed at 7 and the clerks were then
free (Wright, 1968, p. 125).
But the organisation of the new regular stage coach services was
not without attendant problems. In particular, the vagaries of local
 Nigel Thrift 121

time began to tell, for most towns in Britain were still wrapped in
their own 'time zones'. In 1792 it was agreed that communities in
England should keep mean time but the time kept was based on the
meridian of the place concerned. This meant that quite substantial
variations in the time kept between places occurred. There was, for
instance, a 16 minute time difference between London and Plymouth.
For the moment this variation did not matter. Stage coach travel was
slow and adjustments could be made. The difference in time on
the London to Bristol run, for instance, was accounted for by the
coach guard who was responsible for monitoring the schedule.
He would simply adjust his timepiece so that it lost 20 minutes on
the 'down' run to London and gained 20 minutes on the 'up' run
to Bristol. (Local Bristol time differed from London time by 20
minutes.)
But in 1825 the Stockton-Darlington line opened and with it the
railway era. The increased speeds made possible by rail travel made
synchronisation of the towns in Britain to one time more and more
imperative. At first the railways ran in a quite haphazard manner and
made no great impact on other types of transport. In 1831, for
instance, the Liverpool and Manchester railway published a combina-
tion of their timetables with those of the coaches and steam-packets
from Liverpool that connected with their trains. There were eight
pages of coach times, two of the shipping times, but only one quarter
of a page of train times. Some of the current perceptions of time did
nothing to help. For instance, when George Bradshaw was preparing
his first timetables for the Railway Companion in 1839, one railway
company director refused to supply him with times of arrival: 'I
believe that it would tend to make punctuality a sort of obligation'
(Wright, 1968, p.28).
However, in 1838 the railways started to carry the Royal Mail. This
made the situation even more pressing. Although the mail coach
tradition of a guard carrying an official timepiece was continued
the allowances for easting and westing had to be foregone. The
birth of new telegraph companies (which were able to transmit
time signals) only added to the problem of coordination. By the
beginning of the 1840s at least three organisations in England were
finding the problem of keeping different times at different places
difficult: the Post Office, the railway companies and the telegraph
companies.
The experience for the railway passenger of this period is difficult
to imagine now. Those passengers reading the Great Western
122 A Capitalist Time Consciousness

timetable in 1841, for instance, were confronted with the following

disconcerting statement:

London time is kept at all the Stations on the railway, which is

about 4 minutes earlier than Reading time; 5 minutes before
Cirencester time; 8 minutes before Chippenham time; and 14
minutes before Bridgewater time (Great Western Railway, 1841).

It is not surprising, therefore, that a number of Victorian railway

travellers carried especially-made watches with two dials, one to
show local time and one the time of the place the traveller was
visiting.
Pressure was soon brought to bear for uniformity of time, especially
in view of the rapid increase in railway mileage, the increasing
volume of rail traffic, and new innovations like the first excursion
trains. The first broadside appears to have been fired by Abraham
Osler in Birmingham in a talk to the Birmingham Philosophical
Institute (Howse, 1980). But it was Henry Booth, secretary of the
Liverpool and Manchester Railway, who put the position for a
standard time most clearly and eloquently in a pamphlet from 1847:
Now, contemplate the picture as it is. The parish clocks in some
half a dozen hamlets or fishing towns in the extreme east in quick
succession, commence the long and dissonant peal; Norwich and
Yarmouth, Harwich and Ramsgate, with a few hundred clock and
chimes ring vigorously; Canterbury, Colchester and Cambridge
prolong the feu de joie; with a thousand intermediate towns, each
with its parish clock or market bell proclaiming its own time ...
Westward the noise moves on, till it gains the suburbs of the huge
metropolis; Poplar and Limehouse, Stepney and Bethnal Green,
each with its clocks and bells ... jar gratingly; while as the moving
din reaches St Martins-de-Grand the great bell of St Paul's, with
mournful voice, tolls ONE, in grave rebuke of the passing clamour.
And still the din proceeds; still in its westward course - Brentford
and Windsor, Reading and Oxford, Southampton and Salisbury,
onward for a mortal hour, 'by Shrewsbury clock'; while every city,
town, or township, or 'extra-parochial place' as the incessant roar
seeps over its head marking its particular Time, calls out - 'That's
my thunder!' (Booth, 1847, p. 11, emphasis in original).

And as he, and industrial capitalism, would like it, the uniformity
of time thus:
 Nigel Thrift 123

The great bell of St Paul's strikes ONE, and, simultaneously, every

City clock and village chime, from John of Groat's to the Land's
End, strikes ONE, also. The finger of every watch or timepiece ...
points to the same hour! At one and the same moment, whether in
London or Edinburgh, at Canterbury or Cardiff, the labourer
returns to his toil from his hour of rest. The man of business keeps
his appointment; and the traveller regulates his movements with
the confidence of one who has no longer the fear of 'the longitude'
before his eyes. There is sublimity in the idea of a whole nation
Stirred by one impulse; in every arrangement, one common signal
regulating the movements of a mighty people! (Booth, 1847,
pp.10--11).

The Great Western railway had kept London time (there is a 23

second's time difference between London time and Greenwich time)
at its stations and in its timetables since November 1840. Similarly, in
1846 the North-Western Railway introduced London time at the
Manchester and Liverpool termini. This caused some difficulties of
coordination. For instance, in November of 1846 'the late running of
a train ... was attributed to the fact that London time was kept on the
line between Rugby and York (run by the Midland Railway) whereas
local Rubgy time was kept at Rugby station (run by the North-
Western') (Howse, 1980, p. 87).
It was the railway companies who finally decided, therefore,
through the mediation of the Railway Clearing House (a body set up
in 1842 to coordinate a number of aspects of railway operation in
Great Britain) to recommend 'to each company to adopt Greenwich
time at all their stations as soon as the Post Office permits them to do
so' (Smith, 1976, p. 221; cf. McCrea, 1975). The Post Office seemed
to have no qualms and within a year of the recommendation most
railways had switched to Greenwich time, nearly all of them doing so
on 1 December 1847. The January 1848 edition of Bradshaw's
Railway Guide lists the London and South Western, London and
North Western, Midland, Chester and Birkenhead, Lancaster and
Carlisle, East Lancashire and York and North Midland railways as all
keeping to Greenwich time. It is also known that the Great Western,
South Eastern and Caledonian had switched to the new time (Howse,
1980).
But if the railway stations had now changed to Greenwich time not
all the surrounding towns had done so, with inevitable confusion [see
Table 7.2].
124 A Capitalist Time Consciousness

Table 7.2 Times kept by public clocks in England, Wales and Scotland,
17 February 1852

Greenwich time* Local time

England
Banbury Monmouth Axminster
Bedford Newbury Basingstoke
Birmingham (1847) Newcastle Bath
Bridgewater Newport Bodmin
Buckingham Northampton Bridport
Burnham-on-Sea Nottingham Bristol
Canterbury Oswestry Cambridge
Carlisle Peterborough Chelmsford
Cheltenham Preston Colchester
Chepstow Ramsgate Crediton
Chester Reading Dartmouth
Chichester Ripon Devizes
Collumpton Rochester Dorchester
Coventry Salisbury Ely
Cowes Scarborough Exeter
Derby Sheffield Falmouth
Doncaster Shrewsbury Harwich
Dover Southampton Ipswich
Droitwich Stafford Launceston
Durham Stockport Margate
Folkestone Sunderland Newton Abbott
Gloucester Taunton Norwich
Hastings Tewkesbury Oxford
Hereford Tiverton Penzance
Hull Tonbridge Portsmouth
Kendal Torquay Plymouth
Lancaster Wellington Teignmouth
Leeds Wells Totnes
Leicester Weston-super-Mare Trowbridge
Lichfield Whitehaven Truro
Lincoln Wigan Wolverhampton
Liverpool Windsor Yarmouth
London Worcester (1851)
Lynn York
Manchester (1847)

It should here be observed that the clocks at the various railway

stations are universally set and regulated by 'London time'. For
instance, most of our readers are aware that when it is twelve
o'clock in the metropolis, it is either earlier or later than that hour
elsewhere, according to the distance from London and the direc-
tion of the compass. Thus the clocks of a provincial town may point
 Nigel Thrift 125

Table 7.2 continued

Greenwich time* Local time

Wales (old boundaries) Scotland Wales
Cardiff Aberdeen Brecon
Carmarthen Berwick Milford Haven
Denbigh Dumfries
Holyhead Dundee Scotland
Montgomery Edinburgh (1848) Peebles
Newport Glasgow (1848)
Saint Asaph Greenock (1848)
Swansea Inverary
Inverness
Paisley
Perth (1848)
Stirling (1848)
• Dates in brackets are dates of changeover to Greenwich Time where known.

at five minutes to twelve, whereas it has already struck twelve in

London, and the train appointed for departure at that hour has
already started, when the unmindful traveller thinks that he has
still a few minutes to spare. Bearing this fact in mind, it will be
wise, upon alighting at a provincial station, to note the difference
between the time registered there and London time, so that the
discrepancy may be duly allowed for in the traveller's subsequent
movements (Simmons, 1971, p. 32; cf. Cockman, 1973).
Owing to the publication of maps given by a firm of watch and
clock makers, Henry Ellis and Son of Exeter, to all customers it is
possible to draw up a directory of which towns and cities were on
local and Greenwich time in 1852 [see Table 7.2]. In fact, some of
these towns and cities had changed over to Greenwich time before
the railways; for instance, Birmingham under the 'leadership' of the
indefatigable Osler. Others, for instance Manchester, changed to
Greenwich time on exactly the same date as the local railway:
The committee for General Purposes, having considered a letter
from the Lancashire and Yorkshire railway company on 1 Decem-
ber 1847 recommended that all clocks under the control of the
corporation, and that of the church wardens, should be adjusted by
the necessary nine minutes, to conform with railway time; a
symbolic act of homage by a mercantile and industrial community
to the new masters of its traffic (Kellett, 1969, pp. 173-4).
126 A Capitalist Time Consciousness

In Scotland, the changeover to Greenwich time was somewhat

later. Edinburgh, Glasgow, Greenock, Stirling and Perth all reset
their public clocks to Greenwich time on 29 January 1848 (Howse,
1980).
But there was some opposition to the changeover, most notably
from towns on the farther extremeties of the East-West axis who had
the most time to lose (or gain). Thanks to excellent documentation
the debate in the South-west can be followed in some detail. In
Exeter the first railway to the city opened on 1 May 1844. From
December 1847 the Bristol and Exeter Railway ran to Greenwich
(London) time but Exeter stuck steadfastly to local mean time.
White's Devonshire Directory for 1850 gives railway users this advice:
London time, which is kept at all stations, is 11 minutes before
Bath and Bristol, 14 minutes before Exeter, and 13 minutes before
Plymouth (Ponsford, 1978, p. 11).
Clocks were provided in the city showing both Greenwich and local
time:
As a matter of great public convenience, a new dial affixed at St
Johns Church, fore Street Hill, in this city, exhibits as well as the
correct time at Exeter, the railway time, which is several minutes in
advance, and non attendance to this has sometimes placed parties
in unpleasant situations. The railway line is shown by a silvered
minute hand, the minute hand denoting the true time being gilt.
(Trewman's Exeter Flying Post, 16 October 1845,
quoted in Ponsford, 1978, p. 11).
And watches could be bought showing local and Greenwich time.
In 1850 Exeter was 14 minutes 12 seconds slow of Greenwich. The
campaign to have this discrepancy altered began in earnest, led by the
aforementioned Henry Ellis, in 1851 at a town council meeting in
which the Mayor was requested to desire the Dean of Exeter
Cathedral (the site of the principal clock in the town) to change the
clock to Greenwich time. A petition had been drawn up in favour the
previous evening and it 'had already received the signatures of the
principal firms in the city' (Ponsford, 1978, p. 12). A lengthy debate
followed in which it was pointed out that 'in a dispute which arose as
to young lady being of age, owing to the church clock saying she was
of age and the Cathedral clock saying she was not, a court of law had
decided that the Cathedral clock governed other clocks' (Ponsford,
 Nigel Thrift 127

1978, p. 12). The motion was carried by 16 votes to 5 but the Dean
refused to countenance the alteration of the Cathedral clock. This
state of affairs and others like it prompted the Athenaeum of the time
to remark that it would surprise nobody 'to find Bath, and Exeter in
the list of places choosing their local right to keep in the rear of the
world's great movement' (Ponsford, 1978, p. 13).
At the beginning of August 1852 the telegraph was completed to
Exeter railway station causing further pressure for change. An
editorial in the local newspaper, for instance, opined that:
as the public have become much more locomotive than in former
years, every individual is made to feel the personal inconvenience
arising from the fluctuation in the computation of time in various
towns ... We trust the citizens of Exeter will endeavour to secure
the advantages which must arise from the adoption of conformity
of time, and which has been eagerly seized by a large number of
important cities and towns in the US (Ponsford, 1978, p. 13).
The cause was taken up by Sir Stafford Northcote, who was
instrumental in forming a committee to pressure for the adoption of
Greenwich time in the West of England, Bristol, Bath and Exeter.
On 31 August 1852, the matter of conformity to Greenwich time was
again raised in Exeter in a council meeting. This meeting was
followed, on 28 October, by a Public Meeting at the Guildhall at
which it was unanimously resolved that public clocks should be
altered. The Dean finally gave way and, on 2 November 1852, the
change to Greenwich time took place; only one day after the first
regular time signal was sent down the telegraph lines to Exeter
Station from Greenwich.
Notice is hereby given 'That upon and after Tuesday, the second
day of November next; the Cathedral clocks and other public
clocks of this city will be set to and indicate Greenwich time'
(notice cited in letter to the Western Morning News,
29 December 1936).
The change to Greenwich time had already taken place in Bristol at
a meeting of the council on 14 September 1852 (Latimer, 1887).
Plymouth followed shortly thereafter, as did Bath and Devonport.
The South-west was now synchronised with the rest of the country.
By 1855 98 per cent of the public clocks in Great Britain were set to
Greenwich Mean Time (Howse, 1980). There were still problems.
128 A Capitalist Time Consciousness

For instance, a decision by the Court of Exchequer in 1858 led to

legal time being specified as local time (Howse, 1980; Davies, 1978).
But on 2 August 1880 this final anomaly was ironed out when the
Statutes (Definition of Time) Bill was given the Royal Assent. From
this date 1880 all activities in Great Britain were entrained to
Greenwich Mean Time.

CONCLUSIONS

The hegemony of the mediaeval period was based on two dimen-

sions, culture and economy, intertwined. By the end of the nine-
teenth century a great restructuring had taken place in which
economy became the major dimension of society. The restructuring
took place in fits and starts - here progressing, there retreating and
there digressing. But take place it did. Through the late eighteenth
and most of the nineteenth century it took the form of simple
coercion and crude ideological conditioning. But by the late nine-
teenth century the transformation to a new hegemony was complete.
The preconditions for this new hegemony were many. One, on which
this ... [study] has concentrated, was a new consciousness of time as
the domain of calculation; as an appropriation of the future. By 1880
the owners'-time had become own-time. The inward notation had be-
come much the same as the outward. Time was now spent: it was no
longer measured in tasks completed. Time was now inextricably tied
to a future-oriented calculative rationality. For most people time and
calculative rationality had become one and the same thing: stages in
life's journey of accumulation.
The stage was now set for some of the excesses of twentieth century
capitalism. At work - Taylorism, Fordism, even neo-Fordism (cf.
Braverman, 1974; Palloix, 1976; Aglietta, 1979); at school - anthro-
ponomy, self-discipline (cf. Bourdieu and Passeron, 1977; Cham-
boredon and Prevot, 1975; Karabel and Halsey, 1977; Bernstein,
1970); at home - policing of the family and the conspicuous consump-
tion of leisure-time (cf. Donzelot, 1979; Pasquino, 1978; Knemeyer,
1980; Linder, 1970; Pred, 1981a). And the splitting-off of work,
school, and leisure. And all this bound together by state and capital
in a hopefully gordian knot of 'govern-mentality' (Foucault, 1979)
and positivist science.
If there is a way to cut the knot part of the answer must lie in
 Nigel Thrift 129

changing consciousness of time. But not through an unrestricted

atavism. There must be a way to:
combine in a new synthesis elements of the old and of the new,
finding an imagery based neither upon the seasons nor upon the
market but upon human occasions. Punctuality in working hours
would express respect for one's fellow workmen. And unpurposive
passing of time would be behaviour which the culture approved
(Thompson, 1967, p. 96).
8 Capitalism and the
History of Work-time
Thought
Chris Nyland

(From C. Nyland, 'Capitalism and the History of Work-Time

Thought', British Journal of Sociology, 37, 1986, pp. 513-34).
Between 1870 and 1980 total annual working-time in the major
nations of the industrialised capitalist world fell by approximately 40
per cent. Why standard work-times should change has been a matter
of debate for as long as capitalism has existed. This ... [study]
overviews the major contributions to the discussion. An examination
of this nature is necessary because the contemporary work-time
debate has become limited to the examination of worker preferences
for income and leisure, of how these preferences manifest themselves
and how workers, individually or collectively, go about attaining their
preferred option. Such debate has become increasingly barren and
irrelevant. This is because it is based on a number of major mis-
conceptions and because there has been omitted from the discussion
a factor that formerly dominated the whole question. This is the
nature of the worker's psycho-physiological capacities in relation to
work and time. So buried has this factor become it is not even
realised by many participants within the debate that the preference
argument is only one of two traditional explanations for why changes
to standard work-times occur.
The abandonment of the human capacities issue has never been
theoretically or empirically justified and it is hoped that the detailing
of the debate's history will aid the reintegration of this factor and thus
rekindle serious discussion of the work-time issue. Such a revitalisa-
tion would be particularly opportune at this time. Traditionally work-
time has become a major political and economic issue at times of high
unemployment. During periods of economic crisis the labour move-
ment invariably puts forward the argument that standard times
should be reduced to spread the available work amongst as many
individuals as possible. The ongoing crisis that has emerged following
the end of the 'long boom' has proved no exception to this general

130
 Chris Nyland 131

rule. If the decay of the capitalist economies continues ... the

insistence with which organised labour promotes the demand for
reduced time standards can be expected to intensify. An understand-
ing of how and why working-times change is therefore of immediate
and significant importance.

MERCANTILISM AND WORK-TIME

The first political economists seriously to analyse ... the relationship

between work and time, in a market economy, were the mercan-
tilists. The writers who may be loosely grouped under this heading
dominated economic thinking from approximately 1500 to 1700.
Those who contributed to mercantilist thought cannot, strictly speak-
ing, be considered a school. The period has been aptly described as
the time when every man was his own economist (Johnson, 1937).
Agreement amongst these theorists, on one or more points of theory,
by no means meant they necessarily agreed on others. Despite this
diversity there was considerable agreement on at least two sets of
doctrine. First, the balance of trade theory and second a concept of
the national importance of the labourer. These two factors played a
major role in mercantilist theorising on work-time (Furniss, 1920).
The mercantilists argued that a positive balance of trade was
imperative if the nation was to prosper. To achieve this it was
essential that the price of exports be kept to a minimum. In the pre-
industrial societies that characterised Europe, at this time, the most
important production cost was labour-power. Consequently if the
cost of production was to be minimised, it was necessary to minimise
the price of this commodity. The nation could compete in the
international market place, it was believed, only if the income of the
direct producers was kept to the lowest possible level.
The low wage policy was also considered necessary because of the
'normal' worker's response to an increase in income. The mercan-
tilists observed that the direct producers of their societies tended to
limit the length of time they were willing to spend at work if their
incomes rose. Given they believed that labour was the primary source
of the nation's wealth this was considered a major problem (Meek,
1956). Trade might increase total wealth, but it was the efforts of the
direct producers that underpinned the nation's economic strength.
Consequently, it was argued that it was in the nation's interest to
ensure that no labourer who was capable of working failed to do so
132 Capitalism and Work-time Thought

irrespective of personal preference. The nation had the right to

demand and compel the direct producers to maximise their work
effort. Idleness and vagrancy, accordingly, were repeatedly con-
demned by these scholars. In the national interest they urged the
state to intervene by the use of force, moral persuasion and interven-
tion in the labour market to manipulate the price of labour-power so
as to ensure that the workers laboured on a constant and extended
basis (cf. Wiles, 1968).
The mercantilists' prescriptions for overcoming the workers' pre-
ference for leisure included the lowering and fixation of wages by the
state, the easing of naturalisation laws to increase inward migration
and, most importantly, manipulation of the supply of food in order to
drive up its price. In essence all these proposals were aimed at
lowering the standard of living of the working population in order to
compel them to work both harder and longer. If high incomes
lowered the willingness of the labourers to work, it was reasoned, low
incomes should have the opposite effect. The state, therefore, had a
duty to intervene to ensure not just that wages were kept low, but
that the poor were kept poor.

CLASSICAL ECONOMICS AND WORK-TIME

The argument that it was necessary to maintain the income of the

working population at subsistence level, in order to increase the
length of time they would spend at work, went largely unchallenged
for over two centuries after 1500. In the first half of the eighteenth
century, however, a few scholars voiced some doubt as to the validity
of this claim. It began to be conceded, by a growing number of
observers, that not all workers were idle and dissolute and that while
it was true that many still were, this was often largely for reasons
beyond their control. These questioners of mercantilist orthodoxy
also argued that the policy of depressing the living standards of the
workers could be counter-productive. High wages, it was even
suggested, could act as an inducement that would encourage workers
to undertake a greater expenditure of effort (Coats, 1958-9).
This questioning of the mercantilist consensus on work-time was a
significant aspect of the transition to the classical dominance of the
political economy. What in essence was being challenged was the
mercantilists' conception of human nature or, to be more specific, the
nature of those who worked. It had been accepted that the direct
 Chris Nyland 133

producers were innately slothful, working only if forced to. The

challengers to this orthodoxy, on the other hand, argued that human
beings, including workers, were not naturally lazy and that if they
behaved as if they were it was because of insufficient motivation to do
otherwise.
Prior to 1750 those writers who argued that indolence and an
aversion to work were not inherent in human nature were few in
number. In the third quarter of the century, however, this position
gained much more support - the watershed of what was to prove a
major transition occurring in 1776 with Adam Smith's The Wealth of
Nations.
All theories of work-time are based upon a theory of human
nature, as indeed is any system of economics. For Smith this was
more obvious than for many others. He considered humans to be
rational creatures who had the capacity to develop and implement
long term strategies which could influence the nature of their
societies. He placed, however, severe limitations on this ability
arguing that human rationality was not sufficiently developed to
enable humans to mould a society to a specific form. He suggested
that economic laws, 'eternal and immutable' would determine the
development of society irrespective of the political and legal actions
of the society's members.
Despite their limited capacities humans are capable of functioning
as social beings, Smith suggested, because nature has endowed them
with certain drives and needs.
In the political body ... the wisdom of nature has fortunately made
ample provision for remedying many of the bad effects of the folly
and injustice of man, in the same manner as it has done in the
natural body for remedying those of his sloth and intemperance
(Smith, 1966, vol. 2, p. 168).
These innate motivating characteristics, Smith argued, propel
society forward and, at the same time, hold it together. The essence
of this endowment is the human propensity to barter and exchange
together with an egoism that manifests itself as a relentless drive to
pursue self-interest. The belief that humans would constantly strive
to improve their lot led Smith to reject the mercantilists' approach to
work-time. He argued that if workers had the chance to obtain
greater income they would work harder and longer. Greater wealth,
he insisted, would have both a positive physical and psychological
effect. It would improve the workers' health and thus enable them to
134 Capitalism and Work-time Thought

do more work and it would motivate them by providing them with the
hope that if they worked harder they would not only be able to
improve their immediate condition but possibly even end their days
in comfort.
Smith conceded that some individuals did have a greater prefer-
ence for leisure rather than income. He suggested, however, that this
was by no means the case with the great majority. On the contrary,
he argued, income preference was so strong in most workers that
where they were paid piece rates they prolonged and intensified their
work-time to such an extent they often ruined their health in a few
years.
The quarter century, prior to 1776, saw the first great wave of
work-time reductions filter through the British economy. In this
period the lO-hour day, for craftsmen, was established as a general
standard (Bienefeld, 1972). This development would have provided
difficulties, for Smith's argument, had he limited his analysis merely
to the realm of exchange and to consideration of the nature of worker
preferences for income and leisure. Why, he would have had to
explain, were these income-preferers demanding, en masse, that they
be allowed to spend less time at work? The reason this was not a
problem for Smith was because he accepted that factors within the
production process compelled workers to limit their work-time no
matter how much they might desire greater income. Again, basing his
argument on the nature and limited capacities of human beings he
suggested that frequently the reason workers chose to limit the length
of their work-time was because of the high pace they were forced to
maintain during the time they did work.
Excessive application during four days of the week is frequently the
real cause of the idleness of the other three, so much and so loudly
complained of. Great labour, either of mind or body, continued for
several days together, is in most men naturally followed by a great
desire of relaxation, which, if not restrained by force or by some
strong necessity, is almost irresistible. It is the call of nature, which
requires to be relieved by some indulgence, sometimes of ease
only, but sometimes, too, of dissipation and diversion (Smith,
1966, voU, p. 73).
If this aspect of human nature was ignored by employers, and
Smith suggested it frequently was, it would invariably be dangerous
for the workers. His recognition of these material limitations within
human beings led him to point out that there was an inverse relation-
 Chris Nyland 135

ship between the temporal and intensive aspects of work-time. He

suggested that consequently, an optimum work-time must exist with-
in any given situation. He advised employers to heed the existence of
this . .. [optimum] and refrain from driving their employees at too
great a pace.

THE VULGAR COUNTER-REVOLUTION

The belief that an acquisitive and hedonistic spirit was innate in

humans and that high wages would act an an inducement motivating
workers to labour both harder and longer was to become part of the
orthodoxy of the classical economists. As a whole these scholars
believed that if the market was to be understood it was necessary for
the analyst to begin by looking beyond surface phenomena. One
must seek out, in other words, the underlying relations between
human beings as producers which ultimately determine their market
relationship (Meek, 1977). Ricardo, for example, saw the essential
problem of economics as the determination of 'the laws which
regulate the distribution of the produce of the earth between the
classes of the community' (quoted in Robinson, 1964, p.36); the
search for these laws led him to conclude that there was a primary
and irreconcilable conflict of interest between capitalists and workers
as to how this produce was to be distributed. As the struggle between
these two classes came to dominate the political and economic en-
vironment of Britain the traditional hostility, between the bour-
geoisie and the aristocracy, became relatively less intense. The
struggle between these two classes had provided a major stimulus to
the development of political economy during the period of the
bourgeoisie's ascendancy. The creation of the proletariat, however,
brought into existence a class that was a danger to both rentiers and
capitalists. By the 1830s the work of many economic thinkers was
beginning to reflect the changed balance of class-power within their
society. Their work also reflected an awareness of the dangerous
use to which a number of the concepts of the classical economists
could be put by radical writers sympathetic to the working class. For
many scholars this awareness was to manifest itself in the abandon-
ment of any critical analysis of capitalism and the adoption of a
methodology that became increasingly apologetic, its effect being less
to explain the nature of bourgeois society than to laud and justify it.
This in time was to lead to the emergence and cementing of two quite
136 Capitalism and Work-time Thought

distinct and rival traditions of economic thought - marginalism and

Marxism.

THE FACTORY MOVEMENT

The scholars who were to found the marginalist tradition opened

their attack on classical economics in the 1820s. A leading light in this
attack was Nassau Senior. This scholar was to make a number of
contributions to the development of marginalist economics. It is,
however, his comments on work-time, published in 1837, for which
he is best known.
The mechanisation of industry, during the industrial revolution,
created mass unemployment in many areas. In a number of industries
the bourgeoisie used the greater market-power this development
gave them . . . brutally [to] extend the length of time workers were
forced to labour (Bienefeld, 1972). In response to these develop-
ments the 'factory movement', with its demand for a legal maximum
to the working day, grew through the 1820-50 period.
This movement was to draw the bulk of its support from the textile
workers. These workers were, however, not alone in their struggle
for they were able to attract support from liberal reformers within the
intelligentsia and even gained some support from sections of the
ruling class. The support of the latter came from both Tory land-
owners, who had little to fear from a legal limit to the work-day and,
more importantly given the Whig dominance of the reform parlia-
ment, from those manufacturers who were able to curtail working
times at little cost to themselves (Nardinelli, 1980; Marvell, 1977).
The fight for a legal restriction to the length of the working-day
created problems for the vulgar economists who could not explain
why a generalised reduction in standard times should occur. When
the struggle began in the 1820s these theoreticians showed little
interest. As the movement grew and became more radical through
the 1830s they abandoned this attitude and work-time became a
highly contentious theoretical issue. The debate this caused was not
over why hedonistic beings should, en masse, choose to reduce the
length of time they wished to work, but rather, over whether legal
limits to the working-day should be supported. At first discussion
concentrated on the market rights of Smith's free individual. As free
agents, it was generally agreed, adults had the right to sell their
labour-power as they wished. If they chose to enter the market and
sell this commodity in excessively large units this was their right.
 Chris Nyland 137

State regulation of work-time would clearly infringe this freedom and

was thus morally wrong and consequently had to be opposed. There
was little disagreement over these propositions. What was disputed
was the definition of what constituted a free agent. Children, it was
generally acknowledged, were not capable of exercising sufficient
independent judgement to enter freely into a contract. Was it right,
therefore, for the state to regulate the sale of their labour power?
Blaug (1958) reports that during the 1830s there was a wide variety of
opinion on this question. During the 1840s, however, this diversity
abated and a uniform position generally emerged. It was agreed that
protection of children was morally just and those laws already enacted
were acceptable. They should, though, go no further for their extension
would necessarily involve limiting the length of time adults could work.
Such 'a gross infringement' of individual rights could not be accepted.
The children, therefore, would have to survive as best they could.
The difficulty of justifying opposition to laws that protected
children, on the grounds of morality, possibly explains the econ-
omists' reticence ... publicly [to] promote this argument once con-
sensus had been reached (Ruciardi, 1981). It may also explain the
eagerness with which they took up the lifeline, thrown to them by
Senior, which shifted the debate away from individual freedom and
morality towards the production process. Senior argued that the
Factory Acts had to be opposed because they would eliminate profit
and thus destroy industry. The fallacious and openly biased nature of
his last-hour thesis made it unacceptable to the vast majority of econ-
omists. His central point though that the 'great proportion of fixed to
circulating capital ... makes long hours of work desirable' (Senior,
1837, p. 11), was widely considered to be valid. His assumption that a
reduction in the length of time worked would result in a proportion-
ate fall in output was also accepted with little challenge, as was his
conclusion that a lO-hour law would raise prices and would thus be
disastrous for the British economy. It was these production-based
arguments that the economists brought to the fore when opposing the
Factory Acts during the 1840s. Regulation of work-time had to be
opposed because it would have a deleterious effect on trade and this,
of course, made opposition to the workers' demands morally just
because the workers clearly stood to lose if the economy declined.
While it was true this had not happened with earlier laws of this
nature, it was conceded, these precedents had no applicability to the
present situation.
In his analysis of the economists' response to the Factory Acts
138 Capitalism and Work-time Thought

Blaug (1958) has argued that they added little to the popular debate
by way of theoretical analysis. This assessment, however, does not do
them justice for in this debate these scholars did make a number of
theoretical and methodological contributions that have since become
central aspects of the marginalist position. First, they originated the
methodological approach of concentrating solely on the individual's
rights and desires, as manifested within the market place, while
ignoring what was happening within the production process that was
generating the mass demand for a legal work-day. Second, they
pioneered what has become the tradition's normal response to
working class demands for further work-time laws: i.e., support and
even laud all such laws that have already been enacted, if they have
not proven harmful to capital, while arguing that the extension of
such laws would be dangerous to the health of the economy. Third,
they originated the practice of ignoring theoretical and empirical
evidence which suggested that Smith was correct when he argued that
it was possible to reduce the length or intensity of work-time without
necessarily reducing output.
The last of these original contributions has shown an amazing
capacity to revive, despite numerous setbacks. In the middle years of
the nineteenth century it was accepted until well after the intro-
duction of the Factory Acts had proven its falsity. Those few
individuals, such as Thornton, who took up Adam Smith's suggestion
that this might not be the case, were all but totally ignored. Thornton
had pointed out, in 1846, that it was:

Not quite certain that a diminution of produce would result from

shortening the duration of labour. Persons who are not obliged to
work so long may work harder than before, and may get through
the same quantity of work in a short time as formerly occupied
them for a longer period. The business of the eleventh and twelfth
hours is most likely very languidly done, and might perhaps, with-
out great difficulty, be despatched in the preceding ten (Thornton,
1971, p. 399).

While this argument cut little ice with the economists it proved
popular with the workers and some of their supporters. It appears,
moreover, to have made a great impression on Marx who was to
make the workers' capacity to work harder in a reduced time period a
central plank of his theory of work-time.
 Chris Nyland 139

MARX'S THEORY OF WORK-TIME

Marx apportioned a large section of Volume 1 of Capital to a

discussion of the length of the working-day and why this changed
over time. He began his argument by pointing out that the number of
hours in a working-day was a variable quantity. This was a cause of
much conflict in a society in which labour-power was bought and sold
in the market. The capitalist, when buying a day's labour-power,
wishes to extract the maximum use-value from the purchase. The
workers, on the other hand, need to be able to work on the morrow
and wish to continue doing so for a normal lifetime. They must strive,
therefore, to ensure that the quantity of their commodity sold each
day is compatible with this need. This essential conflict of interest
produces a constant struggle between worker and capitalist over the
length of time the former must work.
If the working class is not capable of resisting employer demands
for ever-greater quantities of labour, Marx insisted, competition will
compel capitalists to extend the work period beyond its social and
physical limits. This over-consumption will tend to drive up the price
of this commodity once any surplus is consumed. In such a situation it
was in the capitalists' collective interest to introduce a 'normal'
working-day. The existence of this collective need, however, did not
ensure [that] individual capitalists would not overwork their em-
ployees. If the opportunity existed competition would ensure that this
is precisely what they would do. Marx suggested that capitalists, left
to themselves, are not capable of maintaining a standard work-time
schedule that all will respect. It requires, therefore, a force standing
above individual capitalists, to institute and enforce this standard. In
most cases this means the state.

THE INTENSIFICATION OF WORK-TIME

For Marx the introduction of work-time laws did not end capitalism's
tendency to over-consume labour-power. The enactment of such laws
established legal temporal barriers to how long workers could be
compelled to labour. Few limits, however, were placed on what could
be done within these barriers. Most importantly, the state did not and
could not control how hard workers were compelled to labour within
a given length of time. There were, in other words, few limits placed
140 Capitalism and Work-time Thought

on the intensive aspect of working-time. This was to ensure that the

problem of over-consumption was far from resolved.
The shortening of the work-day, Marx argued, provided employers
with an immense stimulus to raise productivity by ensuring that all
inputs into the production process were used as efficiently as possible.
This included the use of labour-power. In the case of this commodity,
he suggested the reduction in standard times not only increased the
capitalists' need to raise the efficiency of labour-time it also estab-
lished the subjective conditions that made this possible. Following
Smith, he argued that a reduction in the length of time workers had to
labour made it possible for them to sustain a more condensed degree
of effort.
The first effort of shortening the working day results from the self
evident law that the efficiency of labour-power is in inverse ratio to
the duration of its expenditure. Hence, within certain limits, what
is lost by shortening the duration of labour is gained by increasing
the degree of power exerted (Marx, 1976, p. 535).
Employers faced with a compulsory work-time reduction, Marx
insisted, will be compelled by competition to attempt to ensure that the
workers' capacity to work more intensively, during the shorter period,
is realised. Competition, in other words, will compel the employer to
impose upon the worker a heightened average level of intensity.
It imposes on the worker an increased expenditure of labour within
time which remains constant, a heightened tension of labour-
power, and a closer filling-up of the pores of the working day, i.e. a
condensation of labour, to a degree which can only be attained
within the limits of the shortened working day. This compression of
the greater mass of labour into a given period now counts for what
it really is, namely an increase in the quantity of labour. In addition
to the measure of its 'extensive magnitude', labour-time now
acquires a measure of its intensity, or degree of density. The denser
hour of the lO-hour working day contains more labour, i.e.
expended labour-power, than the more porous hour of the 12-hour
working day (Marx, 1976, p. 540).
The fact that it was possible to raise the intensity of a given
quantity of labour-time ensured that the struggle between capital and
labour, over the quantity of labour-power normally exchanged for a
given wage, continued after the introduction of the Factory Acts.
Employers merely shifted their primary concentration on to the
 Chris Nyland 141

intensive aspect of work-time. Marx argued that the means by which

they attempted to heighten the average level of work intensity were
diverse. In those industries where mechanisation played little part in
the production process the mere shortening of the work-day, he
suggested, significantly increased 'the regularity, uniformity, order,
continuity and energy of labour' (Marx 1976, p.535). Here, piece-
work, closer supervision and reorganisation of the work process were
often enough to ensure that employers gained an increase in hourly
output sufficient to offset the reduction in the length of time worked.
It was the capitalists' systematic utilisation of machinery, hcwever,
that Marx considered the primary objective means for ensuring that
the workers' ability to work more intensively during the shorter day
was realised. This, he suggested, occurred in two ways. First, the
speed of the machines was increased and second, the workers were
given a greater quantity of machinery to operate or supervise. Marx
further argued that the capitalists' need to achieve greater efficiency
as a result of the shorter day, led them to speed up the rate of
mechanisation and to improve the quality of the technology utilised.
In response to the Factory Acts, he reported, the capitalists' need to
raise their level of hourly output manifested itself in rapid improve-
ments in the productivity of machinery, improvements which may
well not have been realised without this added incentive. In support
of this claim he was able to quote the British Factory Inspectors:
The great improvements made in machines of every kind have
raised their productive power very much. Without any doubt, the
shortening of the hours of labour . . . gave the impulse to these
improvements. The latter, combined with the more intense strain
on the workman, have had the effect that at least as much is
produced in the shortened working day ... as was previously
produced during the longer one (Marx, 1976, p. 540).
Marx argued, then, that the introduction of capitalist laws led to
higher levels of work intensity. This in turn, tended to lead to further
reductions in the length of time workers normally laboured. For
employers in their greed for surplus labour invariably repeated the
same mistakes that had made it necessary to pass the Factory Acts in
the first place. Their freedom to intensify work-time he insisted,
would tend to result in the level of intensity rising to a point where it
would come into conflict with the length of time worked:
the reader will clearly see that we are dealing here, not with
temporary paroxysms of labour but with labour repeated day after
142 Capitalism and Work-time Thought

day with unvarying uniformity. Hence a point must inevitably be

reached where extension of the working day and intensification of
labour become mutually exclusive so that the lengthening of the
working day becomes compatible only with a lower degree of
intensity, and inversely, a higher degree of intensity only with a
shortening of the working day (Marx, 1976, p.533).
Thus, while reduced work-time leads to increasing concentration of
effort this, in turn, makes further reductions in standard times
necessary. In short:
Capital's tendency, as soon as a prolongation of the hours of labour
is once for all forbidden, is to compensate for this by systematically
raising the intensity of labour, and converting every improvement
in machinery into a more perfect means for soaking up labour-
power. There cannot be the slightest doubt that this process must
soon lead once again to a critical point at which a further reduction
in the hours of labour will be inevitable (Marx, 1976, p. 542).

THE FATE OF MARX'S ARGUMENT

Despite the prophetic and embracing nature of Marx's theory it has

not attracted a great deal of attention. Mainstream economists have
generally ignored it and most Marxists appear to have misunderstood
the nature of the argument. With few exceptions the latter have
tended to concentrate their efforts on only limited aspects of the
theory. By doing this they have, in many cases, put forward
explanations for specific examples of changed work-times that have
been inadequate and which have been relatively easy for non-
Marxists to refute.
A classic example of such an analysis is that provided by Cleaver
(1958). This scholar has argued that work-time reductions are a
consequence of the political struggle between capital and labour. As
the working class grew and became more powerful, he argues, it was
able to challenge capital and compel the introduction of both the
modern working-day and the weekend. The argument that work-time
is greatly affected by the balance of class power is not one with which
Marx would have disagreed. He stressed that the establishment of a
normal working-day was the product of a protracted and more or less
concealed 'civil war' between the bourgeoisie and the working class.
However he agreed that the capitalists' ability to extend working-
 Chris Nyland 143

times was limited by the 'strong wills' of the workers, as 'weak bodies'
(Marx 1976, p.526). If working times are continually extended or
intensified with one or the other element being held constant their
inverse relationship must, he insisted, reach a point where the
limitations of 'man, that obstinate yet elastic barrier' will be reached.
It is this relationship between human capacities and human will that is
the core of Marx's theory of work-time. Many Marxists who have
attempted to explain the downward movement in standard times
have, however, tended to de-emphasise or ignore the human limits
aspect of the theory. This failure has removed much of the materialist
basis from Marx's argument. What is left is clearly inadequate. As
Hyman has noted
Marx's theoretical stature derives essentially from the creative
tension between his dual emphasis on the structural determinancy
of capitalist production and the historical agency of the working
class in a struggle (Hyman, 1980, p. 53, emphasis in original).
An explanation for the decrease in standard working-time, such as
Cleaver's, that emphasises only political-power is essentially idealist
for it locates the primary causal determinant of change in human will
or consciousness. This is in essence a version of the marginalists'
preference theory.
Why it is that this non-materialist approach to work-time change
has managed. to go largely unchallenged by modern Marxists is
difficult to explain. Marx, after all, was hardly obscure about what he
considered to be the relationship between human capacities,
working-time and work intensity. The explanation almost certainly
lies in the general failure of Marxists to follow Marx when he leaves
the sphere of circulation and enters the workplace to study the
processes of production. The study of the labour process dominated
the first volume of Capital. Yet, as Braverman (1974) has pointed
out, despite this:
the extraordinary fact is that Marxists have added little to his body
of work in this respect ... there simply is no continuing body of
work in the Marxist tradition dealing with the capitalist mode of
production in the manner in which Marx treated it in the first
volume of Capital (Braverman, 1974, p.9).
Instead the critique of the capitalist production process, developed
by Marx, gave way to critique of capitalism as a system of distribu-
tion. In the area of work-time this led many Marxists to all but
144 Capitalism and Work-time Thought

ignore, or at best to give a formal nod to, the intensive aspect of

labour-time. Units of labour-time, hours, days, etc, came to be
treated as homogeneous concepts. Developments within the work-
place that were changing the qualitative content of these units were
generally ignored, and all reductions in the length of time workers
had to labour came to be seen as unadulterated improvements.

THE JEVONSIAN REVOLUTION

In this analysis of work-time change, Marx followed and extended the

path pioneered by Adam Smith. In doing so, however, he chose to
concentrate only on that part of Smith's analysis which was centred
within the production process. He gave little attention to the question
of income and how this influenced the length of time workers were
willing to labour. The marginalist tradition, on the other hand, came
in time to make this aspect of Smith's thought the centre of its work-
time argument. The demands of the working class for a legal
limitation to the working-day made it difficult for supporters of this
tradition to maintain a concept of the worker as an individual forever
choosing to maximise the length of time spent at work in order to gain
more income. What was needed was a theory that would explain why
hedonistic beings might choose to reduce the length of time they were
willing to labour. Jevons's utilisation of the concept of utility satisfied
this need (see Jevons, 1965). For the marginalists utility was to
become the key to a hedonistic theory that conceived of humans as
individuals whose primary objective was the maximisation of pleasure.
Utility was equated with desire or wants. It was argued that while
these subjective factors could not be measured directly they could be
quantified indirectly by the outward phenomena to which they gave
rise. Thus while the degree of desire an individual held for an object
was not directly measurable it was possible to assess its intensity by
observing the price the person was willing to pay to satisfy the desire.
Human wants, it was further argued, are insatiable in terms of variety
but are limited for any single object.
Jevons argued that labour was a 'painful exertion' undergone
either to ward off pains of greater measure or to produce pleasures
which on balance outweighed the pain of obtaining them. Where the
rewards for doing so offset the cost, he argued, humans are driven by
their wants to exert themselves beyond the point where they cease
obtaining pleasure from their work. If this is continued, however,
 Chris Nyland 145

there must come a point where the increased labour comes to

outweigh all other considerations. When this point is reached, Jevons
argued, the worker will cease work for to do otherwise, would be
inconsistent with human nature.
Complicating this neat relationship was one factor Jevons con-
sidered of extreme importance. How will workers respond to a
change in wage rates? There are two effects of a wage change, he
argued. When hourly wages increase there is more reward and
therefore more inducement to work. Employees consequently will be
motivated to work longer. They will, in other words, substitute
income for leisure as this will increase their total utility. On the other
hand the fact that the worker now receives a greater reward for every
hour laboured means that the marginal utility of extra income is
decreased. By working an unchanged work-time it becomes possible
with the higher wage to satisfy the worker's desires more easily and if
the pain associated with labour has reached a high point utility may
be maximised by a reduction in the mass of labour-power sold. These
two influences have become known as the substitution and income
effects. How a worker will react when faced with a change in income
cannot be decided, Jevons argued, without knowing the specific
situation. He believed, however, that evidence indicated that in the
majority of cases workers chose to reduce their work-time if their
wages rose. He based this conclusion on the general tendency for
working-times to fall in Britain during the previous quarter century.

THE GREAT HUMILIATION

Jevons's thesis contains all the essential elements of the contempor-

ary marginalist theory of worktime (BJaug, 1978; Kerton 1971). It is
individuals maximising their utility, measured as income, that deter-
mines the length of time workers normally labour. This hypothesis
has gained all but total acceptance from the economists of the
marginalist tradition. This consensus, however, was not easily
attained. British economists, in the 1870s, had great difficulty accept-
ing an argument that attempted to centre the explanation for the
changing nature of work-time solely in the consciousness of indi-
viduals. Many of the leading lights of the profession had been active
in opposition to the Factory Acts. These men had argued that
because of the nature of the production process the workers had no
choice but to accept that their children had to work 12 to 15 hours per
146 Capitalism and Work-time Thought

day. They had insisted that the workers' claims that output would not
necessarily be harmed by the introduction of the shorter day were
nonsense. Consequently they had been publicly humiliated when the
enactment of the 10 Hours Bill proved that it was, in fact, their
'scientific' arguments that were invalid. As a result the workers'
charge that the economists had acted as the servants of the em-
ployers, rather than as scientists, had gained great credence and this
at a time when the whole question of the scientific validity of
economics was being challenged (Checkland, 1951). During the 1860s
a number of economists publicly conceded that their arguments had
been proven wrong by the new laws. It would not have been very
easy, therefore, for them to forget and simply lay aside the import-
ance of the non-proportionality of work-time and output in favour of
an argument that wished to ignore such factors and limit analysis to
the desires of the individual.
Any tendency to forget their public humiliation, moreover, would
soon have been halted by contemporary developments in Britain.
Jevons published The Theory of Political Economy in 1871 at the
same time as the second great wave of work-time reductions swept
across Britain. In 1872 strikes for higher pay and the 9-hour day spread
across the whole of industry. This upheaval was continued, though at
a reduced rate, over the next two years. The result, among the organ-
ised working class, was the establishment of a normal work week of
54 to 56.5 hours. In those industries where regular work was the norm
the 9-hour day became the standard in the majority of cases.
The movement spread throughout the economy and brought
substantial reductions to virtually all of the organized trades. Even
the unorganized and the unorganizable were swept up by the
events, so that in June 1872 there were 'strikes for more pay and
fewer hours of work ... spreading through all industrial occupa-
tions' (Bienefeld, 1972, p. 106).
This upheaval reactivated and re-politicised the work-time debates
and mass interest and involvement was continued after 1874 by the
onslaught of the 'Great Depression'.

ECONOMIC CRISIS AND THEORY

The depression was to last for over two decades. It severely squeezed
profit margins and significantly increased the degree of competitive
 Chris Nyland 147

pressure faced by British capitalists. Their initial response to these

problems was to cut wages and extend working-times. They met,
however, unaccustomed resistance particularly from those sections of
the working class which had become highly unionised (Littler, 1982).
This resistance and the limited advantages that were found to be had
by extending work-time led employers to place greater emphasis on
the more intensive use of the workers' labour-time. Littler reports
that during the depression capitalists used their enhanced bargaining
power ... radically [to] force up the pace of work. So significant did
the intensification issue become during the crisis it managed to dis-
place wages as the major issue in industrial disputes.
While the depression both enabled and compelled the employers to
demand more work from their employees it also strengthened the
resolve of the labour movement to resist. The unions insisted that the
high unemployment made necessary a general reduction in the length
of time each worker was compelled to labour. Utilising the em-
ployers' traditional argument that reductions in work-time would
reduce individual output, they argued that a compulsory general 8-
hour day would automatically create a massive number of new jobs.
At the same time, however, they also argued that an 8-hour law was
necessary to improve the productivity of British industry which was
being undermined by excessively long time schedules. Employers, it
was insisted, would actually gain if the 8-hour day was introduced
because the consequent productivity increase would raise output and
cut unit costs. Those opposed to the workers' demand soon coun-
tered these claims by pointing out the unions were trying to have it
both ways. They wished to claim that the shorter day would reduce
individual output and thus create jobs, while at the same time arguing
that output would not be undermined because of the greater produc-
tivity that would be generated. This inconsistency, once pointed out,
caused some disarray amongst the unions' supporters.
The need to overcome this contradiction was made more urgent by
the conversion of a large number of Liberal Party politicians to the
idea of a legal 8-hour day both as a result of the working class
agitation and of the growing mass of scientific evidence that suggested
that the workers'productivity argument had a good deal of validity.
In order to retain the Liberals as allies, it was soon made clear it was
necessary to abandon the unemployment argument. Consequently
this issue was quietly dropped (Harris, 1972).
148 Capitalism and Work-time Thought

TECHNOLOGICAL DETERMINISM

In the face of this massive debate the British marginalists found it

impossible to argue that work-time was merely a function of income.
They did incorporate the income hypothesis into their explanation of
why working-times tended to fall but it was relegated to a secondary
position behind an explanation that remained centred within the
production process. Thus Chapman (1909), in what was the classic
statement on work-time in the period prior to 1930, argued that the
growth of real wages had both improved the quality of the workers'
leisure and lowered the marginal utility of wages and that this had
motivated workers to reduce the time they spent at work. Chapman
insisted, however, that this factor only reinforced the major influence
causing workers to demand a reduction in the length of time they
worked. The more important factor was the industrialisation process.
Compared to rural labour, Chapman suggested, industrial work is
necessarily more regular and continuous throughout the year and
tends to become more severe as industry develops. The utilisation of
machinery often removes much physical strain from the labour
process, but this does not necessarily mean the work requires less
effort. Mechanisation, because it demands specialisation, implies
elimination of waste and this includes waste work-time. This results
in a partial or even total elimination of the leisure with which the
work process had been traditionally interspersed. The working-day,
as a result of this increased monotony and tightening up, becomes
concentrated and certainly proves more exhausting. Many reports,
Chapman suggested, indicated that over the years workers were
experiencing an increasing degree of nervous strain with work
becoming an ever-more severe tax on the individuals' energy. It was
this factor [that] above all accounted for the workers' recurring
demand that they be allowed to spend less time at work.

NOW YOU SEE IT. NOW YOU DON'T

Chapman's explanation for why working-times tended to fall has

remained unchallenged by those within his own tradition to the
present day. Until the 1930s it appears to have been generally
accepted by British economists, who often tended merely to refer
those interested in the subject to Chapman's contribution, his argu-
ment being taken as given. This was done, for example by Robbins in
 Chris Nyland 149

1929 when, with the oncoming depression reviving interest in the

employment generating capacity of a work-time variation he attemp-
ted to examine how market forces would affect wages and employ-
ment if working-times were reduced. The connection between work-
time and output was not one of direct variation, Robbins acknow-
ledged. This fact complicated his analysis without adding to what he
wished to clarify. To overcome this problem he took a methodologi-
cal step that was to be of major importance. He assumed a situation
in which any variation in the length of time worked was away from a
point of 'maximum productiveness' (Robbins, 1929, p. 25). In such a
hypothetical world any work-time reduction would necessarily in-
volve a fall in output. It should be stressed that he did not argue that
actual working-times were in fact at this point. This was merely an
abstraction undertaken to highlight his area of interest and to make
his discussion less complicated.
Three years later Hicks utilised a similar strategy to simplify his
analysis of the labour-supply of the individual. Like Robbins, Hicks
argued that Chapman had already written all that needed to be said
on the causal determinants of changes to work-time. In order to
derive an homogeneous unit of labour-power, however, that would
facilitate his application of the marginal productivity theory he
assumed 'for the present' the existence of an optimum working-day
that would yield a greater supply of labour than any other (cf. Hicks,
1963).
By the use of this simplifying abstraction Robbins and Hicks were
able to delete consideration of the work-time-output relationship from
their analysis. In their hypothetical world any reduction in the length
of time worked necessarily produced a fall in the individual's output.
This form of abstraction was perfectly valid as a means of highlighting
and clarifying those aspects of theory these scholars wished to
examine. The danger with abstraction is that it is possible to forget
that one is abstracting from the real world. Hicks warned that when
simplifying assumptions are made, great care needs to be taken.
It is decidedly convenient to do this when treating some special
problems; but it is a method with very considerable dangers, which
can only be avoided if we think back our arguments into a more
cumbrous but more realistic form as frequently as possible (Hicks,
1929, p. 93).
If this is not done there exists a serious danger that one may come
to believe that the postulated relations existing within the abstraction
150 Capitalism and Work-time Thought

actually depict the real world. This possibility has clearly been
realised in marginalist work-time theory. In the post-1945 period the
application of science to the work-time question combined with the
economic stability of the long boom greatly depoliticised working-
time as an issue generating inter-class conflict. In this environment
the dangers Hicks warned of have been able to flourish.
Within contemporary marginalist theory the hypothetical world
postulated by Robbins and Hicks is implicitly and explicitly put
forward as reality. It is presumed that a reduction in the length of
time worked necessarily involves a fall in output and wages. Most
marginalists have gone even further and assumed that work-time has
only a single dimension and that the fall in output will be propor-
tionally related to the reduction in the length of time worked. Indeed,
the singular concentration on market forces and the desires of the
individual has managed all but completely to delete human limits and
the production process from the tradition's whole method of analysis
Units of labor inputs are designated either as 'workers' or as
'manhours', and variations in labor inputs affect output without
reference to working hours. Just as the production function is
external to economics and lies in the realm of engineering, so too
the determination of the appropriate length of the working day is
relegated to the physiology and psychology of labor (Grossman,
1970, p. 11).
By purging the production process from their analysis the margin-
alists have been able to accept a bastardised version of Jevons's
explanation for why working-times have tended to fall. His complete
argument has, however, not been accepted. Rather, indifference
analysis has been used to modify it to a form that is even more
abstracted and divorced from reality. With the use of the indifference
technique all that is considered is whether the income or the
substitution effect is dominant. Jevons's recognition that the worker
experiences pain and a need to determine and quantify the nature of
this pain has thus also been deleted from consideration. Indeed, even
the proposition that work is the alternative the worker faces to
poverty tends to become blurred within contemporary marginalist
literature. Indifference analysis instead confronts the worker not with
two painful alternatives, hunger and work, but rather with two goods,
income and leisure. Thus it is implied that the worker is not
compelled to work any particular time schedule or even to work
at all. The length of time the worker will work is merely a matter
 Chris Nyland 151

of preference. As it has been so succinctly and simply put by

Reynolds.
Over the long run ... changes in hours reflect worker preferences.
The main reason why weekly hours have fallen from about sixty at
the turn of the century to around forty at present is that most
workers find the increase in leisure preferable to the higher
incomes they could earn on the old schedule. If and when most
workers conclude that a four-day or a thirty-hour week yields a
better balance between income and leisure, management and
union policies will shift in that direction (Reynolds, 1974, p. 34).

MARGINALISM AND MARXISM

During the post-war years, then, both marginalist and Marxist

theorising on the work-time issue have moved away from the point of
production and into the realm of distribution and exchange. The role
that conflict between human capacities and the demands of the
production process may play in bringing about change in this area has
been largely neglected. Those few scholars who have thought to
mention this issue have, with very few exceptions, generally asserted
that while it may have been of some relevance in an earlier period it is
of inconsequential significance as a factor explaining work-time
change below 48 hours per week. Rather, rising incomes or political
class-power are put forward by the supporters of the respective
traditions as the primary causal determinants propelling the ongoing
downward movement in the length of time workers normally labour.
Given that the dismissal of the human limits aspect of work-time
theory has never been theoretically or empirically justified these
arguments need to be treated with some caution. Before accepting
the validity of either it would be wise to examine more closely the
evidence underpinning both the argument that work-time is a func-
tion of income and the claim that human limits may be safely ignored.
 Part IV
Work and Organisations
9 Time and Job Satisfaction
Donald Roy

(From D. F. Roy, 'Banana Time: Job Satisfaction and Informal

Interaction', Human Organization, 18, 1960, pp. 156-68).

This ... [study] undertakes description and exploratory analysis of

the social interaction which took place within a small work group of
factory machine operatives during a two-month period of participant
observation. The factual and ideational materials which it presents lie
at an intersection of two lines of research interest and should, in their
dual bearing, contribute to both. Since the operatives were engaged
in work which involved repetition of very simple operations over an
extra-long work-day, six days a week, they were faced with the
problem of dealing with a formidable 'beast of monotony'. Revela-
tion of how the group utilised its resources to combat the 'beast'
should merit the attention of those who are seeking solution to the
practical problem of job satisfaction, or employee morale. It should
also provide insights for those who are trying to penetrate the
mysteries of the small group.
Convergence of these two lines of interest is, of course, no new
thing. Among the host of writers and researchers who have suggested
connection between 'group' and 'joy in work' are Walker and Guest
(1952), observers of social interation on the automobile assembly
line. They quote assembly-line workers as saying, 'We have a lot of
fun and talk all the time' (p. 77), and, 'If it weren't for the talking and
fooling, you'd go nuts' (p.68).
My account of how one group of machine operators kept from
'going nuts' in a situation of monotonous work activity attempts to lay
bare the tissues of interaction which made up the content of their
adjustment. The talking, fun, and fooling which provided solution to
the elemental problem of 'psychological survival' will be described
according to their embodiment in intra-group relations. In addition,
an unusual opportunity for close observation of behaviour involved in
the maintenance of group equilibrium was afforded by the fortuitous
introduction of a 'natural experiment'. My unwitting injection of
explosive materials into the stream of interaction resulted in sudden,
but temporary, loss of group interaction.
My fellow operatives and I spent our long days of simple, repetitive

155
156 Time and Job Satisfaction

work in relative isolation from other employees of the factory. Our

line of machines was sealed off from other work areas of the plant by
the four walls of the clicking room ... There were occasional contacts
with 'outside' employees, usually on matters connected with the
work; but, with the exception of the daily calls of one fellow who
came to pick up finished materials for the next step in processing,
such visits were sporadic and infrequent.
Moreover, face-to-face contact with members of the managerial
hierarchy were few and far between. No one bearing the title of
foreman ever came around. The only company official who showed
himself more than once during the two-month observation period was
the plant superintendent. ..
As far as our work group was concerned, this was truly a situation
of laissez-faire management. There was no interference from staff
experts, no hounding by time-study engineers or personnel men hot
on the scent of efficiency or good human relations. Nor were there
any signs of industrial democracy in the form of safety, recreational,
or production committees ...
Our work group was thus not only abandoned to its own resources
for creating job satisfaction, but left without that basic reservoir of ill-
will toward management which can sometimes be counted on to
stimulate the development of interesting activities to occupy hand
and brain. Lacking was the challenge of intergroup conflict, that
perennial source of creative experience to fill the otherwise empty
hours of meaningless work routine (d. Roy, 1953).
The clicking machines were housed in a room approximately thirty
by twenty-four feet. They were four in number, set in a row, and so
arranged along one wall that the busy operator could, merely by
raising his head from his work, freshen his reveries with a glance
through one of three large barred windows ... At the opposite end of
the line sat another table which was intermittently the work station of
a female employee who performed sundry operations of a more
intricate nature on raincoat parts. Boxed in on all sides by shelves and
stocks of materials, this latter locus of work appeared a cell within a
cell ...

THE WORK GROUP

Absorbed at first in three related goals of improving my clicking skill,

increasing my rate of output, and keeping my left hand unclicked, I
 Donald Roy 157

paid little attention to my fellow operatives save to observe that they

were friendly, middle-aged, foreign-born, full of advice, and very
talkative. Their names, according to the way they addressed each
other, were George, Ike, and Sammy. George, a stocky fellow in his
late fifties, operated the machine at the opposite end of the line; he, I
discovered, had emigrated in early youth from a country in south-
eastern Europe. Ike, stationed at George's left, was tall, slender, in
his early fifties, and Jewish; he had come from eastern Europe in his
youth. Sammy, number three man in the line, and my neighbour, was
heavy set, in his late fifties, and Jewish; he had escaped from a
country in eastern Europe just before Hitler's legions had moved in.
All three men had been downwardly mobile as to occupation in
recent years ...
I discovered also that the clicker line represented a ranking system
in descending order from George to myself. George not only had top
seniority for the group, but functioned as a sort of leadman. His
superior status was marked by the fact that he received five cents
more per hour than the other clickmen, put in the longest work-day,
made daily contact, outside the workroom, with the superintendent
on work matters which concerned the entire line, and communicated
to the rest of us the directives which he received ...
Ike was next to George in seniority, then Sammy. I was, of course,
low man on the totem pole. Other indices to status differentiation lay
in informal interaction, to be described later. ..
The female who worked at the secluded table behind George's
machine put in a regular plant-wide eight-hour shift from 8 to 4.30.
Two women held this job during the period of my employment;
Mable was succeeded by Baby. Both were Negroes, and in their late
twenties.
A fifth clicker operator, an Arabian emigre called Boo, worked a
night shift by himself. He usually arrived about 7 p.m. to take over
Ike's machine.

THE WORK

It was evident to me, before my first work-day drew to a weary close,

that my clicking career was going to be a grim process of fighting the
clock, the particular timepiece in this situation being an old-fashioned
alarm clock which ticked away on a shelf near George's machine. I
had struggled through the various phases of my industrial experience,
158 Time and Job Satisfaction

but never had I been confronted with such a dismal combination of

working conditions as the extra long work -day, the infinitesimal
cerebral excitation, and the extreme limitation of physical move-
ment. .. This job was standing all day in one spot beside three old
codgers in a dingy room looking out through barred windows at the
bare walls of a brick warehouse, leg movements largely restricted to
the shifting of body weight from one foot to other, hand and arm
movements confined, for the most part, to a simple repetitive
sequence of place the die, - punch the clicker, - place the die - punch
the clicker, and intellectual activity reduced to computing the hours
to quitting time.
Before the end of the first day, Monotony was joined by his twin
brother, Fatigue. I got tired. My legs ached, and my feet hurt ...
My reverie toyed with the idea of quitting the job and looking for
other work.
The next day was the same: the monotony of the work, the tired
legs and sore feet and thoughts of quitting.

THE GAME OF WORK

In discussing the factory operative's struggle to 'cling to the remnants

of joy in work', Henri de Man (1927) makes the general observation
that 'it is psychologically impossible to deprive any kind of work of all
its positive emotional elements', that the worker will find some
meaning in any activity assigned to him ...
So did I search for some meaning in my continuous mincing of
plastic sheets into small ovals, fingers, and trapezoids ... I did find a
'certain scope for initiative', and out of this slight freedom to vary
activity, developed a game of work.
The game developed was quite simple ... Fundamentally involved
were: (a) variation in colour of the materials cut, (b) variation in
shapes of the dies used, and (c) a process called 'scraping the block'.
The basic procedure which ordered the particular combination of
components employed could be stated in the form: 'As soon as I do
so many of these, I'll get to do those' ... Or the ... goal might involve
switching dies.
Scraping the block made the game more interesting by adding to
the number of possible variations in its playing; and, what was
perhaps more important, provided the only substantial reward, ...
on days when work with one die and one colour of material was
 Donald Roy 159

scheduled. As a physical operation, scraping the block was fairly

simple; it involved application of a coarse file to the upper surface of
the block to remove roughness and unevenness resulting from the
wear and tear of die penetration. But, as part of the intellectual and
emotional content of the game of work, it could be in itself a source
of variation in activity. The upper left-hand corner of the block could
be chewed up in the clicking of 1,000 white trapezoid pieces, then
scraped. Next, the upper right-hand corner, and so on ...
Thus the game of work might be described as a continuous
sequence of short-range production goals with achievement rewards
in the form of activity change ...
But a hasty conclusion that I was having lots of fun playing my
clicking game should be avoided ...
Henri de Man speaks of 'clinging to the remnants of joy in work',
and this situation represented just that. How tenacious the clinging
was, how long I could have 'stuck it out' with my remnants, was never
determined. Before the first week was out this adjustment to the
work situation was complicated by other developments. The game of
work continued, but in a different context. Its influence became
decidedly subordinated to, if not completely overshadowed by,
another source of job satisfaction.

INFORMAL SOCIAL ACTIVITY OF THE WORK GROUP:

TIMES AND THEMES

The change came about when I began to take serious note of the
social activity going on around me; my attentiveness to this activity
came with growing involvement in it. What I heard at first, before I
started to listen, was a stream of disconnected bits of communication
which did not make much sense. Foreign accents were strong and
referents were not joined to coherent contexts of meaning. It was just
'jabbering'. What I saw at first, before I began to observe, was
occasional flurries of horseplay so simple and unvarying in pattern
and so childish in quality that they made no strong bid for attention.
For example, Ike would regularly switch off the power at Sammy's
machine whenever Sammy made a trip to the lavatory or the drinking
fountain. Correlatively, Sammy invariably fell victim to the plot by
making an attempt to operate his clicking hammer after returning to
the shop. And, as the simple pattern went, this blind stumbling into
the trap was always followed by indignation and reproach from
160 Time and Job Satisfaction

Sammy, smirking satisfaction from Ike, and mild paternal scolding

from George. My interest in this procedure was at first confined to
wondering when Ike would weary of his tedious joke or when Sammy
would learn to check his power switch before trying the hammer.
But, as I began to pay closer attention, as I began to develop
familiarity with the communication system, the disconnected became
connected, the nonsense made sense, the obscure became clear, and
the silly actually funny. And, as the content of the interaction took on
more and more meaning, the interaction began to reveal structure.
There were 'times' and 'themes', and roles to serve their enaction.
The interaction had subtleties, and I began to savour and appreciate
them. I started to record what hitherto had seemed unimportant.

Times

This emerging awareness of structure and meaning included recog-

nition that the long day's grind was broken by interruptions of a kind
other than the formally instituted or idiosyncratically developed
disjunctions in work routine previously described. These additional
interruptions appeared in daily repetition in an ordered series of
informal interactions. They were, in part, but only in part and in very
rough comparison, similar to those common fractures of the produc-
tion process known as the coffee break, the coke break, and the
cigarette break. Their distinction lay in frequency of occurrence and
in brevity. As phases ofthe daily series, they occurred almost hourly,
and so short were they in duration that they disrupted work activity
only slightly. Their significance lay not so much in their function as
rest pauses, although it cannot be denied that physical refreshment
was involved. Nor did their chief importance lie in the accentuation
of progress points in the passage of time, although they could
perform that function far more strikingly than the hour hand on the
dull face of George's alarm clock .. The major significance of the
interactional interruptions lay in ... a carryover of interest. The
physical interplay which momentarily halted work activity would
initiate verbal exchanges and thought processes to occupy group
members until the next interruption. The group interactions thus not
only marked off the time; they gave it content and hurried it along.
Most of the breaks in the daily series were designated as 'times' in
the parlance of the clicker operators, and they featured the consump-
tion of food or drink of one sort or another ...
My attention was first drawn to this times business during my first
 Donald Roy 161

week of employment when I was encouraged to join in the sharing of

two peaches. It was Sammy who provided the peaches; he drew them
from his lunch box after making the announcement,'Peach-time!'.
On this first occasion I refused the proffered fruit, but thereafter
regularly consumed my half peach. Sammy continued to provide the
peaches and to make the 'Peach-time!' announcement, although
there were days when Ike would remind him that it was peach-time,
urging him to hurry up with the mid-morning snack. Ike invariably
complained about the quality of the fruit, and his complaints fed the
fires of continued banter between peach donor and critical recipient.
I did find the fruit a bit on the scrubby side but felt, before I achieved
insight into the function of peach-time, that Ike was showing poor
manners by looking a gift horse in the mouth. I wondered why
Sammy continued to share his peaches with such an ingrate.
Banana-time followed peach-time by approximately an hour.
Sammy again provided the refreshments, namely, one banana. There
was, however, no four-way sharing of Sammy's banana. Ike would
gulp it down by himself after surreptitiously extracting it from
Sammy's lunch box, kept on a shelf behind Sammy's work station.
Each morning, after making the snatch, Ike would call out, 'Banana-
time!' and proceed to down his prize while Sammy made futile
protests and denunciations. George would join in with mild remon-
strances, sometimes scolding Sammy for making so much fuss. The
banana was one which Sammy brought for his own consumption at
lunch time; he never did get to eat his banana, but kept bringing one
for his lunch. At first this daily theft startled and amazed me. Then I
grew to look forward to the daily seizure and the verbal interaction
which followed.
Window-time came next. If followed banana-time as a regular
consequence of Ike's castigation by the indignant Sammy. After
'taking' repeated references to himself as a person badly lacking in
morality and character, Ike would 'finally' retaliate by opening the
window which faced Sammy's machine, to let the 'cold air' blow in on
Sammy. The slandering which would, in its echolalic repetition, wear
down Ike's patience and forbearance usually took form of the
invidious comparison: 'George is a good daddy! Ike is a bad man! A
very bad man!' ...
Pickup-time, fish-time, and coke-time came in the afternoon. I
name it pickup-time to represent the official visit of the man who
made daily calls to cart away boxes of clicked materials. The arrival
of the pickup man, a Negro, was always a noisy one, like the arrival
162 Time and Job Satisfaction

of a daily passenger train in an isolated small town. Interaction

attained a quick peak of intensity to crowd into a few minutes all
communications, necessary and otherwise. Exchanges invariably
included loud depreciations by the pickup man of the amount of work
accomplished in the clicking department during the preceding
twenty-four hours. Such scoffing would be of the order of 'Is that all
you've got done? What do you boys do all day?' These devaluations
would be countered with allusion to the 'soft job' enjoyed by the
pickup man. During the course of the exchanges news items would be
dropped, some of serious import, such as reports of accomplished or
impending layoffs in the various plants of the company, or of gains or
losses in orders for company products ...
An invariable part of the interactional content of pickup-time was
Ike's introduction of the pickup man to George. 'Meet Mr Papeatis!'
Ike would say in mock solemnity and dignity. Each day the pickup
man 'met' Mr Papeatis, to the obvious irritation of the latter.
Another pickup-time invariably would bring Baby (or Mable) into
the interaction: 'Now I want you to stay away from Baby! She's
Henry's girl!' Henry was a burly Negro with a booming bass voice
who made infrequent trips to the clicking room with lift-truck loads of
materials ... Baby's only part in this was to laugh at the horseplay.
About mid-afternoon came fish-time. George and Ike would stop
work for a few minutes to consume some sort of pickled fish which
Ike provided. Neither Sammy nor I partook of this nourishment, nor
were we invited. For this omission I was grateful; the fish, brought in
a newspaper and with head and tail intact, produced a reverse effect
on my appetite ...
Coke-time came late in the afternoon, and was an occasion for
total participation. The four of us took turns in buying the drinks and
in making the trip for them to a fourth floor vending machine.
Through George's manipulation of the situation, it eventually be-
came my daily chore to go after the cokes; the straw boss had noted
that I made a much faster trip to the fourth floor and back than
Sammy or Ike ...

Themes

To put flesh, so to speak, on this interactional frame of 'times', my

work group had developed various 'themes' of verbal interplay which
had become standardised in their repetition. These topics of conver-
sation ranged in quality from an extreme of nonsensical chatter to
 Donald Roy 163

another extreme of serious discourse. Unlike the times, these themes

flowed one into the other in no particular sequence of predictability.
Serious conversation could suddenly melt into horseplay, and vice
versa. In the middle of a serious discussion on the high cost of living,
Ike might drop a weight behind the easily startled Sammy, or hit him
over the head with a dusty paper sack. Interaction would immediately
drop to a low comedy exchange of slaps, threats, guffaws, and dis-
approbations which would invariably include a ten-minute echolalia
of 'Ike is a bad man, a very bad man! George is a good daddy, a very
fine man!' ... 'Kidding themes' were usually started by George or
Ike, and Sammy was usually the butt of the joke. Sometimes Ike
would have to 'take it', seldom George ...
Sammy received occasional calls from his wife, and his claim that
these calls were requests to shop for groceries on the way home were
greeted with feigned disbelief. Sammy was ribbed for being closely
watched, bossed, and henpecked by his wife, and the expression 'Are
you man or mouse?' became an echolalic utterance, used both in and
out of the original context.
Ike, who shared his machine and the work scheduled for it with
Boo, the night operator, came in for constant invidious comparison
on the subject of output. The socially isolated Boo, who chose work
rather than sleep on his lonely night shift, kept up a high level of
performance, and George never tired of pointing this out to Ike. It so
happened that Boo, an Arabian Moslem from Palestine, had no use
for Jews in general; and Ike, who was Jewish, had no use for Boo in
particular. Whenever George would extol Boo's previous nights'
production, Ike would try to turn the conversation into a general
discussion on the need for educating the Arabs. George, never
permitting the development of serious discussion on this topic, would
repeat a smirking warning, 'You watch out for Boo!' He's got a long
knife!'
[Another] kidding theme [was that] which developed from some
personal information contributed during a serious conversation on
property ownership and high taxes. I dropped a few remarks about
two acres of land which I owned in one of the western states, and
from then on I had to listen to questions, advice, and general
nonsensical comment in regard to 'Danelly's farm'. This 'farm' soon
became stocked with horses, cows, pigs, chickens [and] ducks ...
Serious themes included the relating of major misfortunes suffered
in the past by group members. George referred again and again to the
loss, by fire, of his business establishment. Ike's chief complaints
164 Time and Job Satisfaction

centred around a chronically ill wife who had undergone various

operations and periods of hospital care ... Sammy's reminiscences
centred on the loss of a flourishing business when he had to flee
Europe ahead of Nazi invasion.
But all serious topics were not tales of woe. One favourite serious
theme which was optimistic in tone could be called either 'Danelly's
future' or 'getting Danelly a better job'. It was known that I had been
attending 'college', the magic door to opportunity, although my
specific course of study remained somewhat obscure. Suggestions
poured forth on good lines of work to get into, and these suggestions
were backed with accounts of friends of friends, who had made good
via the academic route. My answer to the expected question, 'Why
are you working here?' always stressed the 'lots of overtime' feature,
and this explanation seemed to suffice for short-range goals.
There was one theme of especially solemn import, the 'professor
theme'. This theme might also be termed 'George's daughter's
marriage theme'; for the recent marriage of George's only child was
inextricably bound up with George's connection with higher learning.
The daughter had married the son of a professor who instructed in
one of the local colleges. This professor theme was not in the strictest
sense a conversation piece; when the subject came up, George did all
the talking. The two Jewish operatives remained silent as they
listened with deep respect, if not actual awe, to George's accounts of
the Big Wedding which, including the wedding pictures, entailed an
expense of $1,000. It was monologue, but there was listening, there
was communication, the sacred communication of a temple, when
George told of going for Sunday afternoon walks on the Midway with
the professor, or of joining the professor for a Sunday dinner. .. I
came to the conclusion that it was the professor connection, not the
straw-boss-ship or the extra nickel an hour, which provided the fount
of George's superior status in the group.
If the professor theme may be regarded as the cream of verbal
interaction, the 'chatter themes' should be classed as the dregs. The
chatter themes were hardly themes at all; perhaps they should be
labelled 'verbal states', or 'oral autisms'. Some were of doubtful
status as communication; they were like the howl or cry of an animal
responding to its own physiological state. They were exclamations,
ejaculations, snatches of song or doggerel, talkings-to-oneself, mutter-
ings. Their classification as themes would rest on their repetitive
character. They were echolalic utterances, repeated over and over.
An already mentioned example would be Sammy's repetition of
 Donald Roy 165

'George is a good daddy, a very fine man! Ike is a bad man, a very
bad man!' Also, Sammy's repetition of 'Don't bother me! Can't you
see I'm busy? I'm a very busy man!' for ten minutes after Ike had
dropped a weight behind him would fit the classification ...
So initial discouragement with the meagreness of social interaction
I now recognised as due to lack of observation. The interaction was
there, in constant flow. It captured attention and held interest to
make the long day pass. The twelve hours of 'click, - move die, -
click, - move die' became as easy to endure as eight hours of varied
activity in the oil fields or eight hours of playing the piece-work game
in a machine shop. The 'beast of boredom' was gentled to the
harmlessness of a kitten.

BLACK FRIDAY: DISINTEGRATION OF THE GROUP

But all this was before 'Black Friday'. Events of that dark day
shattered the edifice of interaction, its framework of times and mosaic
of themes, and reduced the work situation to a state of social atom-
isation and machine-tending drudgery. The explosive element was
introduced deliberately, but without prevision of its consequences.
On Black Friday, Sammy was not present; he was on vacation.
There was no peach-time that morning, of course, and no banana-
time. But ... a steady flow of themes was filling the morning quite
adequately. It seemed like a normal day in the making, at least one
which was going to meet the somewhat reduced expectations created
by Sammy's absence.
Suddenly I was possessed of an inspiration for modification of the
professor theme. When the idea struck, I was working at Sammy's
machine, clicking out leather parts for billfolds. It was not difficult to
get the attention of close neighbour Ike to suggest sotto voce, 'Why
don't you tell him you saw the professor teaching in a barber college
on Madison Street? ... Make it near Halstead Street'.
Ike thought this one over for a few minutes, and caught the vision
of its possibilities. After an interval of steady application to his
clicking, he informed the unsuspecting George of his near West Side
discovery; he had seen the professor busy at his instructing in a
barber college in the lower reaches of Hobohemia.
George reacted to this announcement with stony silence. The
burden of questioning Ike for further details on his discovery fell
upon me. Ike had not elaborated his story very much before we
166 Time and Job Satisfaction

realised that the show was not going over. George kept getting redder
in the face, and more tight-lipped; he slammed into his clicking with
increased vigour. I made one last weak attempt to keep the play on
the road by remarking that barber colleges paid pretty well. George
turned to hiss at me, 'You'll have to go to Kankakee with Ike!' I
dropped the subject. Ike whispered to me. 'George is sore!'
George was indeed sore. He didn't say another word the rest of the
morning. There was no conversation at lunchtime, nor was there any
after lunch. A pall of silence had fallen over the clicker room. Fish-
time was a casualty. George did not touch the coke I brought for him.
A very long very dreary afternoon dragged on ...
Then came a succession of dismal work-days devoid of times and
barren of themes. Ike did not sing, nor did he recite bawdy verse. The
shop songbird was caught in the grip of icy winter. What meagre
communication there was took a sequence of patterns which proved
interesting only in retrospect.
On the third day George advised me of his new communication
policy, designed for dealing with Ike, and for Sammy, too, when the
latter returned to work. Interaction was now on a 'strictly business'
basis, with emphasis to be placed on raising the level of shop output.
The effect of this new policy on production remained indeterminate.
Before the fourth day had ended, George got carried away by his
narrowed interests to the point of making sarcastic remarks about the
poor work performances of the absent Sammy. Although addressed
to me, these caustic depreciations were obviously for the benefit of
Ike. Later in the day Ike spoke to me, for George's benefit, of
Sammy's outstanding ability to turn out billfold parts. For the next
four days the prevailing silence of the shop was occasionally broken
by either harsh criticism or fulsome praise of Sammy's outstanding
workmanship. I did not risk replying to either impeachment or
panegyric for fear of involvement in further situational deteriora-
tions.
Twelve-hour days were creeping again at snail's pace. The strictly
business communications were of no help, and the sporadic bursts of
distaste or enthusiasm for Sammy's clicking ability helped very little.
With the return of boredom, came a return of fatigue ...
In desperation, I fell back on my game of work, my blues and
greens and whites, my ovals and trapezoids, and my scraping the
block. I came to surpass Boo, the energetic night worker, in volume
of output. George referred to me as a 'day Boo' (day-shift Boo) and
suggested that I 'keep' Sammy's machine. I managed to avoid this
 Donald Roy 167

promotion, and consequent estrangement with Sammy, by pleading

attachment to my own machine.
When Sammy returned to work, discovery of the cleavage between
George and Ike left him stunned. 'They were the best of friends!' he
said to me in bewilderment.
George now offered Sammy direct, savage criticisms of his work.
For several days the good-natured Sammy endured these verbal
aggressions without losing his temper; but when George shouted at
him 'You work like a preacher!' Sammy became very angry, indeed.
I had a few anxious moments when I thought that the two old friends
were going to come to blows.
Then, thirteen days after Black Friday, came an abrupt change in
the pattern of interaction. George and Ike spoke to each other again,
in friendly conversation ...
That afternoon Ike and Sammy started to play again, and Ike burst
once more into song. Old themes reappeared as suddenly as the
desert flowers in the spring. At first, George managed to maintain
some show of the dignity of superordination. When Ike started to
sing snatches of 'You Are My Sunshine', George suggested that he
get 'more production'. Then Ike backed up George in pressuring
Sammy for more production. Sammy turned this exhortation into low
comedy by calling Ike a 'slave driver' and by shouting over and over
again, 'Don't bother me! I'm a busy man!' ...
I knew that George was definitely back into the spirit of the thing
when called to Sammy, 'Are you a man or a mouse?' He kept up the
'man or mouse' chatter for some time.
George was for a time reluctant to accept fruit when it was offered
to him, and he did not make a final capitulation to coke-time until five
days after renewal of the fun and fooling ...
Of course, George's demand for greater production was meta-
morphosed into horseplay. His shout of 'Production please!' became
a chatter theme to accompany the varied antics of Ike and Sammy.
The professor theme was dropped completely. George never again
mentioned his Sunday walks on the Midway with the professor.
10 Private-time and
Public-time
Eviatar Zerubavel

(From E Zerubavel, 'Private Time and Public Time: The Temporal

Structure of Social Accessibility and Professional Commitments',
Social Forces, 58, 1979, pp. 38-58.)

A most significant consequence of the growing division of labour in

modern society has been man's multiple participation in the social
world. In traditional societies, the person's various group affiliations
are interrelated in a sort of concentric pattern, so that membership in
any social group or network necessarily implies membership in some
others. In modern society, on the other hand, these affiliations may
be represented by a web of intersecting circles which are not
contained in - and are, at least in part, independent of - one another
(Simmel, 1964).
A major implication of modern man's multiple participation in the
social world has been his segmentation along the lines of his
affiliations with various social groups and networks. That these
affiliations are independent of one another implies that none encom-
passes him in toto. Whereas membership in concentric social circles
implies being totally absorbed by them, each of the various intersect-
ing social circles with which modern man is affiliated demands from
him only a partial involvement. Hence the widely discussed social-
structural, as well as existential, distinction between the modern
individual and each of the various roles he occupies. Never being
totally identified with anyone of them, his involvement in each is
necessarily partial.
The distinction between person and role is closely related to a
similar sociological distinction, that between the private self and the
public self. One of the key characteristics of modern social organisa-
tion is its separation between the private and public spheres of the
individual's life. Aside from the general need for some periodic
withdrawal from publicity into privacy (Goffman, 1959; Schwartz,
1968), it becomes even more necessary in modern society. The
competing claims on the person by his various social circles and the
often conflicting demands entailed by his various social roles make

168
 Eviatar Zerubavel 169

the institutionalisation of such remissions absolutely essential to

modern social life (Merton, 1968).
It should be added, however, that privacy and publicity should not
be regarded as mutually exclusive categories, since pure forms of
either are quite rare. The situation of being alone with one's spouse,
for example, is obviously less public than that of being at a formal
reception, and yet it is by no means totally private. Therefore,
privacy and publicity ought to be viewed as the ideal-typical polar-
ities of a continuum, rather than a conceptual dictotomy ...

THE BUREAUCRATISATION OF PROFESSIONAL

COMMITMENTS

Although I have characterised public- and private-time as particularly

distinct from work- and leisure-time, it is nevertheless in the domain
of work that we can best appreciate the temporal segregation of the
private and public spheres of life from one another. Probably
nowhere is the modern temporal segregation of the private from the
public self more evident than within this domain.
The temporal aspect of the bureaucratic segmentation of the
modern individual into a person and an incumbent of a particular
occupational role is seen in the fact that the partiality of his
involvement in that role is very often defined in temporal terms. Most
occupational commitments today are officially defined in such a
number of hours a day or a number of days a week (not to mention,
of course, the common bureaucratic distinction between full-time and
part-time employees). Even that part of the year during which one is
not actively associated with one's occupational role, namely the
vacation, is defined primarily in temporal terms. Thus, we may be
free to spend our vacations wherever and with whomever we like, yet
we are nevertheless officially restricted as to when we can take them
and how long they may last. (Like private-time in general, the
vacation is defined as being away from something, that is, as a
residual category. The word, vacation, itself derives from the Latin
word meaning empty.)
I shall not concern myself here with such issues as the length of the
working-day and the work-week or the annual number of vacation
days, matters of main concern to labour unions and sociologists of
leisure alike, since I do not intend to provide here a quantitative
characterisation of work-time. Rather, I shall deal with the qualitative
170 Private-time and Public-time

distinction between various time periods in terms of degrees of social

accessibility; and, in particular, with the qualitative characterisation
of work-time as public-time. The feature I wish especially to stress
here is the temporal rigidity of modern work schedules. (However, I
shall also not deal here with 'flexitime', since it highlights only the
degree of rigidity of the temporal location of the boundaries between
private and public, whereas my main concern here is the rigidity or
flexibility of these boundaries themselves.)
The temporal rigidity of modern work schedules is accounted for,
at least in part, by economic modernisation. Whereas in pre-
industrial times, 'Nearly all craftsmen were self-employed, working
in their own homes with their own tools, to their own hours, knocking
off when it suited them' (Wright, 1968, p.116, emphasis mine),
industrialisation brought with it some inevitable temporal rigidifica-
tion of work (Thompson 1967). 'The transition from a temporally
lax and variable work pattern to a tightly timed and temporally
recompensed work schedule is one of the major changes in attitude
required of the newly recruited worker in underdeveloped areas
undergoing economic modernization' (Moore, 1963, pp.25-6,
emphasis mine).
And yet, to understand fully the temporal rigidity of modern work
schedules, we must also consider a most significant ideological change
which has taken place in the West. With the spread of the democratic
belief in the universality of human dignity, and given the increasing
demand for privacy, it has become generally accepted that every
person has a basic right to be socially inaccessible at certain times, for
practical, as well as symbolic, reasons. Within the domain of work,
the official recognition given to the privatisation of some parts of the
individual's time is most clearly indicated by the institutionalisation
of paid vacations, sick days, and bonus days such as holiday time and
personal holidays.
One gains insight into the symbolic significance of the privatisation
of time by contrasting the traditional relations between masters and
servants with the modern relations between superiors and subordin-
ates. The human dignity of the modern underling is suggested by the
fact that, unlike the traditional servant, he is not only a subordinate.
The partiality of his identification as such is assured by the fact that
his association with his occupational role is temporally bounded in a
most rigid way, and is periodically suspended. In the modern West,
subordinates are never regarded as inferior by nature to their
superiors:
 Eviatar Zerubavel 171

they only become so for a time, by covenant. Within the terms of

this covenant the one is a servant, the other a master; beyond it
they are two citizens (de Tocqueville, 1945, p.191, emphasis
mine). In democracies the condition of domestic service does not
degrade the character of those who enter upon it, because it is
freely chosen and adopted for a time only (de Tocqueville, 1945,
p. 194, emphasis mine).

In other words, we are literally dealing here with a temporary

relationship between person and occupational role.
As I have shown earlier, it is generally accepted in the modern
West that the individual has the right to claim control over his social
accessibility during his private-time as a sort of possession. Given the
modern conception of time as a commodity (Zerubavel, 1976), it is
only natural that one of the most common ways of denying a person
that right is to buy it from him. This suggests that working-time ought
to be regarded as a period of private-time which employers transform
into public-time by buying it from their employees (Soule, 1956).
That so many wage earners are paid by units of time (such as the hour
or the day) both reflects and reinforces the temporal rigidity of their
work schedules.
There is strong ideological resistance in the modern West to people
being forced to work beyond their regular hours of wor\<.. As an
American legislator who sponsor[ed] a bill which would prohibit em-
ployers from firing or even disciplining employees who refuse to work
overtime ... asked: 'should individuals' time be ruled by the large
corporations that they work for, or should people have the basic right
to live their own lives, on their own time? (Knickerbocker, 1978, p. 7,
emphasis mine). As the etymology of the term 'over'time suggests, it
is officially agreed today that the person's accessibility in his occupa-
tional role is restricted to the temporal boundaries of that part of his
time which he has 'sold'; beyond those boundaries he has the right to
refuse to be actively associated and identified with that role. Most
commitments and responsibilities involved in modern occupational
roles are officially restricted to those public-time periods to which
participation of their incumbents is confined. They are by no means
expected to transcend the temporal boundaries of these periods,
which are supposed to separate these roles from their incumbents as
persons. With very few exceptions, modern people are not always on
the job, and outside the temporal boundaries of certain public
periods they may be legitimately inaccessible in their occupational
172 Private-time and Public-time

roles. (This is particularly apparent in organisations which operate

around the clock.)
I would like to claim that the temporal boundaries of these public
periods are the boundaries between the states of being on duty and
off duty, and, therefore, propose that these periods be called duty
periods. This implies a view of the popular bureaucratic distinction
between being on and off duty as a temporal one, a particular
instance of the distinction between public-time and private-time in
the domain of work. Indeed, from a social organisational standpoint,
the temporal definition of the boundaries of most modern professional
commitments is definitely prior to, and by far more binding than, say,
their spatial definition. The professional commitments of the modern
person are defined primarily by the temporal boundaries of some
duty periods. Outside those boundaries, one is usually considered to be
off duty, even though physically present at the working place. Whether
taken at the work place or elsewhere, the office coffee break and the
lunch break are classic examples of institutionalised forms oftemporary
suspension of the person's association with his occupational role. And
there are other occasions when a person who, from a spatial point of
view, is at work may nevertheless decline any work responsibilities on
the accepted grounds that he is already off, or not yet on, duty.
Much has been said and written about the increasing trend towards
professionalisation in modern social life. This used to entail being
constantly on the job. But the professional who is always on the job is
becoming increasingly rare. One of the most significant aspects of the
rationalisation of social life in modern Western civilisation is the
increasing bureaucratisation of social accessibility and professional
commitments, a major manifestation of which is the rigidification of
their temporal boundaries. The rigid way in which professional
commitments are temporally defined is one of the key characteristics
of modern social organisation. As becomes a bureaucratic age, the
modern person's time is rigidly segmented into parts during which he
is officially supposed to be accessible in his occupational role, and
others during which he is not. The identity between a modern
occupational role and its incumbent is inevitably partial, since it is
confined to a rigidly defined period of time. Thus, many job
descriptions today are rigid and explicit in specifying the temporal
boundaries of the professional commitments entailed in the job. The
rigidity of these boundaries derives from the fact that they are
officially circumscribed by calendar and clock - e.g., a nine-to-five
job with a three-week annual vacation.
 Eviatar Zerubavel 173

The bureaucratisation of modern professional commitments is by

no means restricted to such work situations as those of bank tellers,
receptionists, or assembly-line workers. In fact, it has already
penetrated even the most sacred domains of life. Let us explore the
temporal structure of professional commitments within the domain of
health care, where acute issues of life and death are a daily matter,
and where one would, therefore, expect to find at least some
approximation of a total identity between an occupational role and its
incumbent.
The first chapter of the code of ethics adopted by the American
Medical Association in 1847 begins with the words, 'a physician
should not only be ever ready to obey the calls of the sick' (Leake,
1927, p. 219, emphasis mine). This implies that physicians regard ever-
availability as a fundamental - to the point of being taken for granted
- professional obligation. Even today, medicine is among the very few
professions which still adheres, at least ideologically, to the tradi-
tional conception of the professional as in-separable from his occupa-
tional role. Being held continuously responsible and accountable for
their patients' well-being, physicians are expected to be always on the
job and to activate their professional duties whenever they are in
demand. When they leave the hospital for the day, they are usually
expected to leave instructions as to how they can be reached.
Furthermore, they may be called at home for consultation. During
the last two decades, a special one-way radio system has been
introduced into hospital life. Physicians carry 'bleepers' wherever
they go; thus, practically as well as symbolically, they can be reached
at any time. Thus, at least in theory, they have no periods of time
which are utterly private and not vulnerable to intrusion.
The way in which physicians' professional commitments are socially
defined is revealed very clearly in the temporal structure of medical
coverage in hospitals. One of the most significant structural charac-
teristics of doctors work schedules, in accordance with which their
professional duties are defined from a temporal standpoint, is their
relative flexibility. Their coverage systems in the hospital are based
on duty periods which are fairly flexible, as far as length is concerned,
since their end is usually marked by the actual completion of the
physician's daily tasks in the hospital, rather than [being] dictated by
the clock. Doctors do not have any rigidly fixed leaving times beyond
which they may legitimately refuse to see patients. Only in hospital
services such as emergency rooms or outpatient clinics, where the
doctor-patient relationship is relatively discontinuous anyway, are
174 Private-time and Public-time

doctors' duty periods durationally rigid and bounded by leaving times

which are fixed at particular times of the day.
However, even in the case of the medical profession we can already
detect the bureaucratisation of professional commitments in the
recognition - even though not yet official- of some notion of private-
time and periodic withdrawal into inaccessibility. The physician who
makes house calls in the middle of the night is becoming increasingly
a rare species, and the expressed admiration which some young house
officers hold for senior staff physicians who do come to the hospital
on weekends or holidays when they are needed for consultation only
indicates that the doctor's ever-accessibility should by no means be
taken for granted today. Physicians themselves also admit - though
unofficially - that the practice of turning one's bleeper off is not
uncommon among them. Moreover, whenever interns call their
resident or attending physician at home, they first make sure that it is
justifiable, and nearly always offer some apology for having intruded
during non-hospital time. They usually also think twice before
waking up the resident at 3.00 or 4.00 a.m., although he or she is
officially supposed to be accessible all night. This is definitely
reinforced by joking comments such as, 'If there is any emergency,
don't hesitate not to wake me up', which, though meant [as a
joke] ... cannot be understood only as such.
It can also be argued that the reason private physicians have
institutionalised group practice is that they would still be able to
comply with the moral imperative of providing continuous coverage
(Zerubavel, 1979a), and yet also ensure the privacy of time off from
the clinic. Consider, for example, the case of the Health Maintenance
Organization. The fact that physicians can share their responsibility
for any patient with other physicians (or even other health pro-
fessionals) enables them to provide continuous medical coverage of
patients without sacrificing their claim for some private, off-duty-
time.
And yet - ideologically, at least - the medical profession still
adheres to the traditional conception of the professional as insepar-
able from his occupational role, and physicians are still supposed, at
least in theory, to be always on the job. The bureaucratisation of
professional commitments in the domain of health care is certainly far
more evident in the case of the nursing profession. Unlike physicians,
nurses are paid by the hour, since their professional obligations are
officially defined by number of working hours per week. Their time is
officially segmented into rigidly defined periods during which they are
 Eviatar Zerubavel 175

supposed to be accessible in their capacity as nurses, and others

during which they are not. They are expected to be active in their
occupational role only within the temporal boundaries of their duty
periods, and are officially relieved from having to assume any
professional responsibilities outside them.
When contrasted with the role of physician, it is not only the
considerably shorter working-day and work-week of nurses that is
so impressive sociologically about the role of nurses, but, also, the
rigid definition of the temporal boundaries of their accessibility and
professional commitments as nurses (Zerubavel, 1979a). This rigidity
pertains both to the length of their duty periods and their temporal
location within the daily cycle. It is built into the nurses' coverage
system through the institutionalisation of fixed arrival and leaving
times which constitute the official boundaries of their professional
commitments as nurses. Generally speaking, nurses stop working not
upon having completed daily work assignments but, rather, when the
clock marks the end of their shift. Their report, which is a highly
ritualised ceremony that dramatises the acts of getting into and out of
the occupational role of nurse and of assuming and taking off
professional responsibilities, is scheduled for fixed times of the day
and is usually not postponed by more than a few minutes, even when
a service is particularly busy.
The particular rigidity of the temporal boundaries of nurses'
professional commitments derives from the fact that they are cir-
cumscribed by the clock. Ending one's work in accordance with the
clock obviously entails more temporal rigidity than doing it according
to the completion of tasks. Moreover, it is far more artificial. In order
to appreciate the artificial basis of the temporal rigidity of nurses'
coverage systems, note that not only are the boundaries of their shifts
fixed in time, they are usually also designated in conventionally
rounded off temporal terms. Thus, nurses' shifts usually begin and
end on the hour, rather than at such times as 4.14 or 8.37. This also
implies that their length is designated in rounded off terms of com-
plete hours, rather than, say, 7-hour-42-minute-Iong time-periods.
Whenever nurses are asked by their head nurse or nursing super-
visor to work overtime, it is officially understood that they have the
right to refuse. If they do agree to it, they get paid at a considerably
higher hourly rate than usual, as if to be adequately compensated for
having relinquished their claim over some of their more private-time.
(Since night-time is generally recognised as being of a far more
private quality than day-time, nurses also get paid at a higher hourly
176 Private-time and Public-time

rate than usual for working on the evening or night shifts.) They also
expect to be approached about it as far in advance as possible. Not
only is it quite impractical not to allow them enough lead time - for
otherwise they might make other plans for that particular evening - it
is also considered rather impolite, since nurses are particularly
sensitive about having due respect paid their claims to their more
private-time. Thus, even though there are usually no official rules
which specify explicitly how long in advance nurses should call in
when sick, most seem to agree about a certain temporal threshold
beyond which calling off sick is regarded as inappropriately late, since
it does not allow those of them who are asked to work overtime
enough lead time. Furthermore, it shows a lack of respect for the
private-time of fellow nurses who have to cover for the sick one. Such
a symbolic display of respect is expected even by nurses who are on
call at home. Even though paid (at a low rate) for just staying at
home in case they might actually be called in, they nevertheless
expect to be given some advance notice when they are called in,
mainly for symbolic reasons. (The situation of being on call at home
is a very good example of a most delicate combination of actual
privacy and potential publicity, and indicates that private- and public-
time do not form a mutually exclusive dichotomy, but are, rather,
polarities of a continuum.)
Generally speaking, the social world of the modern nurse is sharply
divided into public and private periods. Nurses' time outside the
hospital has a far more private quality than that of physicians. They
do not have to carry bleepers with them wherever they go. They are
not expected to leave instructions as to where and how they can be
reached on evenings and weekends. It is most unusual that they
would be called at home for consultation. In short, they are well
assured that once they leave the hospital grounds, the privacy of their
off-duty-time will be protected.
Nurses' professional ethics allow them ... legitimately [to] abstain
from assuming any professional responsibility beyond the official
boundaries of their duty periods. (Interestingly, on the very rare
occasions when a physician refuses to see patients beyond a certain
hour, he is harshly criticised not only by his colleagues, but by nurses
as well!) If a nurse has not received a report yet, or if she has already
finished giving hers, she is officially considered to be off duty, even if
she is physically present at her own service. Nurses often arrive at
their service some time before their shift begins, being well assured
that no one will expect them to start working right away. It may
 Eviatar Zerubavel 177

happen, too, that a nurse will sit at her station some time past the end
of her shift, yet remind anyone who asks her to do something that she
is already off duty. (It should be added, though, that such instances
are far more common in emergency rooms, where the patient turn-
over is considerably more rapid and staff-patient relationships,
therefore, far less continuous and personal, than on inpatient units.)
The nurses' report is a sort of closing ceremony, and any presence in
the hospital after it has ended can be required only for the purpose of
completing tasks which are supposed to have been completed during
the duty period. Nurses can be required, for example, to stay in the
hospital some time past the end of the report they have given, in
order to finish writing up progress notes on each of their patients, a
chore to be completed before leaving. On such occasions, however,
they are not expected to fulfil and assume any other nursing duties
and responsibilities.
That nurses often arrive at work some fifteen or twenty minutes
ahead of time only to sit at their station without even glancing at a
bed or a chart - because they are not on duty yet - clearly
demonstrates that even pure concern and motivation can be bureau-
cratised. That these are artificially regulated in such a rigid way by the
clock implies that they cannot be fully accounted for on a psychologi-
cal level alone. The bureaucratisation of professional commitments is
particularly impressive in the case of a profession such as nursing,
since it implies ... [that it has] already penetrated one of the most
sacred domains of health care; such an analysis is clearly applicable to
the work situations of secretaries, bank tellers, factory workers, and
so on. Moreover, it is very unlikely that even other domains of social
life where one would assume that professionals are ever-available
(consider, for example, the military, politics, the church, and the
police) do not have similar mechanisms of segregating the more
private- from the more public-time.
Furthermore, not only do I regard the above analysis of the nursing
profession as applicable to most other modern occupations; its
applicability is by no means restricted to the domain of work. The
conceptual framework which I have constructed around the concepts
of private-time and public-time is definitely applicable to analyses of
social organisation and social interaction in general. ..
11 Time and the Long-term
Prisoner
Stanley Cohen and Laurie Taylor

(From, S. Cohen and L. Taylor, Psychological Survival: The Experi-

ence of Long Term Imprisonment, Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1972.)

THE PRESENT AND THE FUTURE

Those who dislike speculation about past and future can usually
see an end to the situation which has induced such relative breaks in
the normal scheduling of life; they can consider plans for when they
get out of hospital, or prison, or home on holiday. There are still bills
to be paid, visits to relations to be arranged, home coming parties to
be organised during those times when one is absent from the normal
run of life. The ordinary temporal scheduling of one's affairs is kept
in the background of one's mind by the continued operation of such
financial, domestic and social matters. When twenty years of one's
time is taken away, even these routine matters disappear. The
landscape of time, the past and the future, and the actual significance
of the present moment insistently occupy the mind. The prisoners in
E-Wing found Victor Serge's description of this obsessive state the
most accurate.
The unreality of time is palpable. Each second falls slowly. What a
measureless gap from one hour to the next. When you tell yourself
in advance that six months - or six years - are to pass like this, you
feel the terror of facing an abyss. At the bottom, mists in the
darkness (1970, p. 56).
This unlimited time does not have the same subjective appeal for
the prisoners as for the hippie drug user, or the monk or hermit. For
as we have said it is not their own time. They did not volunteer for
twenty years' self-reflection. And neither do they have a ready-made
set of interpretations, a personal ideology to fill the hours of self-
reflection. The sophisticated drug user may be self-consciously using
his expanded consciousness of time to construct mental reveries, the
hermit and the monk may be conversing with God in their time-free

178
 Stanley Cohen and Laurie Taylor 179

trances, but the long-term prisoner has no such ready-made mystical

voyages to take the place of his previous involvement in plans,
schedules and routines.
In these circumstances, it is not surprising that the prisoners live for
the present - not from some ideological disdain for future planning,
but out of necessity. To quote from the experience of one American
prisoner: 'You do your time in little daily jerks, living from one
microscopic pleasure to the next - from breakfast pancakes to a flash
of blue sky ... Try it any other way and you'll be pounding the walls,
screaming until your lungs give out'. Richard Byrd, isolated in a polar
camp, came to the same solution:
I built a wall between myself and the past in an effort to extract
every ounce of diversion and creativeness inherent in my immedi-
ate surroundings. Every day I experimented with new schemes for
increasing the content of the hours ... My environment was intrin-
sically treacherous and difficult but I saw ways to make it agree-
able. I tried to cook more rapidly, take weather and auroral
observations more expertly and do routine things more systematic-
ally. Full mastery of the impinging moment was my goal (1938,
p.109).
In prison, one also has to find ways of 'increasing the content of the
hours' but 'mastery of the impinging moment' has a very different
meaning for those who - unlike explorers or even short-term prisoners-
do not have a clear conception of the future after one survives the
treacherous environment. It is all very well to engage in relatively
'meaningless' activities - such as making weather observations - so
long as this can be seen as part of a finite period of waiting before
release. The long-termer has only the choice between surrendering
himself to this meaningless world as a life project or obsession ally
thinking about the future - a near certain way of doing hard time.
This discussion leads us to the paradox inherent in the way long-
termers deal with the future. In one sense the future is unthinkable.
Roy once remarked that, 'If I really thought that I had to do another
seventeen years, I'd do myself in'. Other prisoners fight attempts by
prison officers to bring home the time factor. Jock said: 'Whenever a
screw asks me how long do I think I'll do, I always say, "Oh, about
thirty-five years", because then he can get no advantage from the
conversation. If I say "Twenty", he'd say, "Oh no, I think it'll be at
least twenty-five". Really I don't know what any of the figures mean'.
The paradox arises in that while the men reject attempts by others to
180 Time and the Long-term Prisoner

raise the subject, or dismiss thought about the nature of the future
from their own minds, they are also relying upon ideas about a future
life outside to sustain themselves through their temporally undiffer-
entiated days.
For without entertaining the prospect of a life beyond the prison,
without literally believing in an 'after life', one has to either face the
fact that one's life was over at the moment of entering the prison, or
that one's life is that existence which takes place within the prison.
The concept of 'my life' is an important one in our culture. Young
men look ahead to life, old men look back upon it. People talk about
their life being behind or ahead of them. In other words we identify
life with particular periods of our existence, with the time between
youth and old age, that time before prison, the time which is to come
after prison. What appears to be totally unacceptable is the idea that
one's life is experienced in prison. One may be serving life, but one is
not serving 'my life'. This was certainly true for the men we knew and
Farber (1944) found it to be the case in his interviews with 'Eight Men
Whose Chances of Ever Getting Out Are Slight'. His principal
generalisation was that 'in not a single case of these men whose
chances of ever getting out are negligible is there complete resigna-
tion to dying in prison. That most dismal of all platitudes "Where
there is life there's hope" takes on a new freshness'. (p.180).

MARKING TIME

In the circumstances, prisoners who have to sustain their lives in some

way look around for ways of marking out the passage of the days,
ways of differentiating and dividing time. Psychologists and sociolog-
ists have paid little attention to the problems which occur for those
whose lives are suddenly emptied of time markers in this total way.
Perhaps their involvement in a particularly highly scheduled career
structure makes them insensitive to the empty formless years which
others have to occupy. At least the only major research into such
matters was carried out by Julius Roth (1963), a sociologist who
suddenly found himself absorbed by the problem of time-scheduling
when he was away from academic life and spending time as a patient
in a T.B. sanatorium.
Patients who enter such sanatoria are often surprised to find that
they are given no exact date for their release. Lack of information
over this matter leads to a frantic activity. Doctors, nurses and other
 Stanley Cohen and Laurie Taylor 181

patients are repeatedly questioned and quite ambiguous items of

information are treated as significant clues. The demand for a
timetable leads the patients to bargain with physicians about the
nature and extent of their improvement in order that an earlier
release date may be negotiated. Roth's principal concern is to
indicate how important career timetables are in most areas of life and
to demonstrate the concern which arises when the stages which
constitute them are ambiguous or non-existent.
This study by Roth brings out the fact that one obvious benchmark,
one way of dividing time, which is built into the sanatorium regimes,
is the notion of linear progress. One gets better or stronger; one is
able to do things one could not do before. But in E-Wing no such
reference to linear progress is possible. Criteria for the positive
evaluation of one's progress are not built into the system, and there
are no progressive stages of reward and punishment. Though parole
is a reward somewhat contingent on good behaviour, most of the men
we know see its attainment (realistically) as so remote that it hardly
functions as a stage of progress. Indeed, the chances of parole can be
almost arbitrarily affected by the sudden appearance of a newspaper
item on a notorious criminal. The men in the wing saw any popular
reference to them in the Sunday newspapers as setting back even
further their chances of remission. They were sophisticated enough to
know how much the deliberations of a parole board were eventually
influenced by public opinion, despite its avowed concern with the
actual individual under consideration.
Unlike the T.B. patients described by Roth, these men have no
opportunities for bargaining with the authorities. Their behaviour
cannot influence their timetable, there is no room for 'making deals'
with their keepers that will help to shorten the stretch or bring an
earlier relaxation of restrictions. Unlike hospitals, again, there is
nothing in the behaviour of the staff to give prisoners any clues about
when events should occur in the passage of time. The absence and the
inscrutability of the Home Office personnel who control a few of the
temporal and situational outcomes, are seen as necessary ways of
keeping control and preserving security.
The men therefore tend to create stages themselves. They build
their own subjective clock in order to protect themselves from the
terror of 'the misty abyss'. There are a few achievements which can
be used to mark the passage of time. One can engage in mind-
building (reading or studying) and in body-building (usually weight-
lifting). Some of the men talk about an educational career, describing
182 Time and the Long-term Prisoner

the passage from '0' levels to 'A' levels to university with an

enthusiasm which is rarely found in even those who have a chance of
occupationally capitalising upon the restricted years of specialised
study which constitute contemporary secondary education. The signi-
ficance of weightlifting in this context may be less than we at first
thought. It was possible in the wing to find men who agreed that
being able to lift extra weights constituted a way of marking out
improvements over time, but a somewhat more cynical view came in
reply to an article of ours in which we had made this point. An ex-
member of the class wrote: 'In my opinion body-building was a bad
example because it serves far more potent motives than the need for a
concrete progression. Some of the prisoners in question would rather
put an inch on their biceps than take a year off their sentence'.
In any case there is a danger in these pursuits of mental and
physical targets, for there soon comes a day in which progress is
inhibited, in which fewer books are read, fewer essays written and
less weights lifted. In normal life we can declare that our interests
have declined in such matters and re-invest successfully in foreign
travel and golf. For these prisoners the loss of such matters marks the
re-entry of unstructured time.
There are other methods of marking time. One can tick off certain
fixed, definable periods: days, weeks, or months. But this may merely
bring home the unreality of time even more forcibly. As Serge writes:
So as not to lose track of the date, you have to count the days
attentively, mark each one with a cross. One morning you discover
that there are forty-seven days - or one hundred and twenty, or
three hundred and forty-seven! - and that it is a straight path
leading backwards without the slightest break: colourless, insipid,
senseless. Not a single landmark is visible. Months have passed like
so many days; entire days pass like minutes. Future time is
terrifying. The present is heavy with torpor.
Each minute may be marvellously - or horribly - profound. That
depends to a certain extent on yourself. There are swift hours and
very long seconds. Past time is void. There is no chronology of
events to mark it; external duration no longer exists (1970, p. 56-7).
It is the lack of chronology of events that is most important in
Serge's description. Of course, days come and go, but they do not
pass as they do on the outside when one is waiting for an event,
simply because they are no longer beads on a wire, or counters on a
board. They are not progressively used up as one moves towards a
 Stanley Cohen and Laurie Taylor 183

goal. They are isolated fragments; existing away from the normal
cumulative linear context they inhabit. In Roth's words: 'The life
prisoner can look forward to Sunday as a welcome break in a dreary
routine, but the succession of Sundays does not lead him anywhere'.
In the circumstances, the external clock may be partially aban-
doned in favour of such subjective markers as changes in mood or
feeling. These may have a reality and a temporal meaning which is
lacking in the world of clocks and diaries and calendars. Christopher
Burney although writing specifically about solitary confinement,
captures this transition:
Days in prison are distinguishable only by such rare incidents as
from time to time make one of them memorable among its fellows.
Although I never lost count of the week or of the date, I followed
them subconsciously, and life was divided into longer periods,
limited by a state of mind or a physical condition; and it was these
more personal symbols than sun or moon which marked out the
calendar (1952, p. 23).
Shorter sentences undoubtedly are managed in more othordox
ways: days are crossed off calendars and hours until release are pen-
cilled on all walls. The techniques for conducting such time manage-
ment become accepted parts of prison folk-lore. Leary (1970) recalls
noticing that the numbers pinned to a trustee's wall signifying the
date were removed each day but there was no number for the day on
which he was looking at the wall. He asked the prisoner why and the
reply was: 'in con terminology when you wake up in the morning that
day is over' (p.77). There were attempts to advocate variations in
such techniques to meet the case of long sentences. When Roland
arrived in E-Wing he turned to Paul for advice on the structuring of
time. 'How am I going to do twenty years?' Paul, on the basis of three
years' experience of an equally long sentence, provided the only
reassurance he knew: 'Its easy, do it five years at a time'.
There are of course the 'incidents' referred to by Burney which
occur in the wing and which break up the dull passage of time. Many
ofthese are, however, unscheduled and it is therefore not possible to
look forward to them or prepare for them. The sudden transfer of a
man from the wing or the arrival of a new inmate is typically
unexpected. Events which occur in this sudden way are deprived of
significance. Once again it is easy to forget how important for our
existence is the anticipation of such matters in everyday life. The dull
Monday morning becomes acceptable because of the promise of an
184 Time and the Long-term Prisoner

evening out on Thursday, the long winter is bearable because of an

anticipated Easter holiday. Each event by itself may be trivial, even
dispensable without great psychic cost, but together they constitute a
set of inducements which help to move us forward through time ...
The routine of E-Wing was so short of events that even our classes
became something of an occasion. We were told by the men, quite
self-consciously (gently mocking themselves and us at the same time)
how they would sometimes make quite elaborate preparations - like
'dressing up' - for our meetings. We were at least outsiders and this
they found reassuring. We could pass on in detail the changes in life
which were occurring outside, we could interpret changes in the
political climate, in drug use, in popular music, in sexual permissive-
ness. Their ability to assimilate these changes, to approve or accept
the widespread use of marihuana or the increased permissiveness of
the cinema, provided some type of guarantee that they could rejoin
society without too great a strain upon their release. To put it
pretentiously we helped to keep them in gear with external-time and
in this way provided them with a way of marking time which did not
simply refer to the unserved years of their sentence.
But our visits did not of course have the emotional significance of
visits from friends and relatives. Such visits were events to be planned
for, to be anticipated over days and weeks. Fred Davis talks about
the 'accordion effect' that such events produce: a man stretches the
time of the event, from the point of its anticipation through to the
discussions that follow its occurrence (quoted in Calkins, 1970). With
more feeling Serge (1970) calls these effects 'exultation': the radiant
joy at the expectation of recognition by others, and the fact that 'a
fifteen-minute visit is enough to fill long days with expectation and
long days with meaning afterwards'.
Unfortunately ... such events may become increasingly rare as the
prisoner moves towards the end of his first decade inside. The joy
produced by a visit and the structuring of time which its anticipation
allows is not enough to overcome the pains of anxiety which a
possible break in that relationship induces.

WORK AND MAKING TIME PASS

Victor Serge described the 'present' in prison as being 'heavy with
torpor'. Days do not go past at their conventional pace. However the
adaption of new methods of time-scheduling in this ambiguous
situation is not the only problem facing the long-termer. It is not just
 Stanley Cohen and Laurie Taylor 185

the division of time which concerns him but the speed of its passage.
How can it be made to go more quickly? The anticipation of visits or
the expectation of letters does nothing about increasing the speed at
which time goes. Obsessional concern with such future events may
even slow time as anyone who has fixedly waited for a kettle to boil
will know.
In everyday life we typically make time go by throwing ourselves
into occupational activities. We bury ourselves in our work so that we
have no time for 'clock-watching'. This method is not much use even
to the average prisoner. It is not much use hoping that a man in
Parkhurst's 'tag shop' will become involved in his job of sticking metal
ends in to the lengths of green string used to keep files together. It is
even less reasonable to suppose that men facing twenty years in jail
can lose themselves in repairing sewing machines or making mosquito
nets - to name two of the jobs provided for E-Wing men. But people
faced with such monotonous jobs in the outside world do, of course,
cope. One commentator on the workers' struggle to 'cling to the
remnants of joy in work' notes that 'it is psychologically impossible to
deprive any kind of work of all its positive emotional elements'.
(Henri de Man, quoted in Roy, 1960) [see Chapter 9 in this volume].
The worker will always find some meaning, some scope for initiative,
play and creative impulse in the activity assigned to him.
We doubt that this is true for long-term prisoners. The culturally
defined meanings of work: learning a trade, making something for
one's family, financial incentive, are gone. Even if prison jobs were
interesting, work for a life prisoner has a very peculiar status indeed:
if factory workers have ... desperately [to] invest jobs with meaning
and time markers, then prisoners without clear meanings or time
markers have to try and find them in the work they are given. So their
problem is a double one.
In these circumstances it is not surprising to find that only five men
out of the forty-two in the ... sample listed work as a way of making
time go faster. Ten of the rest saw no ways at all of solving this prob-
lem and the others mentioned hobbies, reading, or private study:
activities we would regard in the outside as leisure. When workshops
were introduced into E-Wing in 1968 there were references to the fact
that the men had done no work for six months and were becoming
lazy. Certainly many of them regarded the introduction of the work-
shops as an additional punishment rather than as an escape from torpor
and this was the main reason for the protest and barricade which
immediately followed. An editorial comment at this time admitted
186 Time and the Long-term Prisoner

that the work that was being offered was not interesting or relevant.
The real value of the new workshops was that they would 'occupy idle
hands and minds, and perpetuate the idea that work, as opposed to
idleness, is a requirement of life' (Newcastle Journal).
The very use of the word 'work' is misleading in this context. As
Erving Goffman observed in Asylums:
In the ordinary arrangements of living in our society, the authority
of the work place stops with the worker's receipt of a money
payment; the spending of this in a domestic and recreational setting
is the worker's private affair and constitutes a mechanism through
which the authority of the work place is kept within strict bounds.
But to say that inmates of total institutions have their full day
scheduled for them is to say that all their essential needs will have
to be planned for. Whatever the incentive given for work, then,
this incentive will not have the structural significance it has on the
outside. There will have to be different motives for work and
different attitudes toward it. This is a basic adjustment required of
the inmates and of those who must induce them to work (1961a,
p.lO).
The absurdity of 'work' within the context of the security wing is
perhaps most neatly illustrated by the fact that what is a 'job' in one
wing - making soft toys - is offered as a hobby in another.
We always found it difficult to maintain a conversation about work
with prisoners in E-Wing. They gave the impression that there were
other more important matters to be discussed. What job they were
doing at the time made little apparent difference to their feelings
about life inside. Once again, we are able to turn to Farber (1944) for
some interesting confirmation of these findings. With the help of
prison officials and prisoners he divided jobs along a good-bad axis
and then checked on the relationship between the relative suffering
experienced by the prisoners and the quality of the job. There was no
link at all. Those with bad jobs suffered no more or less than those
with good. He was sufficiently surprised by this result to check up on
job satisfaction as well. For perhaps men who had good jobs might
dislike them and vice versa. But no relationship between degree of
job satisfaction and suffering could be found. Farber concludes by
saying that 'what would seem to be one of the most important of day-
to-day activities bears no relation to suffering. Suffering is related to
broader, less immediate aspects of the life situation' (p. 174).
We have been a little too sweeping, however, in writing off work as
 Stanley Cohen and Laurie Taylor 187

a way of speeding up the passage of time. There are a few in prison

who feel it to be better than nothing. They admit that it is a self-
deception, but claim that there is no alternative. They feel sympathe-
tic to Ivan Denisovich's view: 'How time flew when you were
working. That was something he'd often noticed. The days rolled by
in the camp - they were over before you could say "knife". But the
years never rolled by, they never moved by a second' (Solzhenitsyn,
1968, p. 104).
For some time we assumed that these differences in attitude toward
the use of work to pass time were idiosyncratic. But behind the
cynical view of work may lie a concern about what is involved in
passing time in this way. It was the more rebellious members of the
group who played down the significance of becoming involved in such
activities. In doing this they may have been recognising the loss of
personal autonomy which is involved in fitting oneself to others'
schedules. Kathy Calkins, who has conducted a very sensitive
investigation into the time in a rehabilitation hospital, reserves the
phrase 'time passing' for this particular style of adaptation:
When time is passed (emphasis mine), the patient tends to re-
linquish a certain amount of control over his own time. Essentially,
he fits into the time of others according to their time prescriptions.
In this style, the patient voluntarily fills pockets of time outlined by
the institution (1970, p.495).
For the long-termer to seek to pass time by immersing himself in
institutional routines may be to accord some type of legitimacy to the
institution. It is to acknowledge that his sentence will be served in
accordance with the intentions of the authorities.
The marking and the passing of time are then major elements in
long-term prisoners' lives. Time presents itself as a problem. It is no
longer a resource to be used, but rather an object to be contemplated
- an undifferentiated landscape which has to be marked out and
traversed. Conventional markers cannot be used and neither can
one's journey be expedited by recourse to conventional methods.
Nevertheless the length of the journey continually preoccupies the
mind, for only after it has been made can life be effectively resumed.
 Part V
Culture and Perspective
12 Time Perspective and
Social Structure
Lewis Coser and Rose Coser

(From L.A. Coser and R.L. Coser, 'Time Perspective and Social
Structure'. First published in A.W. Gouldner and H.P. Gouldner
(eds), Modern Sociology, New York: Harcourt, Brace and World,
1963.)

The social roots of time-reckoning - i.e., the group-sustained ways of

thinking of time - have engaged the interest of some sociologists since
the pioneering work of Durkheim and his school (Durkheim, 1947;
Durkheim and Mauss, 1910-12; Hubert and Mauss 1909; Halbwachs,
1935). Durkheim, for example, stated that a 'calendar expresses the
rhythm of collective activities, while at the same time its function is to
assure their regularity' (1947, pp.10-11). Among primitive people,
the names of days, months, seasons and even of years are frequently
fixed by the rhythm of economic and social activities. In our own,
more complex societies, where the astronomical calendar provides an
'objective' measurement of time, we find it necessary to introduce
such concepts as 'a semester', 'a weekend' - terms indicating the
social rather than the strictly chronological meaning of time. And if,
at a social gathering, we tell stories about some time past, we locate
the events in a social context, such as 'during the New Deal', 'after
the First World War', etc., for the related events gain meaning
through their location in social rather than in merely calendrical time.
Merton and Sorokin state: 'Systems of time-reckoning reflect the
social activities of the group. Their springs of initiation are collective;
their continued observance is demanded by social necessity. They
arise from the round of group life, are largely determined by the
routine of religious activity and the occupational order of the day, are
essentially a product of social interaction' (1937, pp. 620-1) [see
Chapter 4 in this volume]. They conclude that 'time-reckoning is
basically dependent upon the organisation and functions of the
group' (p.621).
However, not only time-reckoning, but also the way group mem-
bers relate themselves to the past and future - i.e., their time
perspective - is to a large extent dependent upon the group's structure

191
192 Time Perspective and Social Structure

and functions. Time perspective is an integral part of a society's

values and individuals orient their actions in the present and toward
the future with reference to the groups whose values they share.
Unlike animal societies, all human societies contain mechanisms by
which each generation is linked by learning to the past. Whether
through the transmission of myths and legends by the elders of a tribe
or the teaching of wisdom by priests or shamans, whether through
grandmother's fairy tales or grandfather's reminiscences, (Halb-
wachs, 1935, p. 140ff) every generation is called upon to relate to a
past common to a whole culture or to some group within it. Such
common reference to the past by members of the same generation
binds them together and cements more firmly the values that guide
them in the present. Similarly, of all animals man is the only one who
can plan for the future, who can postpone enjoyment in the expecta-
tion of future rewards ... [M]an is [thus] constantly guided in his
actions by future expectations while he relates such actions to the
cultural values of the present and the cultural heritage of the past.
However, societies and groups within societies differ greatly with
regard to the emphasis they place on either the past, present or
future. Such emphasis depends largely on the total value system.
Florence Kluckholm and John Speigel point out that Spanish-
Americans, who take the attitude that man is a victim of natural
forces, also emphasise the present without caring too much about
what happened in the past and without attempting to control future
happenings by their actions in the present; they do not hold the hope
that the future will be better than either the present or the past and
they therefore engage relatively little in what we would call 'planning'
behaviour (Kluckholm and Speigel, 1954).
Oswald Spengler, one of the first to concern himself with cultural
time orientations, though in a rather unsystematic manner, claimed
that 'classical man's existence ... was wholly contained in the instant,
... there was no "time" in it', (1926), p. 132) while Egyptian, and
modern Western cultures are both past- and future-oriented.
Irving Hallowell (1937) has pointed out that among the Saulteaux
'all means ... of temporal orientation are local, limited in their
application to the immediate future, the recent past, immediate
activities'. Marian W. Smith (1952) states that concern with the
future is most characteristic of present-day Western cultures; the
Chinese use the present as a focal point from which existence flows
evenly in both directions, and the Coast-Salish of the State of
Washington are fundamentally present-minded.
 Lewis Coser and Rose Coser 193

Although anthropologists have pointed to the importance of temp-

oral orientation in cultural life, it would be erroneous to import
uncritically into sociological theory methods and results taken pri-
marily from research in non-literate societies (Bierstedt, 1948). The
pitfalls of such a practice are obvious: while it might be possible to
make valid statements about the time perspective of a non-literate
culture as a whole, such an approach tends to become most hazardous
when applied to differentiated and heterogenous contemporary
societies. To state that Western culture, for example, is future-
oriented, that America's 'orientation leans toward the future',
(Ruesch and Bateson, 1951) seems of little help if we realise that,
within such societies, important groups may be oriented toward goals
which are not shared by other groups, that some may adhere to their
particular code of values and be governed by a time perspective
considerably at variance with that of the dominant culture. It is the
merit of Florence Kluckholm to have shown that societies contain
both dominant and substitute orientations and that, even if we can
with some certainty draw the dominant American cultural profile, 'it
does not follow that all Americans can, do or want - in one situation
or another - to follow the patterns of behaviour which are expressive
of it. It has been a mistake ... to seek for a picture of cultural
integration in one-dimensional terms' (Kluckholm, 1949-50, p. 383).
In American society, the time perspective of some groups or strata
may be influenced by future-oriented Utopian or chiliastic thinking -
e.g., political sects and religious groups; in others, such as southern
Old Families, concern with the past may outweigh consideration and
preoccupation with both present and future (Warner and Lunt, 1941;
Davis et al., 1941; Knupfer, 1947). Men are likely to view their
present in a different light if they focus on the here and now than if
they see the present either as instrumental for the future or as merely
a mutilated fragment of a glorious past. Such variations, however, do
not only characterise different cultures but they may appear contem-
poraneously within various groups of the same society.
Karl Mannheim has argued cogently that 'the innermost structure
of the mentality of a group can never be as clearly grasped as when
we attempt to understand its conception of time in the light of its
hopes, yearnings and purposes' (1936, p. 188). Hence the inability to
understand a group's time perspective not only makes it more
difficult for the observer to comprehend the general orientation of
the group, but it will also lead to gaps in social communication
between the different constituent groups of a society.
194 Time Perspective and Social Structure

For example, negative stereotypes prevalent in American middle

class thought with regard to lower class behaviour may be traced
partly to the fact that to the future-oriented middle class, behaviour
rooted in a shortened time perspective, in which the present pre-
dominates and thought for the morrow is pushed into the back-
ground, appears repellent and irrational; hence, middle class indigna-
tion over lack of foresight leading to the higher fertility rates of the
lower strata, or the middle class reference to the lack of thriftiness of
the lower class. Involved here is an in-comprehension of present-
oriented and consummatory behaviour from a standpoint which
prizes the postponement of gratification in expectation of future
rewards.
The reverse is, of course, also the case. As Jeremy Bentham has
said in his Defense of Usury, 'those who have the resolution to
sacrifice the present to the future, are natural objects of envy to those
who have sacrificed the future to the present. The children who have
eaten their cake are the natural enemies of the children who have
theirs' .
Differences in time perspective do not always hinder the integra-
tion of a social system; under certain circumstances they may
contribute to its maintenance and adaption. For example, although
the dominant American culture emphasises an optimistic orientation
toward the future and values success through the clever manipulation
of present resources in the interest of planning for future mobility,
departures from this perspective in the lower class may serve to
maintain a system of class differentiation. If members of the lower
class discount the future to some extent, if rather than adopting
middle class styles of postponement of gratification they engage in
consummatory behaviour in some respects (Davis, 1946; Ginzberg
1948; Zweig, 1952; Leshan, 1952), this may serve as a brake upon
competition for upper-status positions and thus perpetuate the
existing allocation of power and resources between various strata
(Hyman, 1953; Sneider and Lysgaard, 1953). Similarly, if in towns
such as Yankee City or Jonesville we find persons diverging from the
dominant future orientation in favour of either present or past
orientation (present for the lower, past for the upper groups), this
may serve as a dam against too generalised competition for top
positions in the occupational system ...
Departures from the dominant time orientation may be felt by the
dominant group to be of little practical consequence if they maintain,
or at least do not threaten, the status quo. Sectarians whose variant
 Lewis Coser and Rose Coser 195

time perspective is confined, for example, to indulgence in Utopian

hopes on Sunday church service, but who in their workaday life
participate in individualistic striving for success, may face only the
mild ridicule of their neighbours. On the other hand, groups whose
time perspective leads to everyday conduct that negates and
threatens the basic orientations of the dominant culture, such as
chilastic sects who believe in the imminence of a Second Coming of
Christ and who refuse to adhere to the values of individualistic action
and occupational achievement, are likely to meet sharper forms of
censure. Finally, Communist or anarchist groups who actively try to
undermine present society in the name of a Utopia, that is an image
of an ideally perfect society, are likely to be faced by most stringent
punishments.

TYPES OF DEVIANT TIME PERSPECTIVES

Departures from the dominant 'active, individualistic orientation

toward the future' of Western cultures is likely to occur whenever
such orientation is felt to be unrewarding and frustrating. Such
departures may take place on an individual level, by striving for social
mobility through culturally tabooed means, or through retreat into
hedonistic, pleasure-oriented and consummatory behaviour, relin-
quishing the struggle for future goals and seeking immediate gratifica-
tion. Remedy may also be looked for by adherence to some
subgroups - for example, trade unions - who propose, through their
collective actions, to change their members' frustrating conditions in
the near future. Lastly, frustrated individuals may seek belongingness
in groups who share a vision of a more rewarding distant future and
thus find it possible to endure present deprivations.
Orientations toward time are likely to be linked with other types of
orientations; the focus on time may be accompanied by collective or
individualistic behaviour. Moreover, as we will see presently, it may
be associated with an active or passive orientation ... [T]able [12.1]
attempts to capture four of the most prevalent types of dominant and
divergent time perspectives in American culture.
Type I [in Table 12.1] involves no basic departure from the in-
stitutionally approved time perspective. Whether the person adheres
to legitimised means (such as hard work) in his attempt to 'get
ahead' in the future, or whether he seeks future rewards by recourse
to non-legitimate means, he does not depart from the dominant
196 Time Perspective and Social Structure

Table 12.1 Dominant and divergent time perspectives in

American culture
Type Time perspective
I. Individualistic and
active Conformist
II. Collective and active (a) Oriented towards
individual future
(b) Oriented towards
collective future
(utopian)
III.Collective and
passive Chiliastic
IV. Individualistic and
passive Hedonist

orientation toward individual success and hence the dominant time

perspective.
Type II, persons who seek a collective alleviation of frustrating
conditions, may (a) share the individualistic ideals of their culture,
diverging merely from the dominant individualistic pattern of action,
or they may (b) set up both collective counter-symbols of a better
future society to be realised through collective action in the present.
While the former may involve only limited departures from the
dominant perspective, such as foregoing some immediate individual
satisfactions in the interest of building or strengthening an organisa-
tion that is to bring about a better future for the individual, the latter
entails a more thorough rejection of the dominant time perspective.
Types III and IV are those who reject the activistic future
orientation of the dominant culture. Whether quietly expecting
events to 'happen', or whether individually engaged in hedonistic
behaviour, their time orientations are passive and thus diverge
sharply from both previously discussed time perspectives.
This typology raises the question whether there is a greater
likelihood for one rather than another of these time perspectives to
be adopted in varying group situations.
Type I: Individualistic and active: conformist time perspective In a
society in which upward social mobility is highly valued and avenues
of mobility are actually present, those experiencing frustration of
goals because they belong to lower strata frequently take the higher
strata and their time perspective as reference points. Future rewards
may be sought actively and individually, by means which are socially
 Lewis Coser and Rose Coser 197

acceptable or disapproved. In either case, the time perspective of the

dominant strata has not been replaced. These orientations do not
involve basic departures from approved social goals even though they
may entail strictly tabooed or legally and morally suppressed behaviour,
since they arrive at individual success through individual efforts.
For our purposes the other three types are of more immediate
interest, since all of them seem to involve departures from the
prevailing value system and the prevailing time perspectives.
Type lIa: Collective, active, individual-future - the perspective of
voluntary instrumental associations Trade unions provide one ex-
ample of this perspective. Although they strive for future rewards
through collective rather than individual action, organised workers
demand, from their union, services which will increase economic
return and security on the job for each member individually. As C.
Wright Mills argues, 'Unions are usually accepted as something to be
used, rather than as something in which to believe' (1951, p. 308). In
so far as this is the case, affiliation with a union is merely a departure
from culturally dominant individualistic means without leading to
drastic departures from the institutionalised goal of individual suc-
cess. Union organisation involves an alternative to the traditional
individualistic means of obtaining individual goals of success. They
are collective instruments for pursuing individual goals.
However, insofar as collective activity for future benefits requires
temporary renunciation of immediate benefit on behalf of collective
action, it differs from the dominant pattern of conduct. Hence the
willingness of workers to endure the sacrifices involved in strike
actions in order to strengthen their union. Insofar as the time per-
spective of the unionist involves a collective strategy of strengthening
the union, his present behaviour tends to depart from that expected
in the dominant culture. Insofar, however, as he is still primarily
engaged in striving for individual success albeit with collective
methods he does not seriously depart from the dominant perspective.
Type lIb: Collective, active, collective-future - utopian time perspec-
tive Following Karl Mannheim, we will define Utopias as 'any
process of thought which receives its impetus not from the direct
force of social reality but from symbols ... and ideas ... which in the
most comprehensive sense of that term are non-existent ... [and]
inspire collective activity which aims to change such reality (1931,
p.201). Utopias transcend reality, motivating people to move from
what is to what they feel ought to be (Coser and Jacoby, 1951).
If individuals find their life chances seriously impaired by their
198 Time Perspective and Social Structure

position in the social structure, not finding it possible to escape

frustrating conditions through individual effort conformist or deviant,
they may orient themselves toward those who have similarly impaired
life chances rather than accepting the values of dominant groups.
They are alienated from both the prevailing goals and institutional-
ised means of the dominant culture and attempt to oppose the
existing culture by adhering to divergent values . But they feel that
their values cannot be implemented in the existing society, that this
society must be opposed in favour of a 'better' future society; the
present will then be indicated to be realised in the future and non-
conforming present conduct will be legitimised by reference to future
goals.
In such an orientation, present-day activity is valued only to the
extent that it hastens the emergence of the future world. The 'class-
conscious' European worker, for example, shared with other workers
a time perspective in which present conduct was in a large measure
determined by his expectations of a socialist future. The Utopian
ideal, which had become a hope for the future and which he shared
with other men in a similar social position, helped him to cope with
the insecurity and frustrations of the present. While for the most part
the American worker seems to live predominantly in the immediate
present or in hopes of individual success and opportunity that
pervade the time perspective of the dominant culture, the European
worker, his hopes for mobility apparently blocked, was drawn to
Utopian time perspectives. His conduct was thus not characterised by
striving for the gratification of immediate short-range needs, but by a
certain amount of asceticism in the present: he sacrificed enjoyment
in the here and now in the service of the future.
People adapt to present conditions in terms of their expectations of
the future. M.L. Farber [1944] has shown that the amount of
suffering [of] prisoners - i.e., the amount of suffering endured in
their present role - depends not so much on the pleasantness or un-
pleasantness of present conditions, but more on the anticipation of
the time of release. Expectations as to the release into a better society
clearly have a similar function in the Utopian mentality, insofar as
they permit the person to 'ignore' and overcome present frustration
in anticipation of future bliss. Studies of concentration camps also
have shown that the inmates' behaviour could frequently be
accounted for by the expectations they had of the future. While new
inmates still clung to hopes of imminent release, thus avoiding a
frequently corrupting adjustment to the horror of the present, old
 Lewis Coser and Rose Coser 199

prisoners often adjusted to the present since they could no longer

relate themselves to a time in which release would be a realistic
possibility. What is more, not only 'time to be served' but time
normatively conceived resulted in differential adjustment. Prisoners
who had Utopian values, such as socialists or communists, proved
better able than those with no future-oriented values to withstand the
corrupting influence of camp life. Given such an orientation, they felt no
need to adjust to the requirements of the 'concentrationary universe' .
On the other hand, prisoners who possessed no reality-transcending
orientation were more easily corrupted (Bettelheim, 1943).
Type III: Collective and passive: chiliastic time perspective This
type of time perspective is distinguished from the Utopian by the fact
that it leads to passive rather than active modes of behaviour.
Emphasis is not on changes to be brought about through active
organisation, but on the belief that the change, consisting in a
tremendous, world-shaking event, can be awaited passively.
Karl Mannheim has well described the chiliastic type: 'the Chiliast
expects a union with the immediate present. Hence he is not
preoccupied in his daily life with optimistic hopes for the future or
romantic reminiscences. His attitude is characterized by a tense
expectation. He is always on his toes awaiting the propitious moment
and thus there is no inner articulation of time for him ... the promise
of the future which is to come is not for him a reason for postpone-
ment, but merely a point of orientation' (1931, p. 195).
Persons who do not have the ability to see the future as related to
the present exhibit modes of thought characteristic of early stages of
childhood. Young children tend to fuse subjective wish-fulfilling
fantasies with elements of objective reality, unable to distinguish
between the two. While the child experiences fantasies and dreams as
a part of an outside reality, normal development brings with it an
increased differentiation between subjective and objective existence,
a distinction between wishes and expectations on the one hand and
knowledge about events on the other (Piaget, 1926) ... The individual
thus acquires the ability to engage in preparatory behaviour that
utilises the present as a means toward the future.
Bettelheim's study of concentration camp inmates again provides
an interesting illustration of such mental process: 'The longer the time
the prisoner had spent in camp, the less true to reality were his
daydreams; so much so that the hopes and expectations of the old
prisoners often took the form of eschatological or messianic hope'
(1947, p. 635).
200 Time Perspective and Social Structure

If demands are frustrated in the present and there seems to exist no

hope for bringing about changes in the future through activity, con-
ditions are present for the emergence of a chiliastic time perspective
in which planning and foresight no longer govern behaviour, since the
future is seen to emerge independently of the intention of acting
individuals. As Lawrence K. Frank has argued, the future focus may
be 'so remote that it loses all potency over the present' (1948, p. 344).
Type IV: Individualistic and passive; Hedonistic time perspective
Although persons indulging in chiliastic visions and wish-fulfilling
fantasies seem to have lost the sense of active forethought and
preparation or planning, they yet have a sense of community belong-
ingness ... [T]ype IV consists of persons who are neither able to act in
a consistent manner nor to form enduring associations with others.
They are so completely devoid of a sense of the future that they are
immersed in the here and now of consummatory activity; they do not
see the present as preparatory and instrumental for the future. As
Lawrence K. Frank remarked, 'the more immediate the focus the
more he will exhibit consummatory behaviour and react naively and
ignore the consequences' (1948, p. 344). In this category we find such
marginal social types as the hobo, the tramp, the drifter, whose ways
of life bar them from membership in any community and who live
largely from day to day (see Anderson, 1923; Orwell, 1954; Bedarick,
1957).
We notice here a mutilation or destruction of time perspective so
complete that a voluntary orientation toward a group is no longer
possible. Adherence to a group requires, to some degree at least,
postponement of immediate satisfaction in the interest of group
requirements.
Drastic mutilation of the time perspective is associated with a
breakdown also of other values governing behaviour, and with
primitivisation of the self by which plans become undermined and,
where they are made at all, express only the individual's effective
state of the moment. It is a mode of withdrawal from threatening
reality and a reversion to childlike modes of adaptation in which the
time perspective consists mainly of the immediate past and the
immediate present.
Evidence concerning such a breakdown has been accumulated in
psychiatric observation; but there are also studies of social situations
in which once established time perspectives suddenly were no longer
valid so that mutilation of time perspective occurred. Among Ameri-
can soldiers during World War II, for example, a 'passive adjustment
 Lewis Coser and Rose Coser 201

... involved the shortening of time perspective, living in the short

run, focusing attention on means rather than ends. The hedonism of
combat troops on leave is traditional' (Stouffer et at., 1949, p. 190).
Here the shortening of time perspective is clearly a manifestation of
withdrawal, for the reality of the present forms [no longer] the basis
for estimating the past and planning for the future' (Oberndorf, 1941,
p.144).
Prolonged periods of unemployment also provide illustrations of
this process of primitivisation of time perspective. Wright Bakke
notes:
In many ways the worker, and more especially the unemployed
workman, is unable to take the long view involving a degree of
foresight because of the fear of immediate consequences. He lives
so close to the borderline of want that such a procedure might
involve hardship or even disaster. To live so close to the possibility
of want is to be sorely tempted to provide for the present even at
the expense of the future (1933, p. 42).
The lahoda and Zeisel (1933) study of the unemployed of Marien-
thal shows poignantly how long-term unemployment leads simulta-
neously to a 'degrouping' process - i.e., to a loss of ability to relate to
others, and to a loss in future time perspective with the attendant
inability to plan and to order one's life rationally.

CONCLUSION

In our discussion of the various types of deviant time perspectives we

have indicated that the choice of one or another of these orientations
by individuals and groups does not appear to be fortuitous. Though
the selection of different time perspectives has not been investigated
sufficiently yet to allow conclusive statements, it is at least possible to
present a number of hypotheses about this.
We might thus hypothesise that Utopian orientations are more
likely to prevail among groups and individuals who are alienated
from the prevailing cultural values and who have, at the same time, a
feeling of social-power and importance, perhaps because of their
crucial role in the economy. Utopian thought has flourished usually
among rising classes and strata, such as the middle classes of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries or the working classes of the
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. On the other hand it would
202 Time Perspective and Social Structure

seem that in social strata and among individuals who are deeply
frustrated and psychologically insecure and who do not have a feeling
of strength or ascendancy, one is more likely to find a tendency to
accept passive chiliastic visions; for example, among the peasants of
the European Middle Ages and among Negroes in the antebellum
South.
Those who feel alienated from the present but are yet relatively
secure in their social positions will more readily be drawn toward
Utopian thoughts which stimulate group action than toward chiliastic
hopes. It is among those who are both alienated and insecure that
passive expectations may arise. We would expect that an increase in
relative security will lead to a tendency, among underprivileged
strata, to move from chiliastic hopes and visions - i.e., from passive
expectations to active and collective orientations toward the future.
Recent developments among Negroes in the South seem to indicate
such a development.
Finally it would seem that de grouping to an extreme degree
threatens to lead to a destruction of time perspective, bringing forth
an incapability in coming to grips with the threatening and over-
whelming present. Some improvement in objective conditions seems
to be necessary for such persons to acquire the ability to experience
any hope or expectation - a precondition for relating to the future at
all.
Enough has been said, we hope, to indicate that time perspective
constitutes an important element in the determination of human
activities. As an important variable in interpersonal relations and
culturally patterned conduct, this concept may also prove to be of
special importance in the study of the processes of social change.
13 Time-reckoning in the
Trobriands
Bronislaw Malinowski

(From B. Malinowski, 'Lunar and Seasonal Calendar in the

Trobriands', Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain
and Ireland, 56-57, 1926-27, pp. 203-15.)

A system of reckoning time is a practical, as well as a sentimental,

necessity in every culture, however simple. Members of every human
group have the need of coordinating various activities, of fixing dates
for the future, of placing reminiscences in the past, of gauging the
length of bygone periods and of those to come.
The practical need of time-reckoning arises out of any somewhat
complicated work which has to be distributed over a prolonged
period of time, and in which a number of people have to cooperate.
When the soil is to be tilled or a long fishing or hunting expedition
undertaken, dates have to be fixed by reference to some recurrent
natural phenomena which can be foreseen and defined. When a
magical or religious festival is to be held, there must, as a rule, be
preparations, material as well as spiritual, and it is necessary to place
them within the scheme of other activities. Again, when people from
various localities, at times not easy of access, have to be summoned
and later on to foregather, there must be some way by which a future
date can be defined for some time ahead.
To such practical necessities must be added the sentiment about
the past. Death of friends or relatives is remembered for years.
Great events of tribal importance, warlike expeditions, especially
grand festivals, are kept in memory by members of all human
societies.
Important or dramatic incidents, such as a year of famine, in which
many people died of starvation, or a pestilence, or a serious quarrel
within the community, a slave raid or a head-hunting expedition, are
usually remembered for long, and placed in their proper place within
the retrospective vista of past ages. Even the minimum of historical
interest which is always found among the 'simplest savages' requires a
system of chronology which, although it need not go very far back,
and usually loses itself soon in the mists of legend, yet, such as it is,

203
204 Time-reckoning in the Trobriands

forms an important attempt at a system of coordinating the vague

data of human history of natural process.
All these wants, whether practical or sentimental, do not determine,
however, or even indicate the manner in which time has to be counted.
To us, with our present astronomical knowledge, it is clear that
precision, as well as avoidance of the danger of a vicious circle in time-
counting, can ... be achieved [only] by measuring time astronomically.
It is also easy to see that an elementary astronomical calendar would
not be beyond the mental range of the simplest savages. With all this,
only minute observations of how natives cope with the problem, how
they frame it and how they adjust their knowledge to their require-
ments can give a satisfactory answer to all questions.
A number of detailed accounts should be forthcoming, each show-
ing the natives' state of knowledge in astronomy and meteorology,
their interests in natural phenomena, and the manner in which they
utilise their data for their chronological requirements. In this it is
especially important to reproduce the native perspective - i.e., what
appears to them best adapted for time-reckoning, what most relevant
among recurring natural events, and in what way they try to
harmonise the various possible systems of time-reckoning.
Some such data upon native time-reckoning are here given with
reference to the Trobriand Islanders of North-West Melanesia. They
live in the stage of polished stone, and their activities, such as
gardening,
fishing, overseas expeditions, tribal warfare and festivities, burial and
commemoration rites, require definite calendar arrangements. As a
matter of fact, they are able to define a date several months ahead.
They
can also count the time several generations back, and place an event
approximately within a certain season of a certain year.
In defining time, they use a number of elements which can be
roughly classified into three groups - the astronomical, the meteor-
ological, and the cultural. The first are based upon observation of the
stars, sun, and moon; the second upon recurrent changes in wind and
weather; the third on human seasonal pursuits. It will be well to keep
this tripartite division in mind, and, first, to say a few words about
their astronomical knowledge.

THE ASTRONOMICAL ELEMENT IN NATIVE

CALCULATION

The periodicity of the solar movements, the double yearly passage of

the sun overhead - its southerly path in winter, northerly in summer -
 Bronislaw Malinowski 205

are all known to the natives but never used in framing the idea of a
solar year; in fact, there is in the native remarkably little interest in all
these established facts about the main heavenly body and the relation
of its warmth to fertility. When pressed, the native will say that the
sun walks or moves across the sky; that it dips down at sunset; that
afterwards it moves round under the rim of the earth, from the west
along the southern horizon to the east and rises again in the morning.
But even this theory would be advanced by the most intelligent
natives only, and that without the least enthusiasm or interest. Any
other question would be answered by an ayseki ('I don't knew').
The main active attitude taken up towards the sun consists in the
waygigi the magic of sunshine. It is the counterpart of to'urikuna -
the rainmaker's magic. But the magic of sunshine is merely the
negative, the reverse of rain magic; it is always classified as evil magic
and rather considered as the prevention of rain than as the making of
sunshine. It is one of the main sources of the prestige surrounding the
paramount chiefs. In folk-tales the sun is sometimes personified, but
actually figures there only in a few fairy tales, told for amusement
merely. Only once does it appear in a serious legend, which accounts
for the origin of fire, and in which the story begins with a statement
that the sun, the moon, and fire were born by the same woman. The
rest of the tale is concerned with fire only. As to any cryptic or
symbolic appearance of the sun in any other story, perhaps it might
be found by some armchair philosopher, belonging to the famous
'Natur-mythologische Schule', but an intelligent native, or even
anthropologist, would only smile at it.
The sun is mentioned not infrequently in formulae of magic, but in
a purely descriptive manner; it then usually expresses quickness of
action. Thus, for instance, an event normally lasting over a few days
is described in a spell as beginning in the morning and as terminating
in the afternoon. Examples of such formulae can be found in the
writer's Argonauts of the Western Pacific.
This style of magical invocation stands in close relation with the
main practical use made of the sun for time-reckoning - i.e., the
meaning of the times of the day. A comprehensive series of expres-
sions describe early morning, the time before sunrise, sunrise, the
time when the sun's rays are horizontal, tilted, overhead, aslant,
toppling-over, right down. As can be seen, references to the position
of the sun are predominant.
As to stars, the native has no clear idea of their connection with the
movements of the sun. They note, however, that at certain seasons
206 Time-reckoning in the Trobriands

certain configurations of stars appear in the sky in the evenings. They

have names for a number of constellations, for the Pleiades, for a part
of Orion, the Southern Cross, and many others; and they know in
which season these stars are visible, but they do not use them as a
means of measuring times. Personified stars appear in one myth only.
The moon plays a far greater part in the life of the natives than
either the sun or the stars. But here also there are no traces of the
pseudo-scientific curiosity frequently ascribed to the natives. They do
not worry about the cause of the lunar changes or phases; they have
no tendency, practically or mythologically, to interpret the lunar
cycle in any symbolic or cryptic form. The moon figures in one story,
as being born of a woman, and in another it is personified. But to
direct questions the natives will answer, 'the moon is the moon, just
as you see it, and neither a man nor a woman, nor any living thing'.
There is no magic to do or to undo moonshine, and no lunar ritual
of any sort. The only magical references to the moon are to be found
in the spells of love and beauty, since, as we shall presently see, the
fullness of the moon is used as a simile of fine appearance. Natives
have no belief about the influence of the waning or waxing moon on
vegetation, and the connection between certain months and the
various economic pursuits, especially gardening, are purely empiri-
cal. They will be described presently.
The enormous importance of the moon in tribal life, and the
interest of the natives in it are entirely direct and non-symbolic. In a
country where artificial illumination is extremely primitive, moon-
light is of the greatest importance. It changes night from a time when
it is best to be at home round the fireplace, to a time when, in the
tropics, it is most pleasant to walk or play, or to indulge in any
outdoor exercise. This brings about a periodical heightening of social
life in the village at the second quarter of the full moon. In all
festivities, all enterprises,and on all ceremonial occasions, the climax
is reached at the full moon.
The first quarter, or, as the natives say, the time from the first
appearance of the moon to the moment when it stands overhead at
sunset, is called the 'unripe moon' (tubugeguda). The individual days
of this quarter are not named.
The second quarter is called 'the high moon' (bitowota tubukola) -
i.e., when the moon is high in the sky in the evenings. But this
appellation which marks the whole quarter is specifically applied also
to the 1st and 2nd days of the quarter indiscriminately, that is, to the
8th or 9th day of the moon. After this the natives have different
 Bronislaw Malinowski 207

Table 13.1 Names of days in second and third quarters of the moon.

Quarter Day Name

Second 10th Bitovila
11th Urokaywo
12th Yomkovila
13th Yapila
14th Vala'ita
15th Woulo
16th Tolukwaya
17th Namisa
Third 1 18th Taygakibuli
19th Misilowa
20th Sidagu
21st Kalubuwotu sepu
Note: 1 18th also used for name of third quarter (Taygakibuli).

words for each day [see Table 13.1]. The last quarter is called
odubiliviyaka ('in the great darkness'), and there are no individual
names for the days.
The 13th day (yapila) is regarded as the beginning of the full moon,
and on this day begins the series of three successive festive days. In
ordinary village entertainments, usually associated with dancing and
amorous transactions, the girls often go to solicit a full-moon present
(iyupalaygu): 'give me the present of the yapila!'. When the new
moon is first seen, the village children will emit a long yell,
'Katugogova'. This is as far as any ritual recognition of the moon
goes. The 14th day (vala'ita) is regarded as the full moon at its
highest, while the 15th day (woulo) closes the full moon.
The general word for full moon is 'buata'. It covers the period of
three days, and at times the longer period of five days, from the 11th
to the 15th'inclusive. The new moon is also called by a general term,
'Kapatu' (narrow-faced, ugly); when it grows it is said to become
'beautifully full' (bibubowatu) , until it becomes quite full, that is
'bwata'. It is clear that this system of distinguishing the quarters divides
the moon into four weeks, and allows any day in the moon to be easily
determined. The days in the first or in the last quarters are not named.

THE SEASONS OF NATIVE LIFE

In Melanesia the main division of seasons is established by tht<.two
prevailing winds. The trade wind from the south-easterly direction
208 Time-reckoning in the Trobriands

blows during the winter months, from May to November. It is a

regular wind, beginning every day late in the morning and reaching
its full force in the afternoon, continuing for a few hours and dying
out at dead of night. It is rarely absent, though there may be a day
when it is weak and shifts a few points of the compass from its regular
direction. During the full trade season land breezes are rare in the
islands, so that this wind is not favourable for sailing and unwieldy
and primitive craft.
The monsoon from the north-west is quite a different wind. During
the sway, which lasts from December to April, there are often days of
complete calm, or of light north and westerly breezes, and then from
time to time the monsoon sets in with sudden force, producing
anything from a storm to a hurricane. In this season the skies are
usually clouded, there is much more rain, and it is also the season
when vegetation develops. On calm and clear days the full warmth of
the tropical summer is experienced. The hottest days, however, occur
in East New Guinea in the months between the two seasons - i.e.,
April and May, and again November and December.
The division of the seasons is associated with the growth of
vegetation, which starts its new lease with the beginning of the wet
season. The trade wind, on the other hand, is the dry season, in which
many fruits and plants ripen, while in bad years there occur droughts
and stagnation. This division is most pronounced in the case of
cultivated plants, when the preparatory activities, including the
cutting and burning of the bush, have to fall at the end of the dry
season, while planting is simultaneous with the first rains. So that the
growth of cultivated plants falls at the beginning of the general revival
of nature, and the harvest falls at the beginning of the dry season.
The period of gardening thus covers the months of the monsoon, and
it extends on the other side into the dry season.
The monsoon and the calm interval between the two winds are also
the only suitable times for two other important activities - fishing and
sailing. Fishing is difficult, when not impossible, during the south-east
winds, for at that time the strong, cool wind exposes the men to great
hardship when driving and wading. Again, with native canoes which
cannot beat, or only imperfectly, sailing has to be done at a period
when winds vary and when land breezes, so important in coasting, are
available.
We can see already that the intensity of economic life is not evenly
distributed over the year, but concentrated on the months of the wet
season, of the calms, and of the variable winds. Roughly speaking, it
 Bronislaw Malinowski 209

is the time from August to September, and from April to May,

varying with the locality. And this brings us to the native point of
view which will enable us to understand the cycle of the year as it
appears to a Trobriand Islander, and as he will often describe it, using
the names of the lunar months as his system of time coordination.

THE NAMING OF THE MOONS

The trouble with the untutored observer of savage customs is that,

not being burdened with theoretic questions and ideas, he often
cannot see the problem in a given range of facts. He does not
therefore, enquire into every detail, and supplies us with scanty and
uninteresting data. The trouble with the ethnographer in the field is
that he sees too much of the merely technical problems, that he is
prone to draw the conclusions too rapidly; one might almost say that
he tries to get at the core of the problem too quickly.
My own experience in New Guinea, as regards the question of
time-counting, was typical of this latter shortcoming. An amateur
probably would not have troubled about the native methods of
constructing the calendar, or else, if he were one of the first-class
amateur observers to whom we owe so much, he might have obtained
and given us the natives' own story of the moons, which again, in the
hands of an amateur of comparative ethnology would have yielded
the correct solution of the problem of the calendar. Being prepared
to formulate a problem of time-reckoning, and keen to solve it, I
approached the matter with a number of definite concrete questions.
I wanted to know whether the natives named the moons, how many
names they possessed - twelve or thirteen and how they harmonised
solar and lunar time-counting. During a month's preliminary work
among the Motu of the south coast, I had found out that the natives
had thirteen names for moons. Having found that they had thirteen
moon-names I was satisfied that the natives knew the real number of
lunar periods in a year, and I assumed that they counted time by
reference to these periods. In a more extensive study of another tribe
on the south coast of New Guinea - the Mailu - I found that the
natives have no names for moons, which was also, to my mind, a final
and satisfactory answer to the problem I had before me.
When I came to the Trobriand Islands, I proceeded with enquiries
on the same scheme, but here the first difficulty was that, although
there existed names for various moons, there were not thirteen, and
210 Time-reckoning in the Trobriands

it was difficult to find how many names there were. From some I
obtained ten, eleven, or twelve, and sometimes under pressure,
thirteen, but it was clear that there was no universally known figure.
As a rule, the moons would be classified into two groups of five, with
a moon or two regarded as intermediate ones. Thus there were
certain difficulties as to the first question of how many moons the
natives knew during the year, and it was clear that unless the first
question was answered, the idea of a calendar with which the
problem should close was inapplicable.
The real trouble was that the problem was too rigidly formulated. I
took it for granted that when natives name moons and count them,
this is for the purpose of time-reckoning, whether with twelve or
thirteen months covering the year, ill or well - and I assumed that the
whole scheme was a system of time coordinates. The correct pro-
cedure, however, would have been not to assume a given use or
function in the scheme, but only to enquire into it. Having found that
moons are named, the next step should have been to see in what
context and manner the system of moon-naming is used. In other
words, the next step should have been to divest myself of our own
mental and cultural habits. We name moons for calendar purposes,
and we use the calendar to divide and count time and to fix dates; and
with us the whole system with its many ramifications is a system of
time coordinates. This, however, does not mean that a similar system
obtains in simpler cultures.
As a matter of fact in the Trobriands the moons are used rarely and
only under special circumstances for counting time; the whole system
of naming and arranging moons has no special place in their time-
reckoning, and all this can be understood only by reference to the
social and economic ideas of the natives.
First of all, it is necessary to realise that the cycle of a year is not
defined or determined for the natives by the position of the sun or of
the stars or by a given number of moons. This latter, as already
mentioned, they never know off-hand, not even the most expert
gardeners or magicians, but find it out by naming the moons one after
the other and counting on their fingers. What really determines the
cycle of the year to the Trobriander is, above all, the economic round
of gardening.
The testimony of linguistics, especially etymology, is usually of
very little value, but in this case the identity of the words taytu ('year'
and 'yam') represents the real native point of view. As a matter of
fact all other tribal activities are subordinated to this one.
 Bronislaw Malinowski 211

The year is subdivided into the time when the gardens are unripe
and into that when they begin to mature. The festive and ceremonial
season depends on the harvest, and occurs after it. The sailing and
overseas expeditions are dependent not only on the winds, as they are
never undertaken in the early part of the monsoon when conditions
would already be propitious, but only after the main part of the
garden work is over. The whole native life, their conversation,
interests, even passions, centre round gardening, the display of food,
and skill and efficiency in that pursuit.
With all this there is associated an important fact that dawned on
me gradually, by mere dint of native repetition as I became accustomed
to their ways and modes of thought; all the practical counting of time,
all reminiscence of past events, all the fixings of dates is done by
reference to gardening. The native in defining a period or placing an
event will always say: it was done at such and such a period of garden
activity - 0 takaywa, during the clearing of the scrub (lit. in cutting);
wa gabu, in burning (i.e., during the period that the cut and dried
scrub is being burnt); wa sopu, in planting time; 0 katatam, when the
vine supports are placed in position; 0 pwakova, during weeding; wa
basi, during the removal of the surplus tubers; 0 kop'i during the
trimming of the vine; watum during the first taking out of yams; 0
tayoyuwa during the harvest proper.
These divisions of time are obviously not very exact. There are also
permanent differences according to the district. In one place, where
the big long yams form the staple food, the harvest occurs much
earlier, and the whole cycle of gardening ends sooner. In the swampy
districts, where the taro is the staple food, gardens start earlier and
are harvested earlier. In the main agricultural districts, where small
yams form the main crop, harvest occurs at least two months later
than in the earliest yam districts. With all this, this system of time-
reckoning not only refers to the real interests of the natives, but to all
the really relevant events upon which their plans and arrangements
depend.
This calendar is not only psychologically the most adequate, but in
all practical arrangements the most effective. If the natives fixed an
expedition for such and such a moon, they might or might not be able
to keep to it, but when they say they will go at the time of weeding,
when the man's labours in the gardens are over and the women's
work begins, they are giving the time at which they will actually be
able to go.
Thus the real framework of native divisions, as well as their picture
212 Time-reckoning in the Trobriands

of the year, is represented by a succession of activities in garden

work. This, however, does not mean that the counting of the moons
is quite superfluous. To the garden magicians, and the elders who
plan gardening and other events of tribal life, feasts, expeditions, and
mortuary ceremonies, an independent scheme of time-reckoning is
still necessary, and the names of various successive moons are very
convenient. It is in this somewhat esoteric and specialised way that
the naming of the moon is chiefly used.
Let us now look at the successive names of the moon. The year
begins for the native with the end of the old garden and the starting of
the new. This covers the period of all three moons, the moon during
which harvesting is done (Kuluwasasa), the moon of festivities after
the harvest (milamala), and the moon which follows (yakosi). These
names are universally known to the natives and they are used by
everybody.
But there is no general consensus as to when the year really begins;
they have no 'new year' or 'new year's day', nor would such an idea
be of any importance to them, as they have no system of chronology
of years as a sequence.
It will be best to represent the moons in a schematic form and to
comment on this table. [see Table 13.2.]
The most important point is to realise clearly in what circumstances
this scheme of moon-naming is used, how it is used, what services it
renders, and what interest it arouses. Only such functional knowl-
edge can give us a real insight into its nature.
The actual practical use made of this moon calendar is not very
extensive. At times when meetings of elders take place in moon 1,
they talk over, and more or less ceremonially and formally decide,
plans for the next year. The annual festivities invariably fall in the
second moon, but at times the community may decide to extend these
to the third moon; they may then have to modify slightly the course of
gardening, or to postpone, perhaps, the Kula (overseas expedition),
and finally to arrange when they will come back and start harvesting.
This association of feasts, sailings, and ceremonies with the moon is
the more important, as we know all culminating events are celebrated
at full moon, while the preliminary activities are confined to the
preceding period of 28 days.
In such discussions moons are sometimes named and counted. It is
not difficult to see that this brings the first six or seven moons into
prominence, or when an important overseas expedition is planned,
interest may go as far as the eight or ninth moon. In such cases, apart
Table 13.2 Table of the moons

1. Kuluwasasa Big harvest { Takayva

Gabu
Malia 2. Milamala Milamala festival
3. Yakosi ... } Gogud, Usigola festival
4. Yavatakulu } Gogud,
5. Toliyavata Sopu
Molu ~ 6. Yavatam Kavatam
7. Gelivilavi Growth of plants
Molu } Puakova
8. Bulumaduku
9. Kuluwotu ) Mamwo Basi Tum
Matuwo
10. Utokakana } Unimportant poriod } Takayva
Malia ~ 11. Ilaybisila
12. Yakosi
Note: About the third month the north-west (monsoon) season begins; at moon 8 the south-east season starts.

tv
......
Vl
214 Time-reckoning in the Trobriands

from canoe building and launching, and apart from the discussion of
the trip itself, the return journey may fall as late as the beginning of
the Trade wind, when the natives have to go south and can come back
with the south-easterly wind.
The interest in the moons following the eighth is very slight indeed.
There are those when the south-easterly is blowing and no fishing or
sailing beyond the return journey can be done, when in the gardens
the most important activities are at an end, and only the preliminary
harvest is in progress. This begins early, for often the storehouses are
exhausted as early as in the fifth or sixth moon, and the natives have
to rely on wild plants from the bush, which they dislike. They,
therefore, begin as soon as possible harvesting the early or subsidiary
gardens called kaymugwa. Their interest in time-sequence will be-
come focussed when the big harvest is in full blast, and when, after
that, the festivities begin to take place in the moon of milamala.
A few more words might be said about this moon and the events
which name and determine it, as well as the manner in which the
moon is fixed in the three different districts of the region.
The moon is named after a strange marine annelid, the palolo
worm (Eunice viridis), called by the natives of the Trobriands
'milamala'. It makes its appearance on the surface of the sea for
spawning only once a year, at the full moon falling within the period
from 15 October - 15 November. This event takes place only on the
most southerly end of the district, on the island of Vakuta, for the
annelid appears on the reef running between Vakuta and the island of
Sanaroa in the d'Entrecasteaux archipelago. The Vakutans catch it in
small nets on the night of its appearance, when it is also ceremonially
roasted and eaten. The full moon at its appearance is called the
milamala moon on the island of Vakuta. There also the annual feast,
which includes harvest rejoicings, ceremonial visits, and a series of
religious rites associated with the return of the dead, is held at a
palolo season. But the same festival is always held one month earlier
on the main part of the island, in the northern half, and a month
earlier still in the southern half and outlying islands, while the island
of Kitava in the east celebrates it yet one month earlier. This shifting
coincides with the above-mentioned differences in harvest-time de-
pendent on the different staple produce cultivated in each district.
The difficulty in fixing the date comes from the fact that the standard
milamala held in Vakuta, which all the natives acknowledge as
infallible, comes last.
Other places which depend mainly on the state of the gardens
 Bronislaw Malinowski 215

make mistakes according to whether the crops ripen early or late.

The small importance of the lunar calendar is shown in the fact that in
such cases, there is only some chaffing and a jocular reference, the
natives saying that such and such a district 'has become silly in its
time-reckoning' .
It is thus clear that there is only one period, namely, that following
on harvest-time, which is really of general interest, though the few
subsequent months are still of some importance. The further down
the list the less important become the moon-names. This is completely
borne out by native usage. The moon milamala is known to all, the
names of moon 1 and 2 to most adults. Most mature men can count,
often with mistakes in order and omissions, as far as month number 8
and sometimes 10; a few men specially versed in folk-lore can
enumerate correctly twelve months.
There is, however, one feature which is of importance for the
correct understanding of this state of things. Apart from the practical
value of the calendar, it is used in order to supply the framework of a
narrative account of the year. Whenever one of the old men is asked
about the moons he does not give a sober account, but he will
proceed at once to recite a story in which he gives the successive
names in a more or less detailed and flowery description of what takes
place in each. An intelligent old native will make it clear that not
everyone knows the names of the moons, and that only those having
to do with gardens and knowing how the year runs are acquainted
with them. He will then tell you how there are five moons which are
unripe or green (geguda) and five which are ripe(matuwo). He will
tell how in moon 1 they begin to cut the bush and then to burn it after
the hot sun has dried the timber; how they then rest and prepare for
the harvest activities. He next describes the festivities and how they
culminate at the full moon. If he has imagination and interest in
customs he will lose himself in details, and will probably proceed at
any point to give an account of the customs and tribal life of the
period. If kept to the point of time sequence he will go on with a
description of garden work, which certainly constitutes the backbone
of native chronology. He will give an account of the original ceremonies
of first planting, and will sketch the practical activities and then proceed
with the ritual of setting up the vine supports, and of the beginning of
weeding. He might dwell on the nature of unripe moons, how at
that time the plants grow, the sap enters the yam and enlarges the
tuber roots, and rises up in the vines. As can be seen by Table
13.2, in the third moon the natives plant the tubers, they grow
216 Time-reckoning in the Trobriands

in the fourth moon, and in the fifth they have to place supports
(kavatam) round which the vines will twine. Side by side with these
references to gardens there is another aspect of the matter, in which
native interest is strong. While one informant, who is, perhaps, a
garden magician, will emphasise the growth of the gardens, the next
will be more interested in the supply of food in the village.
The first favourite moons are from 1 to 4, which are called months
of plenty (malia). In these the yam-houses are filled to overflowing
and a native of high rank will tell of the beautiful decorations of his
own stores and of the amount he receives yearly. The food supply
continues to accumulate from months 1 to 4. During moon 2 the
lavish display of food to impress visitors and gladden the returned
spirits are described in glowing terms. But from then on the native
proceeds in a minor key. By the end of the fourth month the food in
the storehouses is practically exhausted. Only chiefs still have plenty
to eat. The new food is not ready and the period of hunger (molu)
begins. The fifth is a bad moon, the first of the green ones and
perhaps the worst of the hunger months. The natives have to go to
the bush to search for the wild vegetable food, nuts and fruit, and, at
worst, wild roots. This lasts from the fifth to the ninth moon, and the
natives will often divide the year into five moons of plenty (1 to 4 and
12), and into five moons of scarcity (5 to 9), and say there are two
intermediate moons (10 and 11), which are neither one nor the other.
Real hunger, however, does not last after the seventh moon, for at
that time the ripe moon begins - sometimes even earlier.
The division into ripe and unripe moons has not so much reference
to food as to the process of growth of plants. The unripe time
represents the period when the vine sprouts and climbs, the leaves
develop and the young tubers grow. As the rain diminishes and the
wind and the sun grow stronger, the leaves become yellow and
parched, the roots break out into tubers and these begin to mature;
these are the matuwo months.
The only food eaten after the hunger months comes from the
earlier gardens. At first there is so little of it that only children are
fed, but from the ninth moon all people have enough. At the ninth
month the main garden begins to be harvested, but food taken out is
ceremonially stored, to be presented to chiefs and certain relatives to
whom it is due by right.
I have given here only an abridged story of the moons. Informants
will often digress, tell of particular historical events, of great hunger
or record harvests. But it is always garden food, the contrast between
 Bronislaw Malinowski 217

plenty and hunger, the processes of growth and maturing, which

occupy their minds. The first five moons are thought of in terms of
green process and growth, the subsequent five by development of
tubers and the activity of harvest. It is clear that in all these divisions
there are certain moons which are of much smaller importance than
the rest. The native telling the story breaks off after the utokaka
(tenth). The native who distinguishes between the ripe and unripe,
the lean and fat, leaves two moons outside, and the time after the
cycle of the gardens is really the finished time in which harvesting
goes on without much variety or interruption, the time when there is
never hunger but when plenty cannot be used for festivities or
ceremonial purposes. This period of time is uninteresting to the
native and generally remains nameless.
I have spoken about the twofold division into two groups. As a rule
it comprises five moons each with two remaining outside, very rarely
will the year be divided into two groups of six moons (see Table
13.2). The divisions into ripe and unripe, into plenty and scarcity, do
not coincide. The name of moon 13 seems to exist, and I have
received words 'Kuluwalasi' and 'obwatayayo' and in another district
the words 'gaygila' and' Katabugibogi'. It might be that the name of
no. 13 given to me by several of my informants independently was
reached merely by the accident that several moons seem to have
different names in different districts, but it is significant that the first
ten names are identical everywhere and easily obtained, while the
remaining odd moons, for which sometimes one to three names are
obtained, always fall outside the scheme division of two groups of
five.
I should like to add that moon 12 is less frequently omitted and
better known than 11; as it precedes 1 and 2 it receives some of their
importance.
The relevant point of the scheme is that the natives name and
recognise the moons of either groups of five or six, for they are really
interested in them. This interest is not a direct calendar interest,
which might have led to a more systematic treatment. The whole
scheme is not a division of the year into a number of moons; rather a
method of calculating moons, especially full moons, standing for
important tribal movements, which cover interesting and dramatic
times of the year. And as the year - that period of garden cultivation
and other important tribal events - interests them first with regard to
gardens and supply of food, so moons which are relevant in these
respects are named and known by name and are divided into a
218 Time-reckoning in the Trobriands

scheme of growth represented by plenty and scarcity. The remaining

moons are simply dropped out of the main interest.
The year is a period of ten or twelve moons, not because the
natives could not count correctly how many moons there are in a
year, not because they could not find out that thirteen is nearer the
truth than twelve, but because the number ten or twelve corresponds
more exactly to their practical and pragmatic interests. The tail end of
the year, the uneventful level time after the harvest has started and
before the festivities begin, remains vague to such an extent that
moon 13 is entirely dropped out, even in esoteric accounts.
14 Time Perspectives of the
Kabyle
Pierre Bourdieu

(From P. Bourdieu, 'The attitude of the Algerian Peasant Towards

Time', Mediterranean Countryman, 6, 1963, pp. 55-72).

An old Kabyle once said 'The French act as if they would never die'.
Nothing is more foreign to the indigenous civilisation of Algeria than
the attempt to secure a hold over the future, and nothing more
strange to it than the idea of an immense and open future as a broad
field of innumerable possibilities which man is able to explore and
dominate. Is it necessary then to conclude, as one too often does, that
the fellah, a sort of mens momentanea, bound up in immediate
attachment to the directly perceived present, would be incapable of
envisaging a remote future? Is it necessary to see in his attitude of
submission to the passage of time a simple abandonment to the
hazards of climate, the whims of nature, and the decisions of the
divinity? To avoid false problems, perhaps one must analyse only the
actual modality of his consciousness of the future. Awareness of time
is not simply one of the dimensions of his life experience, but rather
the form in terms of which that experience is organised.
The Kabyle peasant lives his life at a rhythm determined by the
divisions of the ritual calendar which exhibit a whole mythical system.
This is not the place to analyse this system in detail, but only to try to
show how it shapes the world outlook of the peasant, and for this it
will suffice to point up its broad outlines. Natural phenomena are not
perceived only as such in a naturalistic descriptive vision. Everyday
experience isolates certain particular significant aspects which are
treated as the functional signs of a complex symbolism. The mythico-
ritual system appears to be built about a cluster of contrasts between
complementary principles. In opposition to ploughing and sowing
there is the harvest; to weaving, the seasonal counterpart of
ploughing, the firing of pottery is opposed. Spring is opposed to
autumn, summer to winter, all aspects of a larger and clearer contrast
between the dry season (spring and summer) and the wet season
(autumn and winter). In opposition as well are night and day, light
and shadow, the rising and the setting sun, East and West. All of

219
220 Time Perspectives of the Kabyle

these pairs of opposing notions, which define the calendar of

agricultural labour and crafts, also underlie the principle of the
division of labour between the sexes, and the distinction between the
moist foods of autumn and winter and the dry foods of the spring and
summer. The same logic determines the rhythm of social life, the
season of feasts and the cycle of pastimes for example, and it lies at
the foundation of certain structural features of the community such as
the opposing moieties (coff-s); it defines the organisation of space
within the house; it furnishes the pair of oppositions which is the basis
of the system of values (nif 'point d'honneur' and horma 'honour').
Thus the contrast between the wet season associated with fertility and
germination and the dry season associated with the death of culti-
vated nature parallels the opposition between the planting and
weaving associated with sexuality on the one hand and the harvest
associated with death on the other hand; and finally, the opposition
of the ploughshare which activates and the sickle which destroys life.
All are integrated into a broader system wherein life is opposed to
death, water to fire, the powers of nature which must be placated to
the man-made techniques of culture which must be handled with
precaution.
The technical and liturgical acts of the peasant, performed as they
are in a universe crowded with symbols, are integrated into a system
which might be termed a mythology-in-action. The annual cycle of
tasks and rites appears to be oriented towards resolving the contra-
diction that is at the very heart of agriculture: nature, left to itself, lies
fallow and becomes sterile. But the fertilising action of man and his
techniques, while necessary and indispensable, is criminal because it
is a violation, and also because it uses instruments whose handling is
itself guilty and terrible, that is, those made by using fire: the
ploughshare, the loom, and the sickle. The great moments of the
agricultural year, the ploughing and the harvest, are the climaxes of a
tragedy played between two characters, man and nature. In this
drama, the peasant is constrained to do violence to the nourishing
earth in order to fecundate her and to wrest her riches from her.
The attitude of the Kabyle peasant toward nature and time co-
incides with the profound 'intention' and meaning of the mythology
which he acts out implicitly in his daily life. Far from placing himself
face to face with nature as an effective agent, the Kabyle peasant is
part of nature, immersed within it. This feeling of solidarity and
dependence is expressed in numerous rites: at the winter solstice, for
example, the women go to the stables and make a great noise by
 Pierre Bourdieu 221

beating on metal utensils in order to 'wake the cattle' at the time that
nature awakes.
This society even though it is, like all human societies, in conflict
with nature, does not acknowledge it. Individual work, dictated by
the head of the family, carried out most often in collaboration with
the whole family group and at times with the whole clan or village,
accompanied by ritual acts and solemnised by feasts, is lived as a
communion with others and with the world. The land is not appre-
hended as a raw material, as crude stuff needing only to be exploited.
It is alma mater, the nourishing earth, rather than materies. 'The
earth', it is said, 'demands its due'. It will know how to exact
compensation for bad treatment inflicted upon it by the hasty greedy
peasant (el ah' ammaq) or by the unskilled.
Submission to nature is inseparable from submission to the passage
of time scanned in the rhythms of nature. The profound feelings of
dependence and solidarity toward that nature whose vagaries and
rigours he suffers, together with the rhythms and constraints to which
he feels the more subject since his techniques are particularly pre-
carious, foster in the Kabyle peasant an attitude of submission and of
nonchalant indifference to the passage of time which no one dreams
of mastering, using up, or saving. The refined courtesy of the Kabyle,
the courtesy of a man of leisure, is characterised by the same
indifference to time. All the acts of life are free from the limitations
of the timetable, even sleep, even work which ignores all obsession
with productivity and yields. Haste is seen as a lack of decorum
combined with diabolical ambition. El ah' ammag is he who throws
himself into things without thinking; he speaks incessantly and
vociferously; he gesticulates at random; he runs to catch up with
someone or make up lost time, and, because he does his work too
fast, risks maltreating the land which 'will call him to account'.
Impatient, avid and insatiable, he has no sense of proportion. He
wishes 'to embrace the earth', forgetting the teachings of prudence
expressed in popular songs:

It is useless to pursue the world,

No one will ever overtake it.

You who are hurried,

Stay and accept your censure,
Daily bread comes from God,
It's not for you to concern yourself
222 Time Perspectives of the Kabyle

That which is strange to you,

Let it not worry you.
If you should come, happiness,
We shall ask nothing better,
If you should refuse, we have not
saved you a place.
I do not know whether my
happiness is ahead or behind.

A whole art of passing time, or better, of taking one's time, has

been developed here. In the hours of leisure, once the day is over,
'one passes the time in chatting'. At leave taking, one usually says,
'You are leaving us, and we have hardly sat down, and we have not
spoken of everything'. This art is fully manifest in the assemblies
(tajmaat) , where reign civility, dignity and the cleverly regulated
dilatoriness of interminable formulae provided by tradition and the
network of words, skilfully interwoven with sayings and proverbs.
The worst discourtesy is to come to the point and express oneself in as
few words as possible. Sometimes one leaves with nothing settled.
There are indefinitely prolonged discussions and differences as old as
those debating them, as if the desire to come to a decision and end
litigation were only feigned, as if everyone knew, obscurely, that the
essential is less the subject debated than the debate itself.
Free from the concern for schedules, and ignoring the tyranny of
the clock, sometimes called 'the devil's mill', the peasant works
without haste, leaving to tomorrow that which cannot be done today.
The alarm clock and the watch, introduced many years ago even to
the countryside, do not regulate the whole of life. They merely
furnish a system of reference more precise than the traditional. For
instance, children continue to be suckled when they cry rather than at
set times. The self-respecting peasant must be continually occupied in
doing something. Lacking anything else to do, 'Let him sharpen his
knife'. The unemployed shepherd', it is said, 'let him carve his staff'.
The old Kabyle always carries with him a hatchet for cutting wood in
his spare time. The hours of daylight are made for work. Idling at
home the whole of the day is not well regarded. To work at night is
reprehensible. 'He works at night', they say, 'as if his days had been
eaten [by a djin]'. Work is considered an inevitable part of life in the
same way as sickness and death, but not as a virtue in itself.
Indifference with regard to punctuality appears in all kinds of
 Pierre Bourdieu 223

behaviour. There are not precise hours for meals; they are eaten
whenever the preparation is complete and eating is leisurely. The
notion of an exact appointment is unknown; they agree only to meet
'at the next market'. In the cities women are often seen waiting at the
hospital or before the doctor's office two or three hours before it is
due to open.
Time stretches out, given a rhythm by the round of work and
holidays and by the succession of nights and days. Time so marked is
not, as has often been shown, measured time. The intervals of
subjective experience are not equal and uniform. The effective points
of reference in the continual flux of time's passage are qualitative
nuances read upon the surface of things. The parts of the day are
lived as different appearances of the perceived world, nuances of
which are apprehended impressionistically: 'when the sky is a little
light in the East', then 'when the sky is a little red', 'the time of the
first prayer', then 'when the sun touches the earth', 'when the goats
come out', 'when the goats hide', and so on. Beside these expressions
used in the Aures depicting a certain state of the world at a certain
time, there are others which describe a physical experience or refer to
an activity: 'He got up at taulast, that is, at the hour of the morning
when one shivers from the cold as from a fever [taula]. Likewise
events in the past are located by reference to memorable occurrences:
one speaks of 'the year in which there was misery', 'the year in which
there was a plague', or 'in which there was snow for many days', or,
in Algiers, 'the year when the ship burned in the harbour'. Temporal
points of reference are just so many experiences. One must avoid
seeing here points of division, which would presuppose the notion of
regular measured intervals, that is to say, a spatial conception of the
temporal. The islands of time which are defined by these landmarks
are not apprehended as segments of a continuous line, but rather as
so many self-enclosed units.
'Tasuait tasuait', 'The moment is a moment', says the Kabyle. Each
of the temporal units is an individual block juxtaposed to the other.
In many places, for example, the week is termed es-suq, the market,
that is, the lapse of time actually lived between two markets. The
lapse of time which constitutes the present is the whole of an action
seen in the unity of a perception including both the retained past and
the anticipated future. The 'present' of the action embraces, over and
above the perceived present, an horizon of the past and of the future
tied to the present because they both belong to the same context of
meaning. Consciousness is present in the immediate future integrally
224 Time Perspectives of the Kabyle

linked to the present moment. The same is true of the past. The
'present' of existence is not confined to the mere instantaneous
present, because consciousness holds united in a single look aspects
of the world already perceived and on the point of being perceived.
Inwardly felt, as the very movement of life rather than as a
constraining limit, time cannot be disassociated from the experience
of activity and of the space in which that activity takes place.
Duration and space are described by reference to the performance of
a concrete task; e.g., the unit of duration is the time one needs to do a
job, to work a piece of land with a pair of oxen. Equally, space is
evaluated in terms of duration, or better, by reference to the activity
occupying a definite lapse of time, for example, a day at the plough or
a day's walk. The common denominator and foundation of the
equivalences is nothing other than the experience of activity.
Time both past and future, has the same limits as the 'space of life'.
The perceived horizon of the world is also the horizon of the present.
The story is told of an aged Kabyle who for the first time reached the
summit of the hill which marked the horizon of his village and cried
'Oh, God, how great is your world!' Time experienced, just like
space perceived, is discontinuous, made up of a series of hetero-
geneous islets of differing duration. Beyond the horizon of the
present begins the imaginary world which cannot be linked with the
universe of experience. What may appear absurd or impossible in the
context of experience may be realised in remote times or in places far
removed in space. 'When the world had a voice', 'when the animals
spoke', these formulae used in beginning tales indicate that one
passes from the universe of experience to the world of the imagina-
tion and dreams where all is possible. France belongs to this
imaginary world for the old Kabyle who know it only from the stories
of emigrants. So do the miracles of the saints, Sidi Yahia who brought
back to life a slaughtered ox, Sidi Kali who changed himself into a
lion, Sidi Mouhoub who divided a fountain in order to settle a dispute
between two rival clans, Sidi Moussa who caused oil to gush from a
pillar. Different criteria of truthfulness are applied in the case of an
event occurring within familiar space and in the case of a happening
in the land of legends beginning at the very border of the directly
experienced world. In the first case, the only accepted criterion is
perceptual experience, visual, tactile, or auditory, or, in the absence
of these, the certainty attached to the authority of a person known
and worthy of belief. Beyond that frontier lies a universe where, by
its nature, everything is possible; the critical requirements are much
 Pierre Bourdieu 225

less demanding and all affirmations provided by the collective con-

sciousness are accepted.
This analysis seems an essential preliminary to understanding the
concrete behaviour of the fellah. For example, how may we explain
that this profound submission to the passage of time and this distrust
of any attempt at mastering the future coexist with the foresight
which is able to parcel out a good harvest over a number of years?
How may we explain that the effort to make forecasts and plan
projects is considered presumptuous, excessive, and diabolically
ambitious, while the whole of the tradition exalts foresight?
At the risk of appearing to proceed deductively, it seems indispens-
able to bring into focus the analysis of the Algerian fellah's experi-
ence of time, and in particular of 'time-to-come', in order to
formulate distinctions and a hypothesis which will perhaps account
for the facts. The experienced 'forthcoming', understood as the
horizon of the perceived present, is essentially different from the
future as an abstract series of interchangeable, mutually exclusive
possibilities. Pre-perceptive anticipation, the apprehension of poten-
tialities inherent in the observed 'given', embedded in a perceptive
consciousness which operates in terms of beliefs, contrast with the
project (i.e., a projection of possibilities envisaged by a consciousness
which does not raise the question of belief or disbelief). In pre-
perceptive anticipation the future is not postulated as such: it is
integrated within the unity of the perceived as a potential. So it is that
grain is comprehended not only with its colour, form, and other
directly perceived properties, but also with qualities potentially
inherent in it, such as 'meant to be eaten', etc. These potentialities
are apprehended by a perceptive consciousness in the same way as
are hidden faces of a cube, that is, in the mode of belief. The
'forthcoming' is perceived in the same manner as the actual present to
which it is tied by an organic unity. Potentialities, as distinct from
possibilities, are not apprehended as arising from an infinite number
of possibilities equally able to come about or not, but as being
incapable of not coming about, since, as they are grasped, they are
just as much present as the actual present, directly perceived. While
projective, imaginative consciousness supposes the suspension of
adherence to the 'data', the consciousness which sees potentialities as
'forthcoming' is involved in a universe strewn with challenges, with
urgency and threats in the world of perception itself and not in that of
fancy.
The 'forthcoming' is the concrete horizon of the present and, in
226 Time Perspectives of the Kabyle

virtue of this, it is given in the mode of presentation and not that of

representation, in contrast to the impersonal future, the realm of
abstract and indeterminate possibilities. That which distinguishes the
future from the 'forthcoming' and the possible from the potential, is
not, as one might believe, a matter of greater or lesser remoteness
from the directly perceived present; in fact, the actual present may
allow for the perception as 'copresents' of potentialities more or less
distant within objective time, but tied to the present within the unity
of a simple context of meaning.
Popular consciousness lives and actualises this distinction without
making it explicit. It sometimes happens, however, that it is brought
to the level of consciousness in the self-irony which is among the
Kabyle one of the favoured forms of clarity. 'Where are you going?'
someone asks of Djeha, an imaginary character in whom the Kabyles
like to see themselves. 'I'm going to the market'. 'What! You don't
add "Please God"?' Djeha went on his way, but coming to a wood he
was beaten and left naked by brigands. 'Where are you going,
Djeha?', his friends asked on seeing him again. 'I'm going home',
said Djeha, 'if it please God'. 'If it pleases God' means both 'It may
not please God' and 'May it please God'. The locution marks, by
contrast, the passing to another world ruled by a logic different from
that which applies in the perceived world, to the world of the future
where possibilities have the essential property of being equally able
to come about or not to come about. This is the world of the
imaginary and of desire. Of a man who concerns himself overmuch
with the future, forgetting that by its nature it is elusive, one says
that 'He wishes to make himself the associate of God', and to recall
him to a sense of proportion one says, 'Don't worry yourself with that
which is alien to you', or 'don't see capital in money outside the
purse; don't count a woman without a child as a member of the
family; don't count a good harvest before threshing'. To forget, as do
the presumptuous, the precarious nature of the possible, or to
presume to reduce an infinite number of possibilities to a single one
by means of calculation as science does, is 'hubris'. It is said that fifty
years ago the old Kabyles liked to say with all the irony they could
raise, 'the French will conquer even death'. To predict is presump-
tuous; also one should avoid framing projects too far in advance,
considering that the act of prediction itself is an act of insolence to
God. To say 'The future belongs to God', is above all to say that it
does not and never will belong to man:'azka D'azqa', 'tomorrow is
the tomb'. The future is a void which it would be vain to attempt to
 Pierre Bourdieu 227

seize and a nothing which does not belong to us. From here stem all
the prohibitions regarding calculation. For example, one does not
count the men present at an assembly, one does not measure the
grain set aside for sowing; one does not number the eggs being
hatched, but one does count how many chickens were born. To
measure the grain or to count the eggs would be to presume upon the
future.
'Live as if you were to live for ever; live as if you were to die
tomorrow.' This proverb illustrates the contradiction which it is
important to understand since it simultaneously exalts foresight and
submission to the passage of time. Proverbs and all oral wisdom,
didactic poems, tales and fables extol foresight. But can foresight be
considered in its spirit, its motives, its ends, as veritable prediction, as
forecasting? To accumulate reserves, is this really to face up to the
future, to carry the assault to the enemy, or to make defensive
dispositions in preparation for a siege? First, it would appear that the
products set aside are essentially 'consumption goods'. In the second
place, the products of the earth, wheat or barley, for example, may
be treated either as 'direct goods' (i.e., as offering or potentially
offering an immediate satisfaction), or as 'indirect goods' (i.e., as
contributing to the elaboration of direct goods but not being them-
selves the source of any satisfaction). Placed before these alternatives
by a surplus or a deficient harvest, the peasant in both cases
characteristically chooses to consider them as direct goods. In the first
instance he prefers to sacrifice his cattle and seed - i.e., the means of
production - in order to conserve the amount of food necessary for
his family to the detriment of the next harvest. The fellah puts greater
confidence in his grain bin than in his furrows because he always fears
giving the earth more than it will return to him. Thus future pro-
duction is sacrificed to future consumption, potential goods to goods
in hand, forecast to cautious foresight, and the future to the 'forth-
coming'.
It follows that it is necessary to distinguish clearly between
hoarding, which consists of putting aside a portion of the available
direct goods in order to reserve them for future consumption, and
which presupposes foresight and abstention from consumption, and,
on the other hand, capitalistic accumulation (saving). This accumula-
tion of indirect goods which may be allocated to investment makes no
sense except in reference to a remote future, abstract and absent.
This 'creative' thrift has a foundation in calculating and rational
forecast, while the calculation which underlies hoarding - i.e., simple
228 Time Perspectives of the Kabyle

deferred and potential consumption - supposes envisaging a concrete

'forthcoming' virtually enclosed within the perceived present, a
'forthcoming within hands' reach' like the consumption goods with
which the peasant surrounds himself and which form a palpable
guarantee of his security. One might say that 'to look forward to the
future is not to see into it'. Such is the forecasting which characterises
the capitalist entrepreneur. The foresight of the fellah on the con-
trary, anticipatory vision, pre-perceptive anticipation, is not a fore-
cast at all.
This is manifest in the reasons prompting him, which are generally
bequeathed by tradition and are, therefore, more institutional than
rational. When he places certain foods in reserve, the Algerian
peasant is obeying social imperatives, those of honour for example,
rather than making a rational economic choice. Numbers of rich
peasants make it a point of honour to consume only those products
grown on their own land; thus one often observes that great house-
holds, in accordance with this precept, have couscous of barley while
the poorer eat wheat. Similarly, at the time a pair of oxen is taken out
to plough for the first time, it is customary to offer a meal to which
are invited the khammes, sharecropper, it there is one, and some
neighbours. One serves a couscous containing pomegranate berries
procured and hoarded for this very purpose. Food is also preserved,
salt meat for example, in anticipation of feasts - i.e., for the
consumption of those invited much more than for the family itself;
honour requires it should be so. The traditional attitude includes
contempt towards anyone who is left destitute of reserves, and
particularly toward the city dweller of whom it is said 'The night
consumes what the day has made'. To have foresight is to follow a
well marked road and not to explore new ways; it is to conform to a
model transmitted by the ancestors and approved by the community.
Thus in the instance of the collective granary (geelaa) where the
Shawia of the Aures stored their reserves, the foresight necessary for
extending a good harvest over time, sometimes for several years, the
right of the head of the family to regulate individual consumption, the
life-long self-imposed privation out of fear of scarcity even in the
midst of abundance, were all built into collective institutions. So is
the matmura, the familial or clan grain store, hollowed out of the
earth and protected by bramble bushes, where the reserves are
accumulated, which guarantees the cohesion of the Arabic-speaking
social group and the authority and independence of the chiefs, and
constitutes the foundation of economic, social, and moral equilibrium.
 Pierre Bourdieu 229

Like the gelaa, it is surrounded by respect and rites. Acts of

foresight are much more dictated by imitation of the past and by
fidelity to the values transmitted by the ancients than by the forecast
design of a projected future.
It is also a point of honour, nif, which drives the Kabyle peasant to
accumulate or add to his patrimony in order to leave a heritage at
least as large as that which he himself received. It is thus, for
example, that land is bought at any price, even to the point of ruin,
when sold by a relative so that the land will not fall into the hands of
another family. In a general way, the peasant undertakes invest-
ments, when he comes to make them, not as a capitalistic entrepre-
neur with an eye to calculated profit, but with the income from the
preceding season in mind. The surplus is chiefly devoted to the
purchase of cattle. Thus the newly sedentary population of the Tell,
when the harvest has been good and there is a sum of money
available, buy cattle which are for production but also afford prestige.
After a good harvest the herds increase inordinately. But cultivation
and stock-keeping being complementary, there follows a permanent
state of war between the animal and the plant. Abundant rain
extends the area ploughed at the expense and to the peril of the part
reserved for the herd; a good harvest of cereals or a fruitful lambing
increases the size of the herd beyond the possibilities of water and
pasturage. Cattle are in effect a capital good which the fellah believes
can be augmented indefinitely without considering the relation be-
tween their number and the area of the pasture. In the absence of
shelters, a severe winter does great slaughter among the poorly
nourished animals, and the following year the extent of planting is
reduced for lack of draught-animals and seed-money. It is clear that
the balance is automatically assured by the powers of nature rather
than by rational calculation.
The Kabyle peasant buys land when he can. But up to the present
such sales have been rare because honour forbade them. For twenty
years, fifty in certain regions, an economic conversion has been
observed: numbers of Kabyles have bought oil presses. motordriven
mills, trucks, etc. Nevertheless, in the new society as in the old, the
sentiment of honour is still behind economic behaviour. Formerly a
second pair of oxen were bought in the summer months under the
pretext that they were needed for the threshing (a way of showing
that the harvest was good), so that during the end of the summer, the
time for marriages and feasts, when social life reaches its greatest
intensity, people could say 'That's the house of two pair of oxen and a
230 Time Perspectives of the Kabyle

mule'. In a short time, however, the fodder hardly sufficient for one
pair of oxen was used up and it was not a rare occurrence that the
second pair were sold again before the land was worked, when they
would have been of real use. But the renown of the family was
safe. Likewise, only a few years ago, prestige competitions bet-
ween two rival moieties which divided the village (or perhaps
between two large families) led both to provide themselves with the
same collective equipment without concerning themselves about
profitability.
In a more general fashion, anticipation is born of the logic of the
situation, in the very situation itself, and differs essentially from an
external plan to which action would have to conform, because in this
type of anticipation the end of action is envisaged only as 'forthcom-
ing' rather than as future, and only so long as the end is united to the
present by an organic connection directly apprehended in experience
or furnished by previous experiences. Thus it is understandable that
purely rational plans and projects can meet with opposition or dis-
trust, just as do all ideologies implying belief in unlimited progress.
This is, perhaps, because there is no intermediate area between that
which one can touch with his finger and the realm of imagination and
dream. In an agricultural economy where the whole cycle of produc-
tion may be embraced in a single glance and the products renew
themselves in general in the space of a year, the peasant does not
dissociate the work (the 'present') from its economic results (the
'forthcoming'). This is at least one of the reasons for the difficulties
which arise when the lengths of the productive cycles are modified
and the results do not appear with the customary regularity and
rapidity. It is thus that in various regions of Algeria, where the
service of the Defense et Restauration des Sols (DRS - Soil Conserva-
tion and Restoration) which offers the farmers the free construction
of tree-planted terraces, most often meets with resistance from the
fellah, while the European colonists seize the opportunity immediately.
Taught by the example furnished by successful work undertaken on
European lands, the fellah is often asked to benefit from the improve-
ments he had previously refused. This initial resistance is explained
by the fact that he refuses to sacrifice a tangible interest in hand - for
example the pasture assured to his herds by the land which would be
restored - to an abstract one which cannot be comprehended by
concrete intuition Do not the Kabyles say 'What good is honey
swallowed after pitch?'
In the modern economy the road from beginning to end of the
 Pierre Bourdieu 231

process of production is extremely long and cannot be contained in

the unity of a single intuition so that, in the absence of an inclusive
vision, the most precise and most complex calculations positing an
impersonal and abstract future must make up for this deficiency. Such
calculations are possible only through the dissolution of the organic
unity which combines present and 'forthcoming' in the process of
production, a unity which is indeed that of the product itself and
which is lost in the transition from the technology of the craftsman,
making entire products, to industrial technology, founded upon
specialisation and the division of labour. The tasks of the peasant are
not so easily reduced to small bits. They are, in effect, part of the
natural world, possessing their own principles of unification and
division which allow little scope for arbitrary dismemberment.
Planning fails to create incentive, because the plan is based on
abstract calculation; it seems as unreal as a dream because it belongs
in an imaginary realm of possibilities where adherence to actuality
must be suspended. Between calculated planning and mere foresight
lies the same gulf as between mathematical demonstration and
practical demonstration by cutting and folding.
The same profound difference may be discerned in the case of
mutual aid, in which those associated are united by ties of real or
fictive kinship, and which is encouraged and commended by tradi-
tion, while in contrast with cooperation, collective work is oriented
toward abstract ends, posited and envisaged in common. In the first
case the group pre-exists the accomplishment in common of a
common task by which it validates its existence; in the second case,
the group does not exist except for future ends conceived in common,
so that, finding its basis of unity outside itself (in the future envisaged
by the project), it ceases to exist at the same time as does the project
for which it was founded.
In order for a developmental project to find acceptance, it must be
able to offer palpable results, and, moreover, the personal lot of the
individual himself, or that of persons known to him, must be
bettered. It happens too that measures introduced in the name of
self-interest are rejected, unless proposed by a respected person. In
many Kabyle villages, the old-fashioned teacher, chilh el-lakul, of
whom the elders still retain memories, was able, thanks to his
prestige and moral authority, to introduce many innovations in all
areas of life. Confidence in persons proposing the transformation
engages much greater following than the reasons invoked to justify it.
It is for reasons of personal loyalty to an esteemed person, 'for his
232 Time Perspectives of the Kabyle

face', as It IS said, that people resolve to break with the assured

models of tradition.
The significance of human relations on the personal level appears
perhaps more clearly in the exchange of goods and services. In
contrast to credit which supposes total impersonality of relations and
the consideration of an abstract future, a gift establishes a supra-
economic tie between individuals. While interest cannot be under-
stood except by an abstract calculation, the return-gift, deferred but
'forthcoming', is already virtually present in the human relationship
involved, and is concretely guaranteed by the personal loyalty,
personally tested, of the receiver. The same is the case for contracts.
Indeed, one does not enter into contracts except with persons of
one's acquaintance, relatives or friends; the 'forthcoming' of the
association engaged in is assured in the present itself by the total
intuition which each forms of the other, knowing his opposite to be a
man of honour and loyal in his engagements, and making all formal
and explicit codification superfluous.
The same analysis enables one to understand the mistrust of
money, the indirect 'good' par excellence, which in itself is the source
of no satisfaction. The point is illustrated in the legend of the traveller
who died in the desert beside a sheepskin full of gold coins which he
had just discovered. Exchange in kind, barter, is to monetary trade
what hoarding is to the accumulation of capital for investment. Most
exchanges, the payment of Khammes or associates, priests, etc., used
to be made in kind, in accordance with traditionally fixed equiva-
lences. Interest was paid, even up to a few years ago, in terms of
wheat. Ploughs, made by the blacksmith, were generally exchanged
for cereals rather than sold. So too the nomad, as trader, came to
exchange in the Tell a measure of dates against three measures of
barley or three measures of dates for one of wheat. Pottery is still
often exchanged for its capacity in figs or grain. In certain cases
exchange in kind maintains itself while being functionally reinter-
preted in the logic of monetary exchange; thus, wheat being worth
twice as much in the spring as at harvest time, the borrower must
return twice the quantity that he receives. Everywhere, even fifty
year ago, markets gave occasion for direct exchanges of merchandise
rather than for commercial transaction requiring recourse to credit or
the use of money. For money, when it does intervene, plays primarily
the role of a standard of exchange or common denominator of value.
This is because the possessor or buyer may perceive in the object
possessed or purchased the 'forthcoming' use to which he may put it.
 Pierre Bourdieu 233

He sees use inherent in it in the same fashion as its weight, colour,

and taste. With money, this direct apprehension is not possible; the
future employment implied is remote and abstract. With pauper
currency, even more so, one no longer owns even symbols of things,
but symbols of symbols. 'A product' it is said, 'is worth more than its
equivalent [in money]', and 'Gather goods rather than money'. It
follows that he who accepts a banknote in exchange for a sheep
commits an act of faith in the same way as the fellah who buries a
sheep in the foundation of the house that he is building.
Money, which serves anyone, anywhere, for any kind of operation
of exchange, an abstract medium of economic relations, is character-
ised by its indeterminacy: on the one hand, it contains an infinity of
indeterminate possibilities, and on the other by reason of the fact that
there is always a greater or lesser lapse of time between receipt and
expenditure, it constitutes the concrete symbol of an abstract future.
The sum of money currently possessed is not in itself the source of
any satisfaction apart from the pleasure of possession. It compre-
hends, however, an infinite number of possibilities, since it may be
used indifferently for the purchase of a certain quantity of wheat, or
barley, or an entirely different product; but these various possibilities
are mutually exclusive if one undertakes to realise anyone of them.
One would not be able to devote the whole of the sum to the pur-
chase of wheat without foregoing the purchase of barley; one must
choose, and one cannot want both at the same time. Merchandise, on
the contrary, exchanged in barter on the basis of traditional fixed
equivalences, contains within itself its potential enjoyment; it reveals
its own value based on its quality as usable goods, susceptible of
immediate utilisation, and not depending, like money, on external
conditions. It follows that, when using reserves methodically, it is
much easier to calculate in concrete commodities than to distribute a
fixed wage over a whole month or choose to buy the most indispen-
sable provisions. The temptation to consume all at once is infinitely
less than the temptation to turn all the money into goods. The
Kabyles put grain in large earthenware jars (ikufan) which are most
often made with holes at different heights. When the level of the
grain falls below a hole of middle height called 'timit' (the navel)
attention must be directed to cutting down consumption. The calcula-
tion, clearly, is made automatically, and the jar is like an hour-glass
which permits the measurement at any time of the amount used up
and the amount remaining.
Thus, the use of money, in contrast to trade in kind, presupposes
234 Time Perspectives of the Kabyle

adopting the perspective of the possible, a projective attitude admit-

ting an infinite number of possibilities which may equally be realised
or not, and presupposes too an attitude of prediction which sees some
particular possibility as incapable of not occurring, and, moreover, as
not possible of occurring without the exclusion of all the other
possibilities. The use of money supposes the vision of an abstract
future, imagined and absent, while barter like hoarding sees a
concrete 'forthcoming' within reach in pre-perceptive anticipation,
and in the mode of belief.
If the scientific and technical mind, in order to take possession of
the future, has recourse to rational induction founded on the knowl-
edge of natural laws and on the postulate of determinism, the
traditionalist mind assures itself of the 'forthcoming' by attempting to
fashion it, by the means at its disposal, in the image of the past, to
reduce the innumerable possibilities, fraught with all the dangers of
the unknown, into the experiences of the past which reassures
because it is over and done with. The anticipation of the peasant, for
instance, consists of reading the signs to which tradition furnishes the
key: 'If it thunders in January, take up flute and tambourine; if it
thunders in February, don't use up your fodder'. 'Any tree planted
on a Friday will be sterile'. The future is not robbed of its menace
unless it can be attached and reduced to the past, until it can be lived
as a simple continuation and accurate copy of the past. 'Follow the
road of your father and your grandfather'; 'If you resemble your
father you cannot be accused of fault'. Such are the teachings of
wisdom.
If the future is not postulated as a field of infinite possibilities, it is
because the order founded and defended by tradition is viable only
when it is seen, not as the best possible, but as the only possibility,
that is to say, only by the elimination of the whole range of collateral
possibilities which challenge the inexorability of its dictates. It is
essential to the survival of traditionalism that it should not recognise
its own exclusion of unknown alternatives.
Utopia, like the desire for progress or revolution, rests on the
determination to adopt the perspective of the possible, putting in
suspense and in question the passive acquiescence and spontaneous
submission to the current order, whether social or natural. The
projection of the possible is the basis of every belief in progress,
whether as the possible, whether as the revolutionary attitude or as
the ethical conscience which refuse, one and the other, to admit facts.
To live with a belief in progress is to treat the impossible as possible,
 Pierre Bourdieu 235

acting so that the impossible may become possible and the inevitable
inadmissible.
Traditional Algerian society has no ambition to lay hold of the
future and of chance; it attempts only to offer the least purchase to
them; it does not choose to transform the world but to transform its
own attitude toward the world. In reality, forecast, as a deliberate
effort to gain a hold upon one's own future, presupposes a minimum
hold upon one's present - i.e., upon the world. Beyond a certain
point, the ambition to better one's condition leads into the unknown.
'Thrift', say the Kabyle, 'is not possible except in affluence'. He who
has nothing does not think of augmenting that nothing. The absence
of all effort to forecast the future, and to master it, may be the
expression of total mistrust in the future, of the feeling that it is not
possible to take possession of it. Has the Algerian peasant ever had
those minimal assurances regarding the future which are the condi-
tion of being able to make predictions? Has he ever had the minimum
power over the present which one must have if one wishes to
transform the world and master the future? The phenomenon of
cultural disintegration set in motion in Algeria by the impact of
Western civilisation and by the colonial situation, permits the veri-
fication of this analysis. Traditional balances are destroyed, and the
effort to prepare shelter against the future disappears along with
those assurances on which it was based. The peasant knows that,
whatever he may do, he will not succeed in making ends meet, and he
resigns himself to living from day to day. At the end of his resources,
he will have to leave for the city or for France in search of work.
What difference does it make if the day comes a year sooner of year
later? He sells his cattle, or his donkey, or even places a mortgage
upon his land at exorbitant rates of interest. Carried away by this
tendency both irreversible and catastrophic, the old customs of
foresight and the disciplines of consumption collapse. Thus in the
Aures the collective granary has progressively lost its function and
meaning. In certain localities, the gelaas continued to be maintained
even up to ten years ago and were always the site of the spring
festivals, but they ceased to receive the reserves of the group. The
collective surveillance implied by the institution became a burden and
individual granaries began to be made using materials taken from the
old common one.
It appears that for a person to be able to take his destiny in hand by
the organisation of resources, by the establishment of a balance of
assets and liabilities, thrift, the management of capital for investment
236 Time Perspectives of the Kabyle

or credit, or by improvement of productive techniques, it is necessary

for him to retain a minimum of control over his present and over his
environment. The demonstration of this was provided in a factory in
Algeria in 1954. It was decided to raise wages by 20 per cent; the
workers, conforming to the logic of the traditionalist spirit, reduced
their working time by one-fifth. Wages were then doubled, thus
reaching 240 per cent of the initial rate. The consequences of this
second increase were radically different from those of the first. As if a
threshold had been broken, the workers showed a desire to work, to
earn even more, to work overtime, to anticipate the future by thrift.
It was as if the whole of their attitude toward the world had
undergone a complete restructuring as a result of the modification of
a single trait, as if, freed from his anxiety over subsistence, the
individual suddenly discovered that he was capable of taking his own
future in his hands.
This change is manifest in all aspects of life; birth control, for
example, partakes of the same logic and supposes the same 'pre-
dictive' attitude as rational economic calculation. It appears that
while the individual does not have or has lost (such has been the case
in Algeria since about 1880) this minimum of hold upon the present
which offers the possibility of rational calculation in relation to the
future, the surrender to natural fertility is inevitable, as the only means
of assurance regarding this future. In the same way, the passage
from traditionalist conception of work to a calculating and predictive
attitude requires that the individual perceive himself as confronted by
nature, as if in conflict with it; but this conversion itself presupposes
the end of submission to the 'given' and the goal of another possible
world which can come into existence only by the transformation of
the present state of the world. In other words, passing from the
natural and traditional 'given' which imposes tasks of conservation
rather than transformation, man must project a future with reference
to which he judges the present. The will to transform the world by
work appears at the same time as the postulation of a future which
can be planned. It can arise only through transformation of the will
and a mutation of the attitude towards the world and towards time.
Thus everything holds together; in the traditionalist attitude,
submission to the present 'datum', social or natural, the goal of a
'forthcoming' inherent in the present and anticipated according to
models furnished by the past, distrust of the abstract future and
possibilities; in the predictive attitude, the refusal to accept the
present state of things, political or natural, the wish to fashion the
 Pierre Bourdieu 237

present in the image of a projected future and to overcome the

uncertainties of the future by calculated forecast. Each of these
attitudes towards the world and time is the implicit basis of behaviour
patterns, even the simplest ones, and the different forms which each
takes according to its scope are all indissociably bound together. We
can understand therefore that the passage from the traditionalist
attitude to the predictive one cannot be effected in bits and pieces,
but must assume the form of an abrupt and total transformation.
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Index
administrative times 10
alternating-time xii, 72
anthropological method xvi
archaic man 9
aristocracy 135
ASSET ix
astronomical time xi, 4, 42, 47, 57,
58,60,65,66
Newtonian conception of 62
banana-time xiv, 155, 161
beast of monotony xiv, 155
Bergsonian philosophy of time
biological time 42, 43, 48
Black Friday 165
bourgeoisie 135
calendar, the 51,63,85
capitalism xii, 103-51
hegemony of xiii
industrial 8, 13, 14, 116, 122
organised 72
chronological-time 34
chronos x, 32-4
circular time 9-11
classicists xiii
clock, the 51,173,175
tyranny of xvii,222
clock-time x, 5, 6, 8, 21, 57, 58, 85,
90,95,97,112,114
clock-watching 185
continuous discontinuity 40
consciousness of time 35
convergency 36
culturally based time structures 83
cultural time orientations 192
cyclic-time 79, 84
cyclical-time xii, 71
daily round 84-5,90
deception-time xii,70
despatialisation 38
devil's mill, the xvii, 8
discontinuous continuity 40
divergency of movements 36
doing time xv
duration 16
mental construct of 48
qualitative 35,39
Einstein's theory of relativity 40
enduring-time xii,70
'Enigma of Time, The' x,21-34
erratic-time xii, 71
existential-time x
explosive-time xii,72-3
37 Factory Acts 137,138,140,141,
145
false circle 11
f1exitime 91, 170
flux-time 28,31
Form of Time, The x, 21, 22
forms of temporal causality 7
French tradition 2
functionalism 5
game of work, the 158-9
Great Depression 146
Greenwich Mean Time xiii, 127,
128
diffusion of 120
heterogeneous duration 38
historical time 73-4
dialectical ambiguity of 75
homogeneous succession 38
images of time in social theory
5-13
institutional-time 84
interaction-time 79,81-3,91,92,
97
job satisfaction XIV
just-in-time 8
Kabyle of Algeria xv
Kabyle Peasant xvi, 219, 220, 229
252
 Index 253

kainos 34 'Problem of Time, The' x

kairos x, 32-4 psychological survival 155
kinein 34 public-time xiv, 169-78

labour-power 131-2,139,140 qualitative duration 35,39

labour-time 140, 136 depth of 35
aspect of 144 qualitative-time 2
leisure patterns ix concept of 3
linear concept of time 11 quantum physics 41
linear progress 181
linear-time 84 realistic-time 34
reciprocity of perspectives 68
macro physical time 4, 42 retarded-time xii, 71
marginalists xiii, 144 rhythm of collective life 10
British 148 rhythms of nature xvi
marking time 180-4 ritual calendar 219
mathematical-time 62 role segmentation xiv
Marxism xiii, 151
Marxists xiii, 142, 143 seasonal cycles 87
mechanical-time 11,28, 50 seasonal-time 33
mercantilists xiii, 131 self-time 79,80-1,91,92,93,97
approaches to work-time 133 social construction of times 6
mechanical periodicity, forms of 11 social periodicities 78
micro physical time 4,42 social-time 4,5,6,8,9, 14, 15, 17,
misty days, the xv, 181 42,
mobility 51 49,56-66,67-9,77,78,79,82,
excessive 53 88,92,95
modern Americans xv concept of xi, 2, 17
multiple social time xi cycles of 84-8
multiple-time xi, 37-8 multiple manifestations of 69,74
-levels 4 natural 9
multiplicity of time 40,41 notion of 14
mutatis mutandis 32 research 1
mythical system 219 structure of xi, 99
mythology in action 220 structures and meanings of
77-101
nundinae 63 study of 3
theory of 79
objective-time 57,226 varieties of 67 -76
ontological-time 57 sociological time 73-4, 75
organic periodicity, forms of 11 sociology of time xii, 2
organisational time 90,91,92,97 space-time relationships 15
spatial-time 81
philosophical theories of time 35 Spectrum of Social Time, The 35
physical-time 77,78,79,80,81,84, static temporality 24
95 stratification xii, 80, 90, 94, 98
scarcity of 97 temporal 83
private-time xiv, 168-78 structural functionalism 1
privatisation of time 170-1 succession, multiple ways of 36
surprise-time 90
254 Index

synchronicity 80,83,94,95,98 islands of 107

temporal 95, 98 levels 4
synchronisation xii, 4, 96 multiple manifestations of 36,
temporal 96 37,41,73
objective 57, 226
technics 47-55 organisational 90-1, 92, 97
technological determinism 148 scales 4,21
technology 52 sociology of ix, x, xii
tempo 51,52, 53 the concept of ix, x, 19-44,47,
excessive 52 69
of life 53 the passage of 29,48, 160, 181,
of work 52 187,219,225,227
tempo of industrial operations 50 time-consciousness 111, 114, 120
temporal new type of 106
boundaries 171-2,175 time-expressions 59
distance 95 time-free 1
domains 21 time-future 23
embeddedness 93,94,98 time-interval 48
frame of reference 57, 58 time-keeping 120
markers 78 exact 108
meanings 88 islands of 106
points of reference 223 time-metaphors 8, 13
stratification 83 time of astronomy 43
structure 85,91,173 time of chemistry 43
synchronicity 95,98 time of geological strata 43
synchronisation 96 time of mechanics 43
units 223 time of the church 109
temporal pluralism 41 time of the merchant 109
temporal segregation 169 time of thermodynamics 43
themes 162-5 time-past 23
kidding 163 time-perspective 48, 191-5,200,
serious 163 201,202
timaeus 26 chiliastic 199-200
time xi, 1, 12, 21, 22, 27, 56, 57, 59, conformist 196-7
92,111,114,117,128,184,187, hedonistic 200-201
223,224 utopian 197-9
as a causal link 15 time-present 23
as a qualitative measure 16 time pushing forward xii,72
as a quantitative measure 15 time-reckoning 49,59,60,63,204,
as a social factor 14 210,215
as a symbolic structure 2 in the Trobriands 203-18
as chronological series 25-7 primitive xvi
as flux 25-7 social xv
circular 9-11 social roots of 191
collective 3 systems of 60
conceptions of 7 time-reckoning systems 7
embeddedness 82-3 event-based xiv
images of 5-6 time-scarcity 12
immediacy of 24 time-sense 48
 Index 255

timetable 90, 181,221 work scheduling ix

time-thrift 115 work-time 114,118,131,136,
time-waste 8 148
times 160-2, 163 characterisation of 169
total man 62 history of 130-51
total social phenomena 67, 68 intensification of 139
Trobriand Islands xv Marx's theory of 139,143
tyranny of the clock xvii, 222 output relationship 149

weakly routine 85-7 yearly seasons 87-8