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Knowledge and Knowing in
Library and
Information Science

A Philosophical Framework

John M. Budd

The Scarecrow Press, Inc.

Lanham, Maryland, and London
2001
SCARECROW PRESS, INC.
Published in the United States of America
by Scarecrow Press, Inc.
4720 Boston Way, Lanham, Maryland 20706
Wwww.scarecrowpress.com

4 Pleydell Gardens, Folkestone

Kent CT20 2DN, England

Copyright © 2001 by John M. Budd

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publisher.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Information Available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Budd, John, 1953—

Knowledge and knowing in library and information science : a philosophical
framework / John M. Budd.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index.
ISBN 0-8108-4041-3 (alk. paper) — ISBN 0-8108-4025-1 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Library science—Philosophy. 2. Information science—Philosophy. 3. Knowledge,
Theory of. 4. Classification of sciences. I. Title.
Z665 .B918 2001
020'.1—dc21 2001020523
™

S) The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of

American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of
Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
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 Contents

Introduction

Chapter One: The Beginnings of Science:

An Exploration into the Formulation
of Scientific Thought

Chapter Two: A Continuation of the Genealogy

of Thought i

Chapter Three: What Is Real?:

Science and Ideas of Reality ok)

Chapter Four: False Starts and Dead Ends

for Social Science and LIS 149

Chapter Five: Knowledge and Knowing in LIS 203

Chapter Six: Paths to Knowledge 243

Chapter Seven: Products and Possibilities in LIS Ped

References foal

Index Jo

About the Author 361

 Introduction

Whenever I read a book I appreciate a succinct introduction that

tells just what I’ll be reading about. So, with this I hope to
provide readers with something of a statement of purpose and a
description of content. First, I want to recognize that, as a
profession, librarianship has as its principal goal a set of actions
that are both inwardly and outwardly directed. Simply stated,
librarianship seeks to provide information and reading materials
to people through the purposeful collection of books, periodicals,
and other media, provision of access to information in various
formats, the organization of information to enhance meaning,
and the design of services that enable people to read, to learn,
and to grow. These actions are at the heart of the profession, but
they are grounded in ways of thinking and in conceptions of
knowledge. Complex action, like the elements mentioned above,
does not spring from intuition or tacit reliance on reaction to
stimuli, but on that thinking and knowledge. It is the thought
that is at the heart of librarianship that is the focus of this book.
The thinking that guides work in every profession and
discipline, including library and information science (LIS), has a
heritage, a genealogy. There may be aspects of the heritage of
thought that some fields share; there may be some unique

1
yD Introduction

elements in each. The thought on which today’s action is based,

or of which it is a product, is a long line of conjectures,
suggestions, evidence, refutation, and revision. Much of that
heritage is hidden to those who practice in these fields, unless
they purposely inquire into the past. It may be argued that
practice proceeds and progresses just fine in ignorance of the
heritage. I’d suggest that such a view mistakenly interprets
continued action as progress. Genuine progress—which I'll define
here as the development and offering of effective service to
communities, fruitful inquiry into enduring questions that helps
us understand the complexity of our world, and making decisions
that are really informed (in the sense that fully allows for the
most useful internal workings and external effect)—only occurs
when there has been deep critical investigation into the workings
of our field. Critical investigation, of necessity, relies on knowing
where we came from and how we got here, as well as where we're
going.
The purpose of this book is to provide our field of LIS with
a critical examination of the thought that influences practice so
that progress, as defined above, can be realized. Granted, this is
a tall order, but it is essential, especially as technological and
other changes prompt us to revisit practice. As we contemplate
changes to services and, at the most fundamental level, to the way
we help people become informed, we need to be wary of the
received (from our intellectual heritage) ways of thinking.
Ultimately, and I probably cannot emphasize this frequently
enough, the reason for studying the intellectual foundations of
LIS is to ensure that we strive to design the most effective
information systems, to create and offer the most useful services,
to help people with their information and reading needs, and to
enable information seekers to make sense of the sometimes
overwhelming bulk of stuff that is available. No one in LIS would
deny these goals, but some suggest that achieving the goals has no
intellectual basis. Several years ago Peter Hernon and Cheryl
Metoyer-Duran interviewed a number of librarians, asking them,
among other things, to evaluate our literature. One respondent
said, “We are not scholars; we are librarians! Theory is for LIS
faculty and doctoral students, not for us” (Hernon and Metoyer-
 Introduction 3

Duran, 1992, 504). It may be that much of what is published in

LIS has little utility for praxis (a term that will be defined in
context later in the book), but a facile dismissal of the literature,
especially because it may be grounded in some theory, is hardly
productive. I sincerely hope that more than faculty and students
are interested in theory that can inform practice. To be effective,
practitioners should be reflexive, should examine and question
what we do, how we do it, and why we make the choices we do.
This kind of reflection is ineluctably bound to thought and, so, is
related to our heritage of thought.
In 1933 Pierce Butler wrote that “The librarian stands alone
in the simplicity of his [sic] pragmatism” (Butler, 1961 [1933],
xii). Butler was not eschewing pragmatism as such; American
pragmatists, such as William James, Charles Sanders Peirce, and
John Dewey, have asked serious questions about the ways we
think and act. In fact, we might go so far as to say that any
profession should have a serious pragmatic element. Pragmatism,
however, does not mean a dismissal of thought and reflection.
Some philosophers, most notably Richard Rorty, claim that,
effectively, pragmatism trumps epistemology, that there is no
point to a theory of knowledge; what is important is discovering
what works. The error in this claim is the assumption that
epistemology cannot be pragmatic, that examining knowledge
cannot help us find the most effective action. The thought and
reflection in LIS contributes to effective praxis. Throughout this
book I'll explore the essential relationship between thought and
praxis.
At the outset it will be necessary to examine some intellectual
history. A principal reason for historical treatment is the question
of science in LIS. At various points in the twentieth century some
have searched for the science in library and information science;
others have stated that there is little or nothing scientific about
LIS; still others have urged us to first study what science is to see
if there is any fit for our field. These discussions are, in fact,
common throughout the social sciences. Since such discussions
have been so persistent, and since they continue today, some
study of science and its beginnings is necessary. The first chapter
will begin scrutiny of the origin of what I'll call “modern science.”
4 Introduction

A modern view of science frequently begins with the eighteenth

century, with the Enlightenment. In chapter 1 I will accept
arguments that the beginnings of the Enlightment, and the
beginnings of modern science, are actually earlier. The starting
point will be Francis Bacon.
Chapter 2 continues the investigation of our intellectual
heritage, or genealogy, by focusing on the late eighteenth century
and the nineteenth century. This is a pivotal period in the
development of all of the social sciences, and the developments
of that time influence thought and action to this day. It was at
that time that “positivism” had its origins. What is commonly
referred to as positivism now differs from the original conception,
but some essential aspects were first articulated then. Perhaps
more correctly the nineteenth century saw the rise of what was
purported to be a science of society—that, it was envisioned,
would rival the mature natural sciences in explanatory and
predictive power. The second chapter eventually takes the
genealogy into the twentieth century and adds the suggested
contributions of logic and linguistic analysis to the nineteenth
century idea of social science.
By the third chapter the attention turns to contemporary
thought on science. Specifically, discussion centers on
conceptions of reality. A variety of competing ideas are presented
and examined critically in an effort to discover what positions
have fruitful elements to offer and which create problems for LIS
thinking today. One of the most problematic concepts presented
is that of scientism—the misapplication of the methods, theories,
and hypotheses of the natural sciences to fields where they don’t
fit. In particular, some assertions from LIS are examined in the
context of certain propositions regarding the world we live in. The
complex and conflicting stances of realism and relativism are
explored here, and their efficacy assessed. Since these are
challenging, but extremely important, propositions, they must be
dealt with thoroughly so that our understanding of potentially
helpful thought in LIS can be enhanced.
The genealogy of thought and contemporary ideas creates
some dilemmas for all of the social sciences, including LIS.
Chapter 4 details some specific positions that are seriously
 Introduction 5

problematic, but quite influential in today’s thought and practice.

The examples employed are chosen because of the problems they
present and because they are by no means simply obsolete ideas.
We frequently learn a great deal from mistakes, if we are able to
isolate precisely what went wrong. This chapter, then, is
essentially a critique, but it is offered in the most positive vein.
The problematic aspects enable us to comprehend what may
constitute barriers to knowledge and position us so that we can
explore what knowledge is and how it grows.
Chapter 5 explores what knowledge is, reviewing criteria for
knowledge that have been suggested by several philosophers. It
is here that the connection between pragmatism and
epistemology becomes evident. One criterion for knowledge that
is offered by philosophers is the reliability of practices. More
particularly, reliable practices are identified as such by virtue of
the fact that there is justification for believing the practices are
reliable. This chapter also presents some challenges to
epistemology (beyond Rorty’s pragmatism); I use these arguments
so that, I hope, the presentation on knowledge (1) makes more
sense, and (2) can be evaluated as to its persuasiveness. One
particular idea about knowledge receives considerable
attention—social epistemology. The term was actually first
introduced by Jesse Shera and was applied to work in LIS. His
idea indirectly influenced later philosophers who have tried to
develop the relationship between knowledge and _ social
interaction. Social epistemology, I’ll argue, holds potential for the
development of thought and praxis in LIS. Applications of
epistemology to the social sciences are also included here.
While the fifth chapter argues in favor of epistemology (and
reasons why it is important to us in LIS), the sixth chapter
suggests a way to reach the goal of knowledge. Technically (and
I mean in philosophical terms), epistemology and phenomenology
are not necessarily linked. I will, however, suggest that the key
principles of phenomenology—including the exploration of the
essence of a thing, that nature of being, the intentionality that
guides our actions, and the recognition of the connection between
self and other—offer us a way to achieve the goals of knowledge.
The genuine end of a phenomenological approach is
6 Introduction

interpretation, which is integral to knowledge in all of the social

sciences and certainly in LIS. While interpretation is sometimes
taken to be quite subjective and variable, there are norms for
interpretation that allow a more solid evaluation of both the
process and product of interpretation. The focus on interpretation
emphasizes that LIS and the other social sciences necessarily
require a serious and critical examination of human action,
including all human communication. As is the case with
epistemology, there are some conflicting views regarding
interpretation (hermeneutics). The major positions are reviewed,
and a particular approach to interpretation is suggested.
The final chapter brings together the preceding arguments
and propositions in order to look ahead. The entirety of the book
is designed to present a conceptual framework that can lead to
progress in LIS. Chapter 7 reviews some especially productive
work in LIS that has helped us to understand some essential
questions and has executed some research that is enlightening.
These examples, I argue, are models for inquiry in our field.
Future research and praxis can build upon this prior work,
recognizing why that work is productive. Our future can also
benefit from some well-developed and well-conceived suggestions
by some writers outside of LIS. Those suggestions provide us with
some ways of defining human action and structuring action that
can assist that action.
I hope that, taken as a whole, the ideas presented in this
book can enable discussion in classrooms, in libraries, and at
professional conferences. The intent is for this presentation to
offer something of a context so that we can look critically at our
present and our future states, and for us to set our sights on
progress. I’m taking my direction from Pierce Butler: “A
professional philosophy would give to librarianship that
directness of action which can spring only from a complete
consciousness of purpose” (Butler, 1961 [1933], 103).
 Chapter One

The Beginnings of Science:

An Exploration into the Formulation
of Scientific Thought

I should begin by asking the reader’s forbearance. As I noted in

the introduction, in order to understand fully the present state of
library and information science (LIS) and to explore possibilities
for future modes of thought, a considerable amount of back-
ground is needed. It is essential that I attempt to anticipate some
questions that many readers may have at the outset of this
project. The first question is: Given that library and information
science is a practical profession, why is there any need for
philosophical investigation of this field? It is certainly true that
this, and other, professions are focused on action, and this focus
is necessary. Even so, that action has foundations that are based
in conceptions of the purpose of a library, the purpose and uses
of information, the organization of information for use, and the
behaviors of users. Our conceptions are influenced by a lengthy
past, some of which may seem only tangentially related (at best)
to the heart of library and information science. These influences
affect the way we think about the work we do, the research we
engage in, and the ways we teach others—both formally in LIS
8 Chapter One

education programs and less formally through in-house and

association-related initiatives—to prepare them to enter or
continue in the profession. Perhaps even more to the point,
philosophical investigation of practice is not an abstract exercise,
but is intrinsically connected to the nature of practice and is
aimed at discovering how we act within our profession. A second
question is: What does a particular mode of thought have to do
with the working life of professionals in this field? Whether we
are consciously aware of it at all times, our conceptions (which
are likely to be rooted deep in the heritage of the discipline of
LIS) guide our actions. The planning that leads to practice, the
work that we do from day to day, are founded in a rich matrix of
(usually tacit) ways of thinking about purpose and action. In
order to understand the potential of LIS we should examine the
ways we think; in order to examine that, we need to explore the
sources of influence that have helped shape our thinking.
There is no denying that the influences that have worked to
shape thinking and acting in LIS are many and varied. To take
briefly just one example, a force that is readily apparent today is
technology. Much of the information technology in use now in
libraries and other agencies has been developed outside the realm
of librarianship. This technology is then adapted and accepted for
use by librarians and other information specialists for specific
purposes. Technological development affects not only organiza-
tional functions, but also thinking. As new possibilities arise, we
stretch our imaginations and explore the outcomes of our own
deliberations. As will be explored later, the focus on technology,
not just in libraries but in society at large, is an indicative
characteristic of our age. This characteristic, and others of our
time, will have to be explored at some length (and will be in a
later chapter) in order to understand the factors influencing the
structure of knowledge today. Before we reach the point of
examining epistemology today, we must delve into the past in
order to identify the roots of thought (and action) in library and
information science. Just as we are influenced by activities in the
world of information technology, so too have we been influenced
in our thinking by other disciplines. If it can be accepted that LIS
shares much with the social sciences, then there is a source (or
 The Beginnings of Science 9

series of sources) of influence, diverse though it may be. The

social sciences, in turn, have been influenced by many factors.
This is obvious since those fields usually grouped into the social
sciences are relatively young and grew out of other, older,
disciplines. To examine LIS requires examining the thought,
work, and writings that have contributed to, and still influence,
the social sciences. This, then, is a philosophical journey, a
sojourn through a period of time that has seen the beginnings of
what can be conceived as the modern age of science.

A Genealogical Approach
Foucault

The beginning of this project amounts to a genealogy of

thought in LIS. I must be clear that by using the word genealogy
J am not referring simply to examination of family histories.
Genealogy was the term used by Nietzsche in The Genealogy of
Morals to convey the idea that morals have descended to us
through time, rather than having been immutable from the
beginning of time. More specifically, I am borrowing Michel
Foucault’s usage of the word. He informs us that

Genealogy does not resemble the evolution of a species and

does not map the destiny of a people. On the contrary, to
follow the complex course of descent is to maintain passing
events in their proper dispersion; it is to identify the accidents,
the minute deviations—or conversely, the complete rever-
sals—the errors, the false appraisals, and the faulty calculations
that gave birth to those things that continue to exist and have
value for us; it is to discover that truth or being do not lie at the
root of what we know and what we are, but the exteriority of
accidents. (Foucault, 1977, 146)

J will admit that my use of “genealogy” does not match precisely

the totality of Foucault’s conception. He maintains that geneal-
ogy is not necessarily a search for origins, nor is it a pretense at
creating a grand narrative that can explain history in all its detail.
10 Chapter One

In fact, as Hubert Dreyfus and Paul Rabinow interpret Foucault,

genealogy avoids any search for depth and denies the existence of
hidden meanings and truths (Dreyfus and Rabinow, 1983, 106-
7). That is, it may be tempting for us to employ “genealogy” as
referring to a complete description of lineage; this was not
Foucault’s usage, nor is it mine. Genealogy (and this is the aspect
I find most attractive) illustrates the various branches from the
main line, thus demonstrating the variability of thought. While
Foucault did at times express hostility to the notion of a philoso-
phy of first principles, such as truth, his hostility was not
consistent. I am inclined to believe that there is truth (or are
truths), but I will concur with Foucault on one point—any claim
to truth is problematic in that it is articulated in a context of
politics, economics, and history; the claim of truth should not
automatically be equated with truth itself.
Because of the possibly problematic nature of truth claims,
we have to heed Foucault’s more consistent coexamination of
power and knowledge. This study is not reducible to the banal
“knowledge is power”; it is a serious investigation of the inescap-
able relationship between knowledge and power, and the
influence each has on the other. As Foucault says, there is a
“constant articulation . . . of power on knowledge and of knowl-
edge on power. . . . The exercise of power perpetually creates
knowledge and, conversely, knowledge constantly induces effects
of power” (Foucault, 1980, 51-52). I prefer to adopt the generous
assessment of Rudi Visker: “The power-knowledge concept
neither indicates skepticism with regard to the possibility of
(genuine) knowledge, nor a critique of actual knowledge (on the
grounds, for example, that, because of its link with power, it is
not real knowledge), but refers, rather, to a constitutive condition
of knowledge and science in general” (Visker, 1995, 57). The
relation of power and knowledge is evident if we follow Foucault
in examining discursive practice—the language and the context in
which things are said. He recognizes that discourse expresses a
“will to knowledge” that is sustained in part through exclusion,
which is unavoidably institutional: “it is both reinforced and
accompanied by whole strata of practices such as
pedagogy—naturally—the book-system, publishing, libraries
 The Beginnings of Science 11

[etc.]. .. . Finally, I believe that this will to knowledge, thus

reliant upon institutional support and distribution, tends to
exercise a sort of pressure, a power of constraint upon other forms
of discourse” (Foucault, 1972, 219).
As | just noted, I prefer to adopt a particular interpretation
of this idea of Foucault’s. The first point to note is that power is
not necessarily equated with something like Gramscian cultural
hegemony. Power, as it may relate to knowledge, can be based on
reason and logic, as well as on political and economic structures.
The next point is that knowledge must be considered separately
from claims; the latter may be grounded in hegemonic power.
Knowledge, in the epistemic sense, must be based in a set of
criteria that include some conceptions of truth, reliability, and
justification. In this sense, knowledge is grounded in the power
of these criteria. While I do recognize that a philosophy of library
and information science has to come to grips with epistemics, I
also recognize that such a philosophy must also recognize that
claims are made. The claims, though, should be evaluated on
epistemic grounds, which will allow the recognition of hegemonic
power where it may exist. Claims can then be recognized as such,
and the political, economic, and other forces at work can be
examined. This book is fundamentally a study of knowledge in
the social sciences and LIS, but it is also, in part, an analysis of
discursive power and the exclusionary force it exerts.
This work is also an effort at coming to grips with the
complexity of the genealogy. Since there certainly may be fits and
starts as we move forward in time, and since the influences on the
present are functions of the fits and starts (as well as the contra-
dictions and confluences), it is incumbent upon any examiner of
intellectual history to acknowledge that influence is not simple
(which is one of Foucault’s central points). To that end, I will
admit that there is a great deal from the past that LIS and the
social sciences benefit from. The realization that we are part of
these disciplines is sufficient evidence that we see something
worthwhile, or at the very least salvageable, in them. The
emphasis through much of this book, though, will be on the
wrong turns that the social sciences have taken through time. The
rest of the book, which will be an analysis of knowledge and a
12 Chapter One

strategy for increasing our knowledge, is a grateful acknowledg-

ment of the fruitfulness of past thought. In a rather uneasy
amalgamation, we are formed by all of the myriad intellectual
forces that have coexisted and competed.
My acknowledgment of the productive tension that has both
led us to this place and time and provided us with a path to the
future owes a great deal to Stephen Jay Gould’s observation that
the study of thought necessarily embodies all thought; we do
ourselves a disservice when we create disciplinary barriers that
can become increasingly difficult to cross. He says we have made
serious mistakes that result in a distrust of difference:

The first bad habit—setting up dichotomies—may be deeply

inbred into the mechanisms of cerebral divisions—good vs. evil,
male vs. female, or culture vs. nature—and then, in a further
unfortunate reflex, to rank or judge these alternatives. The
second bad habit, making martial metaphors, represents an all-
too-human potential for belligerence—a potential unfortunately
realized in most cultural contexts. When we put the two themes
together, we fall into simplistic readings of history as a set of
battles between Light and Darkness. (Gould, 1998, 86)

The mistakes are tempting; I hope not to commit them (at least
not too frequently). The genealogical approach, though perhaps
not in the strictest Foucauldian sense, is one way to avoid the
dichotomies existing in a state of warfare. All thought is part of
the genealogy, and, while there may be competition or suppres-
sion, there is also the possibility to assess merit on the grounds of
reason and intellectual soundness, as well as success.
In part, the present project does attempt to find at least some
hint at origins of the current mode of thinking in LIS (which is
shared, to a considerable extent, among all social sciences). On
the other hand, as Foucault says, “[The genealogist] must be able
to recognize the events of history, its jolts, its surprises, its
unsteady victories and unpalatable defeats—the basis of all
beginnings, atavisms, and heredities. Similarly, he must be able
to diagnose the illnesses of the body, its conditions of weakness
and strength, its breakdown and resistances, to be in a position
to judge philosophical discourse” (Foucault, 1977, 144-45). This
 The Beginnings of Science 13

book is an effort at judging philosophical discourse both by way

of description (the first few chapters will look at the uneven
record of the past) and by way of suggesting a strategy for the
evaluation of past and present thought and practice and a
direction for the future. A search for influences will, assuredly,
involve examination of the twists and turns that the course of
human thought and action may take. The first part of the book
will adopt a somewhat skeptical view of past discourse; the latter
part will attempt to outline a means to genuine knowledge.
As is true in any genealogical search, there are occasional
surprises and the path is only clear when all of the elements are
in place. Another element of genealogical search is that there is
seldom a neat, clean, straight line. With this particular genealogy
we have to come to grips with a lineage that is wilfully, if not
altogether consciously, produced. This means that the parentage
of an idea is not necessarily a matter of subsequent thought being
an absolute reflection of its antecedent. Rather, that predecessor’s
idea is interpreted—sometimes in ways not intended by the
predecessor—by those who come after. The process of interpreta-
tion may be selective, or reactionary, or it may be obstructed by
some other force. The outcome may be a lineage with a number
of bends and breaks in it, but one that illustrates precursors,
whether they be abstracted either purposely or accidentally. As is
true of human genealogies, the offspring may have little or no
awareness of parentage, but is nonetheless affected by what has
gone before. Here is where we find ourselves in a present state
that includes little consciousness of the past. The institutional
memory, if you will, is a short one. The suggestion I make here is
that this is a shortcoming of the field; this statement is accompa-
nied by the realization that such a suggestion is not new. I would
also add that the proposed remedy (the genealogy) that forms a
substantial portion of this book is offered as a means of inviting
discussion, not as a final word. The ultimate hope is that this
genealogy contributes to what might be considered an examined
life for LIS.
14 Chapter One

Claims of Positivism

In any genealogy it is difficult to determine how far back to

go. A first step is to turn to recent opinions on the intellectual
grounding of LIS. Michael Harris states that positivism is the
dominant epistemology and that it “now governs the thinking of
most serious researchers in library science (and probably all who
refer to themselves as ’information scientists’)” (Harris, 1986,
220). He further writes that “research in library and information
science has been characterized by an increasingly rigid commit-
ment to a positivist epistemology that has led us to make a fetish
of certain methodological approaches to our research and has
blinded us to the right questions” (Harris, 1986, 217). Harris’s
claim is based on a rather convincing argument centering on the
definition of positivism that he offers and manifestations of that
positivism in the LIS literature.
Harris is not alone in his perception of the present mode of
thinking in LIS. Gary Radford, for instance, observes that “The
positivist approach aspires to discover the generalizable some-
thing else: systems of laws and rules that lie beyond the realm of
the immediately observable. The objective is to describe the
underlying schemes in which an individual event or observation
fits and from which future events can be predicted” (Radford,
1992, 411). He then provides a link between his notion of
positivism and our profession: “Like positivism, library science
attempts to develop general and a priori rules with which to build
systems that permit efficient and accurate access to knowledge”
(Radford, 1992, 413). Radford further provides additional
bibliographic evidence for his position and illustrates some effects
of a positivist way of thinking on the work of librarianship. A. L.
Dick also sees positivist underpinning to much of the writing on
research in LIS. In reviewing some texts on research, he concludes
that “The positivist insistence upon a stark either/or dichotomy,
that is, either librarians employ the methodologies of experimen-
tation and measurement to find universal relationships among
library variables or much of research in librarianship is doomed
to failure, is echoed in the argument that the choices for the
library research community are ’science or nonscience’” (Dick,
 The Beginnings of Science 15

1991, 233). After reviewing a number of discursive acts related to

inquiry in this field, he states, “it is claimed by its proponents to
be the only way of assuring the field of its scientific and hence
professional status” (Dick, 1991, 233).
Positivism, however, is itself symptomatic of a way of
thinking that predates the formal expression of the term and its
acknowledged antecedents. The concept, of which positivism is
one incarnation, might be referred to as deterministic scientism.
This is not intended to appear to be the replacement of one bit
of jargon for another; there are core differences between positiv-
ism and deterministic scientism. First, scientism is here defined
as a belief that knowledge growth in all disciplines depends on
the application of the methods of natural science. Tom Sorrel
defines scientism as “the belief that science, especially natural
science, is much the most valuable part of human learning—much
the most valuable part because it is much the most authoritative,
or serious, or beneficial” (Sorrel, 1991, 1). Sorrel outlines the
essential theses of scientific empiricism: “(1) science is unified;
(2) there are no limits to science; (3) science has been enormously
successful at prediction, explanation and control; (4) the methods
of science confer objectivity on scientific results; and (5) science
has been beneficial for human beings” (Sorrel, 1991, 4). These
theses are viewed by a number of writers as central to positivism;
we will explore conceptions of the elements integral to positivism
later. Sorrel then offers a reason for the subsumption of scientific
empiricism and its theses within scientism. “What is crucial to
scientism is not the identification of something as scientific or
unscientific but the thought that the scientific is much more
valuable than the non-scientific, or the thought that the non-
scientific is of negligible value” (Sorrel, 1991, 9). When it comes
to research, or to any structured inquiry for that matter, scientism
purports to provide, not only a means of conduct, but the means
of conduct. F. A. Hayek writes, “The scientistic as distinguished
from the scientific view is not an unprejudiced but a very preju-
diced approach which, before it has considered its subject, claims
to know what is the most appropriate way of investigating it [emphasis
added]” (Hayek, 1979, 24).
16 Chapter One

Many conceptions of knowledge could be classified as

naturalistic; that is, they include at least some version of empiri-
cism, frequently focusing on human cognition and some natural
scientific ways of examining cognitive processes. Such naturalism
does, and should, interest us in LIS and needs to be examined in
its own right. However, according to Susan Haack, naturalism
can deteriorate to scientism if the fundamental view of science
becomes too firmly rooted in science and scientific method. In
discussing the thought of W. V. O. Quine, Haack observes that
the distinction between naturalism that admits empiricism and
scientistic naturalism stems from a confusion with “the idea that
epistemology is part of our whole web of empirical belief . . . and
the idea that epistemology is internal to the sciences” (Haack,
1993, 122). In other words, scientism results from an appropria-
tion by science of everything empirical, which leads to a claim
that only science can provide answers to questions that are in any
way dependent on empirical study. Much of the coming discus-
sion will elaborate on how scientistic thinking stems from some
conceptions of science. The question that naturally arises here is:
What is meant by deterministic? This question deserves a
substantive answer, so we will take a brief detour here to explore
what determinism means.

A Few Words on Determinism

Almost all of what follows in this book hinges on one key

proposition. First, while library and information science should
not be guilty of living an unexamined life, too much of our
intellectual roots lie in a collective unconscious, as was noted
earlier. Concepts that have evolved over the past few centuries are
deeply ingrained in our behavior and thought as both a profes-
sion and a discipline. We share many of these concepts with, and
indeed we inherited many of them from, the social sciences.
They, in turn, have owed huge debts to the early articulations of
scientific philosophy, purpose, and method. While these concepts
are tenacious, they are not necessarily indomitable. Throughout
the last century and a half there has been resistance to the
 The Beginnings of Science 17

prevalent construct, but the received view has shown a forceful

resilience. The construct I speak of is at the center of this book’s
key proposition: through at least the period of professional
librarianship—and from the beginnings of the social
sciences—thought and action have been predicated upon
deterministic scientism. We now have a short definition of
scientism, but here I want to say a bit about determinism.
As is true of many false leads in science and in philosophy,
determinism has proved a persistent idea because of its attractive-
ness. It has been a force for at least the last couple of millennia.
As Jerome Zimmerman observes, “Perhaps the most enduring
reformulation of the Aristotelian idea of efficient cause is that
which is known as determinism. This reformulation states
essentially that every phenomenon must have a cause and is
predetermined” (Zimmerman, 1989, 54). If it were true that
every phenomenon has a single cause and, conversely, that a
single cause determines a phenomenon, then control over nature
and humankind becomes not merely a wish, but a possibility. The
motivation for control is irrelevant; the potentiality of control in
any instance in the human realm is pernicious. This is why Colin
Piele, whose discipline is social work, says, “It is the very belief in
a deterministic, causal world that enables and justifies the
dominance of one person over another and of people over the
environment, regardless of whether that dominance or control has
a benevolent or exploitive intention” (Piele, 1993, 129).
Before we consider in any greater detail the human effects of
determinism, let us look a little closer at physical determinism.
Perhaps the most explicit expression of determinism is that of
Pierre Simon, Marquis de Laplace, written in 1814:

An intelligence which, at a given instant, would know all the

forces by which Nature is animated, and the respective situa-
tion of all the elements of which it is composed, if furthermore
it were vast enough to submit all these data to analysis, would
in the same formula encompass the motion of the largest
bodies of the universe, and those of the most minute atom:
nothing for it would be uncertain, and the future as well as the
past would be present to its eyes. The human mind, in the
18 Chapter One

perfection that it has been able to give to astronomy, provides

a feeble semblance of this intelligence. (Laplace, 1814, 29)

The Laplacian notion of determinism had its grounding in

Newtonian (classical) mechanics, but it proved an impossible
doctrine to follow in early twentieth-century physics. First with
Max Planck’s quantum hypothesis (the suggestion that light and
other waves are emitted in entities called quanta) and then with
Werner Heisenberg’s formulation of his uncertainty principle
came a serious questioning of the strong determinism posited by
Laplace. Stephen Hawking says, “The uncertainty principle
signaled an end to Laplace’s dream of a theory of science, a model
of the universe that would be completely deterministic: one
certainly cannot predict future events exactly if one cannot even
measure the present state of the universe precisely!” (Hawking,
1988, 55) I’m spending some time on these matters because there
are a number of people in LIS and the other social sciences who
turn to the physical sciences as a model for theory and practice.
Given the affinity for the natural sciences, we should understand
what has guided some work in those areas.
Even in the sphere of the physical sciences the negation of
strong determinism seemed unpalatable. Some very prominent
and brilliant scientists had to begin by relaxing their dependence
on the previous mode of thought, and then to examine critically
the possibility of a weaker determinism, one that may not be able
to explain causal links for all phenomena. A lengthy quote from
Ilya Prigogine and Isabelle Stengers indicates the transformation
in thought that occurred several decades ago:

These consequences of quantum mechanics were unacceptable to

many physicists, including Einstein; and many experiments were
devised to demonstrate their absurdity. An attempt was also
made to minimize the conceptual change involved. In particular,
it was suggested that the foundation of quantum mechanics is in
some way related to perturbations resulting from the process of
observation. A system was thought to possess intrinsically well-
defined mechanical parameters such as coordinates and momenta;
but some of them would be made fuzzy by measurement, and
 The Beginnings of Science 19

Heisenberg’s uncertainty relation would only express the

perturbation created by the measurement process. Classical
realism thus would remain intact on the fundamental level, and
we would simply have to add a positivistic qualification. This
interpretation seems too narrow. It is not the quantum mea-
surement process that disturbs the results. Far from it:
Planck’s constant forces us to revise our concepts of
coordinates and momenta. This conclusion has been
confirmed by recent experiments designed to test the
assumption of local hidden variables that were introduced to
restore classical determinism. The results of those experiments
confirm the striking consequences of quantum mechanics.
(Prigogine and Stengers, 1984, 224)

All of this does not mean that determinism is now absent

from physical science. Rather, a reformulation of what constitutes
determinism presently informs examination of physical bodies
and systems. Theories based on chaos or, more appropriately,
complexity, do not negate determinism, but do incorporate a
realization that absolutely accurate predictions of the future are
dependent on factors that are beyond the capabilities of
researchers to measure or sometimes even to conceive. This point
may be best illustrated by a hallmark concept of the theory of
chaos or complexity—sensitive dependence on initial conditions.
This means, in short, that for predictions to be accurate, we
would have to know the exact properties and conditions of the
physical state at the point of origin. Perhaps the best example of
this dilemma is weather forecasting. In a landmark paper of
almost forty years ago Edward Lorenz examined meteorological
phenomena as deterministic nonperiodic flow. Lorenz began with
a mathematical examination of meteorological patterns based on
deterministic nonlinear equations that yielded “nonperiodic
solutions, i. e., solutions which never repeat their past histories
exactly and where all approximate repetitions are of finite
duration” (Lorenz, 1963, 130). The influence of his work was
extended to virtually every physical science and beyond. The
research of this century has undoubtedly altered the definition of
determinism and has led Zimmerman to conclude, “The precise
observations required by classical determinism have given way to
20 Chapter One

the conceptualization that every observation represents, in reality

a probability distribution. Causality is then determined by
observing the differences in probabilities at different times.
Classical determinism may no longer be viewed as the most viable
option for explaining most of the phenomena of subatomic
physics, let alone human behavior” (Zimmerman, 1989, 55).
The implications of physical determinism extend beyond the
physical. Strong determinism, such as that suggested by Laplace,
carries a vision of the world that encompasses the mental, the
philosophical, and the psychological. Karl Popper states, “I have
called physical determinism a nightmare. It is a nightmare
because it asserts that the whole world with everything in it is a
huge automaton, and that we are nothing but little cog-wheels, or
at best sub-automata, within it” (Popper, 1979, 222). Popper
goes on to say that strong determinism destroys the idea of
creativity, since composing a poem, painting on a Canvas, or
sculpting in clay, are all determined and could be recreated by
anyone who could have enough data on the writer, etc., and the
medium. In short, strong determinism, even as it extends into the
mental and psychological realms, is reductionist. That is, all
activity can be reduced to the physical. This, as we shall see in a
later chapter, is central to the particular line of thought usually
labeled positivism.
While there may, in extreme reductionism, be a temptation
to impose strong physical determinism on psychological deter-
minism, there is a paradox that has been created by the replace-
ment of Newtonian mechanics with quantum mechanics. If, as
the most rigid behaviorist might seek to do, one could hope for
absolute precision with psychological “laws,” one would have to,
as Popper points out (Popper, 1979, 221), traverse behaviorism
and move into physiology, and from there to physics. This would
leave one in the hands of physical determinism and, as we have
seen, the strong determinism has been destroyed. So some degree
of indeterminacy would be a necessary element in psychological
study. Moreover, the indeterminacy may be magnified as we
regress (or progress) from the physical to the vagaries and
potential contradictions of the psychological. Popper further says
that the
 The Beginnings of Science 24

doctrine which we may call philosophical or psychological deter-

minism is not only a very different affair from physical determin-
ism, but it is also one which a physical determinist who
understands this matter at all can hardly take seriously. For the
thesis of philosophical determinism, that “Like effects have like
causes” or that “Every event has a cause”, is so vague that it is
perfectly compatible with physical indeterminism [emphasis in
original]. (Popper, 1979, 220)

Of primary importance in this discussion of determinism is a

realization of its attractiveness. Such a realization connotes the
necessity for a conscious awareness of the intellectual history we
inherit. This history has not only been handed down over time,
but has come to us from many and varied origins. An understand-
ing of the history enables us to examine critically the current state
of thought and practice in library and information science.
Although Piele is writing about social work, we could appropriate
his words; they apply equally well to our field:

Lack of attention to cosmological beliefs leaves social workers

with a set of beliefs that operate sub rosa and as such are
unavailable for analysis and further development. It is not
surprising that social work appears to implicitly accept the
dominant deterministic cosmology of our time, a cosmology
that drew strength from the past successes of the physical
sciences but that is being increasingly questioned within those
sciences. (Piele, 1993, 127)

Of related interest and relevance is another version of determin-

ism which will not be dealt with here, but will feature in later
discussions of the current state of our field—technological
determinism. In brief, technological determinism encompasses the
possibility that a society’s (or a discipline’s) technology deter-
mines its social, political, intellectual, and cultural structure.
In a nutshell, then, by determinism I mean the thought that
all occurrences are determined by a prior cause, and that cause
usually emanates from natural science. In other words, there is a
great deal of faith in a “scientific method,” the existence of which
will be questioned later, and that faith leads to the grasping for
Py Chapter One

an ultimate cause for all phenomena, even behavioral ones. This

deterministic scientism has as its foundation both the writings of
some philosophers (and a few scientists) and, perhaps more
importantly, interpretations, or readings, of those works. Also, it
should be noted that both the scientism and the determinism can
be seen as simplifications, not so much of the sources of knowl-
edge and existence, but of explanation. Inherent in both is an
effort to find a fundamental rationale that can be used both to
explain phenomena and to provide a method that may be
employed to achieve such explanation.

The Roots of the Genealogy

This book is, at its essence, a program aimed at (usurping
Piele’s terminology) bringing the sub-rosa thoughts and beliefs
into the open so that they might be assessed critically. In order to
accomplish this, I must begin with the origins of modernity (in
the scientific and methodological sense) and examine:
* how the development of thought coalesced, over the centu-
ries, into the all-too-frequently tacit basis for knowledge in
library and information science;
¢ from there the power and influence of science must be
examined, both as an epistemological foundation and as a set
of knowledge structures, beliefs, and behaviors;
¢ then, the influence of current activity in the social sciences
will provide an introduction to the resulting patterns of
activity in our field;
* ultimately, an alternative epistemology will be presented,
along with a strategy for the development of knowledge in
the current social, political, and intellectual environment.
Admittedly, this is an ambitious goal and there is no pretense
that what will be presented here in any way resembles the final
word in this discourse. If this program works, then discussion will
flourish in an atmosphere of inquiry. In time we will see if this
comes about.
 The Beginnings of Science 23

For the beginnings of the genealogy, especially as it relates to

deterministic scientism, we can refer again to the work of Tom
Sorrel. In looking for a genesis of scientism he writes,

what I am calling scientism in philosophy is traceable to a

number of related philosophical mistakes that were made by the
early modern philosophers of science, figures such as Bacon,
Descartes, and Locke. Tailoring their conception of the mind to
what they believed suited the mind to science, these philoso-
phers are supposed to have been attracted to foundationalism
in epistemology, introspective theories of the mental in the
philosophy of mind, and an exaggerated rationalism in the
philosophy of science. Tailoring their conception of the mind
to what science required, they put into circulation a deeply
misleading metaphor for the mind, the metaphor of the mirror
of nature. (Sorrel, 1991, 24)

A key element in this quotation from Sorrel is the identification

of Bacon et al. as the important participants in a transformation
of thought, because this places the particular idea of science as far
back in time as the beginning of the seventeenth century. Equally
key is his reference to them as “modern” philosophers of science.
The terms modern, or modernism, or modernity have many
referents today in writings on culture, art, literature, etc. I intend
a particular usage for the term modernity here which is central to
the foundation of this genealogy. Modernity, in ways that are
very important to this genealogy, begins especially with Bacon,
but it is certainly influenced by Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo, and
others. With modernity there is a marked break with the past.
Bacon and others did not simply reconstruct the scientific
revolution into philosophical terms, they consciously and
purposely negated a previous mode of thought and replaced it
with something the world had not seen before. Specifically, the
notion of teleology, defined as “purposive, or ‘final’ causality”
(Durbin, 1988, 316) was rejected. A teleological view of causality
is attributed to Aristotle, but the rejected version of teleology is
that which dominated in the Middle Ages and propounded the
idea that nature is the product of, and should be seen as, the
glorification of, God, and that the ultimate cause of any phenom-
24 Chapter One

enon is divine. The stance of Bacon and others is that causality

is mundane (in the sense of being of this world). Such a stance
leads Susan Meyer to maintain that the opponents of Aristotle’s
theory of teleology are reductionist; “that is, they contend that
they can explain simply by reference to the causal powers of the
material elements all the phenomena that Aristotle claims must
be explained teleologically” (Meyer, 1992, 794).

Francis Bacon

Bacon as the starting point of scientific modernity is not

necessarily a matter of universal agreement; rather, it is a thesis
I put forth here. Gerald Galgan, for one, posits that modernity
really got its start with the rise of modern cosmology (what we
may be tempted to call the Copernican Revolution, though the
revolution was the product of more than just Copernicus)
(Galgan, 1982). This revolution genuinely altered human
vision—the conception of both cosmos and mundus. Prior to the
revolution humans looked outward; knowledge was a product of
an outside force, a deity, and was bestowed upon humans. This
vision is evident in language, what Galgan calls the ancient logos.
This language was focused outside of humans and knowledge of
nature was the result of revelation from the divine. The new
‘cosmology did not just alter (eventually) the received view of the
physical universe; it provided a metaphor for the reconception of
the logos. The modern logos is a product of humans; it is realized
through active discovery, not revelation. This logos is a product
of human construction and reflection and is connected to the
humans who create it. The modern logos is probably best
described by Georg Kiihlewind, who says, “The word [logos] is
the form of the idea through which there appears the word’s
relation to an I” (Kihlewind, 1986, 16). The Cartesian cogito is
the epitome of the modern logos; it is the assertion that first
knowledge is of one’s own existence, and that knowledge is
founded in one’s own cognition, one’s own thought. The modern
logos represents a shift in the language employed in science and
philosophy. While Galgan attributes the beginnings of matura-
 The Beginnings of Science a5

tion to Descartes, I would maintain that it found its beginnings

in the discourse of Bacon. This position is bolstered by Bruce
Mazlish, who states that “in spite of all his drawbacks and
omissions he stands at the beginning of the sciences of Man. He
elaborated a method of inquiry that would be later known as
positivism” (Mazlish, 1998, 44). More particularly, it is the
reception of Bacon—Baconianism—that designates both the
philosophical and methodological beginning of modernity. The
inward focus, as we shall see, is continued in empiricism, in which
the most trustworthy source of knowledge (in the accounts of a
long line of thinkers forming the present genealogy) is sensory
perception. The language of empiricism is vastly different from
premodern language; the former dependence upon imposition or
revelation from the divine is greatly diminished, and sometimes
vanishes altogether.
With this in mind, it seems most reasonable to begin with the
writings of Francis Bacon. Lisa Jardine notes that Robert Hooke
(a contemporary of Bacon) dubbed Bacon “the father of empiri-
cism” (Jardine, 1990, 47). Bacon’s own writings point to a
reliance on science for knowledge. For instance, he states, “I
mainly attribute the lame progress of knowledge hitherto to the
neglect or the incidental study of the general sciences” (Bacon,
1899, 41). The method Bacon fixes on is induction. He describes
this method in a primary opus of his Great Instauration (his plan
for the restoration of scientific inquiry after a lengthy quiescent
period), which appeared in 1620:

There are and can exist but two ways of investigating and
discovering truth. The one hurries on rapidly from the senses
and particulars to the most general axioms, and from then, as
principles, and their supposed indisputable truth, derives and
discovers the intermediate axioms. This is the way now in use.
The other constructs its axioms from the senses and particulars,
by ascending continually and gradually, till it finally arrives at
the most general axioms, which is the true but unattempted
way. (Bacon, 1899, 316-17)

I. B. Cohen sums up Bacon’s induction as it relates to its

predecessors:
26 Chapter One

Bacon attacked the sterility of pure deductive logic, which never

can increase knowledge. He also attacked the older induction by
enumeration [as described immediately above], applicable only
when the class of all things referred to is finite and accessible .
.. . Bacon claimed that his new method of induction went
beyond this kind of Aristotelian complete or perfect induction
... because it led to generalizations about all things, not simply
to some property shared by all members of a finite enumera-
tion. (Cohen, 1985, 148)

For us to comprehend present-day views of science, we have

to grasp how Bacon’s work has been received over the years. The
common understanding of Bacon’s plan is articulated by Peter
Urbach, who says, “the scientific method . . . starts out with a
mass of factual data, either casually observed, or consciously
sought by means of experiments, and from these, by employing
a set of simple rules . . . , it builds up a complete body of knowl-
edge, which is both certain and infallibly true” (Urbach, 1987,
17). It must be made clear that this is not necessarily what Bacon
intended, but it is how his plan has been most commonly read
over the years. ‘The understanding Urbach speaks of has been the
foundation of both adherence and criticism by later writers and
in subsequent practice (research that is, or claims to be, scien-
tific). In denial of the infallible-mechanical thesis of Baconianism
(the customary interpretation of Bacon, whether intended or
not), Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno interpret the thesis
as follows: “The concordance between the mind of man and the
nature of things that [Bacon] had in mind is patriarchal: the
human mind, which overcomes superstition, is to hold sway over
a disenchanted nature” (Horkheimer and Adorno, 1994, 4).
Horkheimer and Adorno see the error of Baconianism as the
establishment of an authoritarian relationship between humans
and nature, with humans able to exert some kind of control over
nature. While others suggest that there is error in Baconian
thought, they disagree with the Horkheimer-Adorno reading.
More typical is Karl Popper, who speaks of “the Baconian myth
that all science starts from observation and then slowly and
cautiously proceeds to theories” (Popper, 1989, 137). Popper
 The Beginnings of Science 27

does seean authority underlying Bacon’s science, but it is the

authority of the senses, and this authority is manifest through a
very strong definition of “interpretation.” This strong definition
holds that interpretation is not so subjective or relative a thing,
but is an act that results in a true reading, in this case, of nature.
Thus, interpretation based on sensory observation is seen by
Popper as the means by which an infallible truth can be arrived
at in Baconianism. :
Bacon’s influence on his contemporaries was indeed pro-
nounced. As Jardine points out, it seems clear to many of them
“that Bacon devotes the major part of his intellectual energies in
the Novum Organum to attempts at enlarging dramatically the
possibilities for experimentally (or experientially) justifying the
step-by-step ascent to Forms, and for experimentally cross-
checking provisional results of that ascent” (Jardine, 1990, 60).
“Form” for Bacon can be envisioned as both the necessary and
sufficient causal condition of any phenomenon; in other words,
form is a law in the sense that there is an infallible relationship
between “the form and its manifestation, that is to say, the two
are related as cause and effect” (Urbach, 1987, 62). Bacon
himself provides the method for realizing the goal of discovering
forms:

We must not only search for, and procure a greater number of

experiments, but also introduce a completely different method,
order, and progress of continuing and promoting experience.
For vague and arbitrary experience is . . . mere groping in the
dark, and rather astonishes than instructs. But when experience
shall proceed regularly and uninterruptedly by a determined
rule, we may entertain better hopes of the sciences. (Bacon,
1899, 351)

This goal is shared by his contemporaries, but not all are con-
vinced that Bacon’s philosophy is sufficiently unified to attain
this goal. Bacon writes of appeals to experience that are different
in kind. According to Jardine, one appeal is based on experience
expressed in terms of a set of preconceived and evaluative
notions; the other appeal is founded on an effort at producing a
set of rules and tentative explanations (Jardine, 1990, 61). Even
28 Chapter One

today there is disagreement surrounding the central thrust of

Bacon’s plan, as is evident in Urbach’s analysis of readings of
Bacon (Urbach, 1987). Alvin Snider describes the lack of
consensus best when he writes, “Although various interpretations
of Bacon have prevailed, a palimpsestic quality clings to Bacon
scholarship, a tendency to reinscribe variant readings within a
single template” (Snider, 1991, 120-21). Some, for instance,
focus attention on Bacon’s adherence to induction, but, as is
evident from a more careful reading of his plan, he was not
opposed to the formulation and use of hypotheses in the process
of theory building.
Why so much time spent on Bacon? For one thing, Bacon
happened to have lived and written at a very fortuitous time, one
in which he could be persuaded by some truly significant
scientific work and in which he coalesces discovery into a
perceived method that would lead to even more dramatic
discovery. Less than a century before the appearance of Novum
Organum Copernicus had published De Revolutionibus Coelestium
Orbium. Further, Bacon was a contemporary of Galileo and
Kepler. The “scientific revolution” was beginning to manifest
effects in the practice of science and a philosophy of action was
needed. More importantly, Bacon helped to form something of a
bridge between the Renaissance and the Enlightenment; he did
not completely reject the humanism of the Renaissance, but he
helped pave the way for a much greater emphasis on rationalism.
The next step, as Stephen Toulmin says, was for the seventeenth-
century philosophers to develop new ways of thinking about
nature and to employ rational methods to address problems of
both nature and humankind (Toulmin, 1990, 9). Defining
Enlightenment is, in some ways, as problematic as defining
“modern.” I agree with the assessment of Robert Kraynak, who
says that

The term “Enlightenment” is most often applied to the philoso-

phers of the eighteenth century. But it should not be used so
restrictively. For these philosophers are heirs to the founders of
modernity—Bacon, Machiavelli, Descartes, Galileo, Hobbes,
Spinoza, Locke—who in the sixteenth and seventeenth centu-
ries sought to overthrow the Aristotelian-Scholastic tradition
 The Beginnings of Science 29

in the universities and to redefine philosophy or science.

(Kraynak, 1990, 97).

A characteristic of the modern philosophers of science is the

increasing importance, in one way or another, of reason as a tool
essential for the creation of knowledge. This means that knowl-
edge must have a grounding that is more discernible than
revelation. Kxaynak further states that “The revolutionary aim of
enlightenment science . . . is to build a theory of knowledge
without beginning from opinion [emphasis in original]” (Kraynak,
1990, 101).
During the time between the Renaissance and the Enlighten-
ment (as customarily identified) some very important political
occurrences contributed to a galvanizing of support for the
objectivity of science that was not entirely founded on purely
scientific grounds. The seventeenth century saw a bloody civil war
in England followed by the Restoration of the monarchy. Snider
maintains, convincingly, that the pull of science melded effec-
tively with a need for social and political stability.

The turn towards scientific objectivism after 1660 formed part

of a coordinated strategy to regulate involvement in public
affairs and to defuse the threat of a resurgent radicalism. Since
little could diminish Bacon’s prestige or tarnish his reputation,
the early supporters of the Royal Society moved to define
Bacon according to their own program, transforming him into
the prophetic father of royally sanctioned science. (Snider,
199V7 t25726)

The ramifications of the merger of science and society extended

well beyond England. For one thing, France, under Louis XIV,
was also beginning to experience some stability around 1660, in
the aftermath of the domination of Cardinal Richelieu. It could
be said that the Restoration (if we take the term as encompassing
more than just England) stood on the brink of what we might call
the modern period, a period which had a firm beginning in the
Enlightenment of the eighteenth century.
30 Chapter One

The first acknowledged scientific journal was published

in France during this period of ostensible
progress—Journal des sgavans. Its appearance was followed
quickly by the publication of the Philosophical Transactions
of the Royal Society of London. Perhaps not terribly
noteworthy as such, the beginnings of these kinds of
formal communications mark the impact and the extent
of the influence of the kind of scientific action that
Baconianism represents.

Snider points out that the political and ideological climate of the
Restoration helped foster the usurpation of Bacon’s writings as a
validation for the rise of objectivism, something completely
unanticipated by Bacon. This interpretation and use of Bacon
provided a fundamental influence on interpretation to come. As
Snider says, “The Restoration’s use of Bacon as a token for its
own passage into modernity, as both pre-text and agent of
legitimation, forms a crucial part of the history of his reception”
(Snider, 1991, 135). Bacon’s influence may be seen to extend
even beyond the Restoration era. Maurice Cranston points to the
reach of Bacon’s thought and to why it may have been so
attractive:

Bacon had died in 1626, but that did not mean that his
message was out of date. On the contrary, it had a kind of
actuality for eighteenth-century France which made him, to a
greater extent even than Locke or Newton, a prophetic figure
for the whole French Enlightenment. For Bacon was the first
philosopher of science. It was not that Bacon made any
scientific discoveries of his own; he simply proclaimed the
doctrine that science could save us. (Cranston, 1985, 48)

This passage is a clear demonstration of the reception of Bacon

both as interpreted during the period of the Enlightenment and
in our own day. In fairness to Bacon, it should be noted that, as
 The Beginnings of Science 31

Sorrel points out, “Scientism of a kind is [emphasis in original]

to be found in Bacon, but it is much too muted to generate claims
about the possibility of a scientific sort of salvation” (Sorrel,
1991, 35). It is the reading of Bacon, the appropriation of some
of his ideas for reasons that may well be extrascientific, rather
than the actual content of his writings, that affirm such a place of
importance for him in this genealogy.
As an aside, I should say that I am not making the assertion
that, with Bacon, science became a purely social construct. Nor
am I claiming that there is an absolutist position in the opposite
direction, that is, in favor of a purely objectivist approach.
Bacon’s writings come closer to the latter, since he claims the
possibility of discerning infallible truth through observation. (The
political and social effects of readings of Bacon are noted by
Snider, and this context will be explored further in chapter 2.) I
also do not want to state that Bacon alone led the charge that
eventually manifests itself as deterministic scientism; such an
eventuality, in fact, was not what Bacon had in mind. Readings
of Bacon other than those of the Restoration (and later) are
certainly possible and, in fact, are plentiful. It would be a gross
inaccuracy, as well as a disservice to Bacon, to refer to him as a
positivist in any pejorative sense. I want to emphasize that Bacon
becomes a starting point in this genealogy because his voice, and
especially his focus on method, was something heretofore unseen.
While method formed a part of the body of writings at least as far
back as Aristotle, Bacon’s assertions regarding science and
observation set discourse on a path that has continued to this
day.

Discourse on Convergence:
Descartes and Hobbes

Descartes

A furtherance of that path, the bridge between Renaissance

and Enlightenment, is girded in the early seventeenth century by
SZ Chapter One

René Descartes. Another aspect of modernism, and certainly of

the Enlightenment, was a confidence in the power and efficacy of
reason. This Descartes provided in the form of four laws on which
the quest for knowledge can be founded:

The first was never to accept anything for true which I did not
clearly know to be such; that is to say, carefully to avoid
precipitancy and prejudice, and to comprise nothing more in
my judgment than what was presented to my mind so clearly
and distinctly as to exclude all ground of doubt.
The second, to divide each of the difficulties under examina-
tion into as many parts as possible, and as might be necessary
for its adequate solution.
The third, to conduct my thoughts in such order that, by
commencing with objects the simplest and easiest to know, I
might ascend by little and little, and, as it were, step by step, to
the knowledge of the more complex; assigning in thought a
certain order even to those objects which in their own nature do
not stand in a relation of antecedence and sequence.
And the last, in every case to make enumerations so
complete, and reviews so general, that I might be assured that
nothing was omitted. (Descartes, 1989, 21)

Descartes did not, as is the case of many later writings,

entirely separate metaphysics from physics. What he did offer
was the essential effort at explanation, something his predecessors
of the more scholastic bent were less than successful at. The
difference between the earlier thinkers and Descartes was that the
former center their attention on description, especially in terms
of form and quality of a thing, whereas Descartes looks to
construct a hypothetical model aimed at indicating the cause of
the phenomenon (Clarke, 1992). So Descartes shares with Bacon
the distinction of helping to transform thought regarding science.
There are, however, important differences between Bacon and
Descartes. As Mazlish points out, “In one view of history of
science, Bacon is taken to represent the ‘empirical’ and René
Descartes the ’rationalist’ basis of scientific thought . . . . (In fact,
empiricism and rationalism. . . will later be joined in the unified
methodology of positivism)” (Mazlish, 1998, 38). Further, J. D.
Bernal states,
 The Beginnings of Science 33

The major difference . . . was that Descartes used his science to

construct a system of the world, a system which, though now
almost forgotten, was able in its time completely to supersede
that of the medieval schoolmen, Bacon put forward no system
of his own but was content to propose an organization to
act as a collective builder of new systems. His function as he
saw it was only to provide the builders with the new tool—the
logic of the Novum Organum-with which to do it [emphasis in
original]. (Bernal, 1965, 441-42)

In other words, many, in time, rejected Descartes’s system, but

few rejected Bacon’s tool.
Descartes in particular embodies the old way coexisting
somewhat with the new. This identifies him as a product of the
time, which is the source of the ambiguity in his straddling the
two eras. As Desmond Clarke says, “the 1630s and 1640s were a
time of transition from the science of forms and qualities to what
we describe now as modern science. One finds features of both of
these philosophies of science in Descartes” (Clarke, 1992, 282).
Further, while Descartes firmly articulated an authority in his
philosophy based on reason (a strong link with the coming
Enlightenment), his own scientific practice revealed him to be an
empiricist as well. The ambiguities in Descartes prevent assess-
ment of him as a definitive link between two periods, but reveal
him to be encamped, to varying degrees, in both times at once.
Descartes’s influence probably has been greater on later writers
than on those of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. His
legacy, in those terms, lies in his notions of dualism (the distinc-
tiveness of the mind and the body).
As we will see, empiricism in the nineteenth and, especially,
twentieth century frequently includes a rejection of metaphysics.
Knowledge, to many writers of those times, is ineluctably
connected to sensory observation, to the point that everything
may be reducible to the physical. (Many of us have been taught
that empiricism is almost synonymous with science; this teaching
may be a bit difficult to shake.) Inherent in this brand of
empiricism is either a separation of mind and body, or a reduc-
tion of the mental to the physical. Descartes, though probably
34 Chapter One

unintentionally, provides those individuals with a legitimation of

their ideas. In his Sixth Meditation, “Of the Existence of the Real
Distinction between the Mind and Body of Man,” he writes,

it was not without reason that I thought I perceived certain

objects wholly different from my thought, namely, bodies from
which those ideas proceeded; for I was conscious that the ideas
were presented to me without my consent being required, so
that I could perceive any object, however desirous I might be,
unless it were present to the organ of sense; and it was wholly
out of my power not to perceive it when it was thus present.
And because the ideas I perceived by the sense were much more
lively and clear, and even, in their own way, more distinct than
any of those I could of myself frame by meditation, or which I
found impressed on my memory, it seemed that they could not
have proceeded from myself, and must therefore have been
caused in me by some other objects: and as of those objects |
had no knowledge beyond what the ideas themselves gave me,
nothing was so likely to occur to my mind as the supposition
that the objects were similar to the ideas which they caused.
And because I recollected also that I had formerly trusted to the
senses, rather than to reason, and that the ideas which I myself
formed were not so clear as those I perceived by sense, and that
they were even for the most part composed of parts of the
latter, I was readily persuaded that I had no idea in my intellect
which had not formerly passed through the senses. (Descartes,
1989, 113)

As is the case with Bacon, the consequences of Descartes’s

thought could not have been foreseen by him; the uses to which
it has been put rest with those who have incorporated, however
imperfectly, the writings of Descartes into their own programs.
Nonetheless, Descartes’s influence on following thinkers and
writers is assuredly present. And, while not as immediately
central to deterministic scientism as the readings, begun in about
1660, of Bacon, Cartesian thought is certainly important to any
concept of modernism. And, I would maintain, deterministic
scientism is a product of modernity. The attention paid to the
source of knowledge as an inward-looking phenomenon leads, in
the cases of these philosophers and those to follow, to a focus on
nature and, more particularly, on the senses. Thus springs a faith
 The Beginnings of Science 35

in natural science as the wellspring of knowledge and of this

science as superior to other epistemological origins. Inherent in
this scientism is the search for causality in nature.

Hobbes

A contemporary of Descartes was Thomas Hobbes. Hobbes

fits better in a direct lineage begun by Bacon; there is more
shared between the two than either shared with Descartes. This
is not to say that there are no shared areas, however, between
Descartes and Hobbes. For one thing, Hobbes was also an
empiricist. He wrote in 1651 in Leviathan that “there is no
conception in a mans mind, which hath not at first, totally, or by
parts, been begotten upon the organs of Sense” (Hobbes, 1968,
85). Further, he stated, “The cause of Sense is the Externall Body,
or Object, which presseth the organ proper to each Sense, either
immediately, as in Tast and Touch; or mediately, as in Seeing,
Hearing, and Smelling” (Hobbes, 1968, 85). While much of
Hobbes’s writing centered on society and politics, his philosophy
had a grounding that was passed on, overtly or tacitly, to later
thinkers. In some ways, for instance, he anticipated Hume in
defining experience as a complex of things, not one simple
reaction at a single time: “Much memory, or memory of many
things is called Experience [emphasis in original]” (Hobbes, 1968,
89). In his concept of science, Hobbes fits as an enlightenment
(in the broader sense) philosopher in his linking of science and
reason. Reason, he said,

is not as Sense, and Memory, borne within us; nor gotten by

Experience onely; as Prudence is; but attayned by Industry; first
in apt imposing of Names; and secondly by getting a good and
orderly Method in proceeding from the Elements, which are
Names, to Assertions made by Connexion of one of them to
another; and so to Syllogismes, which are the Connexions of
one Assertion to another. (Hobbes, 1968, 115)

Then he further defined science: “And whereas Sense and

Memory are but knowledge of Fact, which is a thing past, and
36 Chapter One

irrevocable; Science [emphasis in original] is the knowledge of

Consequences, and dependence of one fact upon another”
(Hobbes, 1968, 115).
Hobbes was also one of the early moderns; his thought was
a distinct departure from classical tradition. In medieval teleologi-
cal thought final cause was related to an ontological ascendancy,
an order of being, based on differences of matter. Animals were
seen as materially different from (and inferior to) humans and
humans materially different from (and likewise inferior to) angels.
Hobbes did not accept such material differences as meaningful;
instead he viewed animals and humans as sharing many qualities,
especially those related to the senses (Hobbes, 1968, 149).
Martin Bertman states that Hobbes’s reductionist stance (the
negation of the ascendancy just mentioned) is “in great opposi-
tion to those who, from Plato onward, have been guided by a
maxim of the ontological gradation of being” (Bertman, 1991,
25). More particularly, according to Bertman, Hobbes’s thought
is an embodiment of nominalism; that is, the exclusion from
language of names for abstract ideas, such as that of classes of
being. This simplified categorization, or nominalism, is combined
in Hobbes with a mechanistic view which asserts that “everything
can be reduced to a fundamental idea of matter and motion”
(Bertman, 1991, 211). These decidedly modern characteristics in
Hobbes are substantive influences for other manifestations to
come of deterministic scientism. The contribution to modernity
is pointed out by Robert Kraynak: “The Enlightenment philoso-
phers as a whole, and Hobbes perhaps more than any other, aim
at a historic change that eradicates the fundamental attitude or
general cast of mind underlying all traditional modes of reason-
ing” (Kraynak, 1990, 100).
I stated earlier that Hobbes’s thought is more closely related
to Bacon than to Descartes; there are some important areas of
disagreement between Hobbes and Descartes. Richard Tuck says
that “From the point of view of many modern readers, the
structure which Hobbes erected . . . is much more to their task,
and houses more fittingly their ontological assumptions, than the
one which Descartes built” (Tuck, 1988, 41). I would assert that
Hobbes’s structure had earlier roots and would be further built
 The Beginnings of Science 37

upon in the coming century, but the distinctions between

Cartesian thought and his should be noted (Sorrel, 1988). One
key point of disagreement is that of the accessibility of the
sciences. Descartes sought to establish precepts, which, if
followed, could lead to knowledge and understanding on the part
of any rational person. Hobbes maintained that science is not
intuitive, but acquired, and one had to work hard to reach an
understanding of science’s method of reasoning. A second area of
disagreement is the completability of science. Descartes believed
that experimentation could be applied to competing hypotheses
to show which are correct; permanently open questions are
unlikely. Hobbes thought that natural phenomena could have
more than one possible origin; physics is unable to “reconstruct
a_course of events so that a unique operation is revealed as
generating a particular effect” (Sorrel, 1988, 519). A third point
of dispute regards the unity of science. Descartes uses metaphors
to illustrate connections among the sciences; he thought the
principles of the most basic sciences are linked to those of the
most derivative. Hobbes agrees on the existence of a unity of
science, but does not admit that the sciences are serial, one
necessarily derived from, and understood by, its fundamental
predecessor. On this last point, writers to come, especially in the
nineteenth century, have more affinity with Descartes than with
Hobbes. A primary distinction between the two philosophers is
articulated by Sorrel:

In Hobbes’s scheme science or philosophy as a whole is

composed of the sciences of natural bodies and the sciences of
artificial bodies. In Descartes the two chief parts of philosophy
concern material things (physics, mechanics) and immaterial
things (metaphysics). Certain subjects that Descartes claimed
were in the province of metaphysics and therefore outside
natural science Hobbes located squarely within physics. (Sorrel,
1988, 515)
38 Chapter One

The British Empiricists:

Locke, Berkeley, and Hume

Locke

The continuance of the path begun by Bacon, Hobbes, and,

to an extent, Descartes, was taken up by John Locke. I should
emphasize that this path, in keeping with the Foucauldian
concept of genealogy, is not a clean, unbroken road, nor is it a
pure extension of the thought of Bacon. As I mentioned earlier,
Bacon initiated a new line of discourse centering on a suggested
method of study. Descartes, Locke, and others to come add to
this general discourse, while maintaining at least some of the
elements of method that Bacon proposed. More importantly,
response to Bacon began an interpretive approach that is essential
to the genealogy of thought in the social sciences and in LIS. An
implication of interpretation is that the influence of a precursor
on a successor, in any individual instance, may well be a subtle,
suggestive insinuation of thought rather than an explicit intellec-
tual debt. Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding was
published in 1690 and the key to his empiricism can be summed
up in one brief passage:

How comes [the mind] to be furnished? Whence comes it by

that vast store which the busy and boundless fancy of man has
painted on it with an almost endless variety? Whence has it all
the materials [emphasis in original] of reason and knowledge?
To this I answer, in one word, from EXPERIENCE. In all that
our knowledge is founded; and from that it ultimately derives
itself. (Locke, 1974, 10) ;

This sounds attractively simple; in fact, its simplicity has formed

the foundation of conceptions of experience, as related to
knowledge, for most of the three centuries subsequent to its
articulation. The foundation has proved persistent to an unbro-
ken line of writers, as well as in the practice of some in the
 The Beginnings of Science 39

sciences and, eventually, to many in the social sciences and

humanities.
Locke’s vision of epistemology is not quite so simple, though.
Imowledge is not just a matter of having an experience; knowl-
edge depends on the reception and transformation of experience
into something knowable. The physicality of experience then
must be linked to the intellectual powers of the mind. Locke
expresses the interaction of the mental and the physical: “Thus
the first capacity of human intellect is,—that the mind is fitted to
receive the impressions made on it; either through the senses by
outward objects, or by its own operations when it reflects on
them” (Locke, 1974, 15). The reflective aspect is operationalized,
at least in the opinion of Alexander Koyré, in the process of
experiment. He writes,

We must not forget that observation and experience, in the

sense of brute, common-sense experience, did not play a major
role—or, if it did, it was a negative one, the role of obstacle—in
the foundation of modern science. . . . It is not “experience” but
“experiment” which played . . . a great positive role. Experimen-
tation is the methodical interrogation of nature, an interroga-
tion which presupposes and implies a language [emphasis in
original] in which to formulate questions, and a dictionary
which enables us to read and to interpret the answers. (Koyré,
1968, 18-19)

Observation, then, is active; and a possible reading of Locke is

that experience is not merely an openness to physical sensation,
but a structured inquiry into the objects of sensation, with
understanding as the intended end. There are differences between
this definition of experience and some which follow, even into the
twentieth century.
The interaction between the physical and the mental, for
Locke, is an explicit thing; that is, the linking of experience and
knowledge has a decidedly physical element. Locke begins his
Essay with an affirmation of the Cartesian cogito (I think,
therefore I am). Descartes maintained that thinking is the essence
of existence, that thinking is inseparable from being (Descartes,
1989, 80). Locke acknowledges that every human is conscious of
40 Chapter One

thought, and that thought is signified by the ideas held in each

person’s mind. For Locke, “idea” has a specific denotation, that
being the object of understanding. As an object, an idea is classi-
fied in one of two ways: “External objects furnish the mind with the
ideas of sensible qualities, which are all those different percep-
tions they produce in us; and the mind furnishes the understand-
ing with ideas of its own operation [emphasis in original]”
(Locke, 1974, 11). The link of the physical and the mental,
pervasive in Locke’s Essay, leads R. B. Macleod to assess Locke's
thinking in terms of the material or elemental notion of thought.
He writes,

[Locke] was led to the conception of the mind as composed of

particles (the ideas) which exist in space and time and which
are fused, amalgamated or chained by forces outside them-
selves. According to Locke we can have a science of mind
analogous to the science of physical nature. This involved the
assumption of mental [emphasis in original] elements analogous
to physical particles, and the assumption that to explain
anything is to break it down into its elements. (Macleod, 1970,
209)

In Locke, however, there is a paradox, and a purposeful one at

that. At once his thinking led him to certainty that knowledge is
possible in the ideal, but elusive in the actual. As Dunn says,
Locke’s search for truth operates “in two different ways. The first
is to show how the human understanding works successfully: how
it is capable of knowledge and of rational belief, what human
beings can know and what they cannot. The second is to explain
why on the whole in practice it works so badly” (Dunn, 1992,
92). (The former is, of course, a hallmark of the thrust of the
Enlightenment.) What Locke is left with is assurance that any
human being can attain knowledge of his or her own existence,
but no other knowledge can be so perfect. Rather, the knowledge
that is possible of all other things is more probabilistic than
certain, so his epistemology is tinged with at least some skepti-
cism.
If knowledge is grounded in sensory experience, and if there
is a hint of skepticism regarding the certainty of human knowl-
 The Beginnings of Science 41

edge, then is there room in Locke’s thinking for anything but a

material and elemental path to knowledge? Locke’s scheme was
not intended to be a simplistic one, and it assuredly was not
intended to be fatalistic. Ideas, the objects of understanding, are
subject to testing by the intellect. The intellect, in turn, is guided
by reason. For instance, Locke maintained that reason was the
. mechanism by which ideas could be ordered so that connections
among them could be discerned and analyzed. Examination of
connection—determination of the degree of agreement or
disagreement between ideas—works to extend the boundaries of
knowledge. The operation of reason as a mediating force of the
mind, to which all sensation and subsequent thought could be
subjected, provided a hallmark for the Enlightenment. It was
through reason that order could be discovered and maintained.
Further, the order most discernible (and the order at the root of
human understanding) was seen to be a natural order. Locke, as
Carl Becker observes, provided the eighteenth century with the
rationale it most desired, the belief that, “since man and the mind
of man were shaped by that nature which God had created, it was
possible for men. . . to bring their ideas and their conduct, and
hence the institutions by which they lived, into harmony with the
natural order” (Becker, 1932, 65).
The desired rationale was, most assuredly, a product of the
time. Shortly before Locke’s Essay appeared, Isaac Newton
published his Principia (De Philosophiae Naturalis Principia
Mathematica, 1687). The effects of this work were felt beyond the
realm of science; it represented a major step towards a new
cosmology. J. D. Bernal writes:

Newton’s theory of gravitation and his contribution to astron-

omy mark the final stage of the transformation of the Aristote-
lian world-picture begun by Copernicus. For a vision of spheres,
operated by a first mover or by the angels on God’s order,
Newton had effectively substituted that of a mechanism
operating according to a simple natural law, requiring no
continuous application of force, and only needing divine
intervention to create it and set it in motion. (Bernal, 1965
487)
42 Chapter One

As Bernal says, Newtonianism is part of a shift in world view, and

this shift permeated all aspects of society in the eighteenth
century. Henry Guerlac writes that the thinkers during the
Enlightenment

saw in the method [emphasis in original] of science—and it is

here that Newton exerted his greatest influence—an analytical
instrument that could be extended into other intellectual
spheres, to extinguish superstition and emancipate the human
mind from traditional error... . Above all, perhaps, they saw
in the great forward strides taken by science, the strongest
argument for their belief in a law of human progress. (Guerlac,
1958, 19-20)

In no small measure, this marks a continuance of Baconianism,

illustrating the breadth and depth that readings of Bacon have
had. Further, the connection with Locke, as interpreted by
Becker, is obvious. What these writings strongly indicate is that
a popular notion of a deterministic scientism is taking hold more
and more strongly. Further, this deterministic conception of
human nature and human progress is becoming explicit in the
writings of very influential philosophers. As the linkages of
thought become clearer, the genealogy is added to; my proposi-
tion that there is a line of thought that extends from Bacon can,
I hope, gain credence.

Berkeley

Continuing the genealogy in this manner, the next influential

thinker in turn is George Berkeley. In some important respects,
Berkeley represents a departure from his predecessors, both in the
actual basis of his thinking and in the reception down through
the years of his thought. While he held Newton in great esteem,
he was opposed to the mechanistic structure of matter which, in
the early eighteenth century, was most popularly propounded as
corpuscularian philosophy. This mode of thought preceded
Newton and can be traced formally to Peter Gassendi, who
worked and wrote in the first half of the seventeenth century. The
 The Beginnings of Science 43

theory was picked up by Robert Boyle, who wrote that “the world
is made up of an innumerable multitude of singly insensible
corpuscles endowed with their own sizes, shapes and motions,”
and that these corpuscles, devoid of such properties as heat or
color, come into contact with human sense organs and the
contact and its subsequent excitation of the brain leads to
sensations which seem to imbue the corpuscles with the proper-
ties sensed (quoted in Urmson, 1992, 100-1). This corpuscular
philosophy was eventually adopted (substantially) by Newton
and Locke. The Newtonian cosmology sees the universe as a
mechanical system governed by mechanical laws.
Herein is a primary disagreement between Locke and
Berkeley. Specifically, Berkeley rejected the corpuscular theory of
matter. One reason for Berkeley’s opinion is his skepticism of the
notion of causation which is part of the mechanical-corpuscular
theory. For instance, there is no indication in this construction,
according to Berkeley, why the impact of corpuscles with sense
organs leads to particular sensory experiences in a person. Such
impact and agitation is neither sufficiently regular nor sufficiently
predictable to result in any assertion of causation. In other words,
there is no way to tell if something as mechanical as corpuscles
striking a sense organ will lead to one sensory perception
regarding color or another perception regarding size, for instance.
For Berkeley, causation is the connection of one thing or event
making another thing or event occur. In nature, one even precedes
another; if it does so frequently and with regularity, the occur-
rence of the first event is a strong indication that the second event
will occur. In his disagreement with corpuscular philosophy,
however, Berkeley is willing to impart to the indications of
regularity a nomological quality. By nomological I mean a
confidence in the existence of universal laws which are closely
tied to empiricism (the belief that sensory observation is the most
valid grounding for knowledge). Berkeley himself said that
natural philosophers’ knowledge of the world around them
“consists not in an exacter knowledge of the efficient cause that
produces them—for that can be no other than the will of a
spirit—but only in a greater largeness of comprehension, whereby
analogies, harmonies, and agreements are discovered in the works
44 Chapter One

of nature, and the particular effects explained, that is, reduced to

general rules [emphases in original]” (Berkeley, 1986, 117).
Berkeley is in strong agreement with Locke on one key point,
though. Their agreement lies in the essential character of ideas.
Ideas, for both, are the object of the mind. Moreover, ideas, for
both, are the product of experience. Berkeley’s position on this
point is made clear in the very first sentence of his Treatise
Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge, published in 1710:

It is evident to anyone who takes a survey of the objects of

human knowledge, that they are either ideas actually imprinted
on the senses; or else such as are perceived by attending to the
passions and operations of the mind; or lastly, ideas formed by
help of memory and imagination—either compounding,
dividing, or barely representing those originally perceived in
the aforesaid ways [emphasis in original]. (Berkeley, 1986, 65)

The difference between Berkeley and Locke lies in Berkeley’s

unwillingness to impart to the sources of ideas a mechanical
impetus, an unwillingness to accept that matter (as corpuscles) is
imperceptible, is substance without tangible properties. This
object of disagreement leads Berkeley to reject Locke’s proposed
abstract ideas—the ability of the mind to form ideas without any
sensory stimulus. Berkeley, then, is even more purely empiricist
than Locke. He goes so far as to say, “Foolish in men to despise
the senses. If it were not for them the mind could have no
knowledge, no thought at all” (Urmson, 1992, 110). His empiri-
cism embraces reductionism, that is, the equation of the mental
with the physical. He claims, as J. O. Urmson notes, that ideas
can count as experiences of reality, that to be real and to be a
product of the mind can be one and the same (Urmson, 130). In
this, and in certain other aspects of his thought, Berkeley has a
greater influence than his predecessors on a particular philosophi-
cal strain of the twentieth century—logical positivism. Some
propositions (selected here among all of the propositions) set
forth by Berkeley clearly anticipate tenets central to logical
positivism:
 The Beginnings of Science 45

1 Alt significant words stand for ideas. . . .

3 All ideas come from within or from without.
4 If from without it must be by the senses, and they are called
sensations.
5 If from within they are the operations of the mind, and are
called thoughts. (Urmson, 1992, 110)

The last two of these propositions indicate Berkeley’s temporal

place in the Enlightenment. Sensory perception and reason are
the only two phenomena that can lead to knowledge.

Hume

We continue our journey in time with David Hume. Hume,

along with Locke and Berkeley, are not infrequently grouped
together under the appellation “the British Empiricists.” Hume
in many ways provides a culmination of some lines of thought,
and responses to a common set of questions. The primary
question, asked by Locke and taken up by Berkeley, is: What is
the source (foundation) of knowledge? Make no mistake about
it, Hume is an epistemologist; the basis of knowledge is the
foremost matter in his deliberations. Where does he fall in his
thinking? What is his place in this genealogy? First, he had the
good fortune to succeed Locke and, especially, Berkeley. I say
good fortune because the writings of his predecessors helped him
to frame some important questions regarding knowledge. I say
especially Berkeley because he reacted directly to some of the
thought of the bishop. This is not to say that he was not cogni-
zant of, and did not respond (directly or indirectly) to Locke’s
philosophy. Hume, in fact, may have had a more profound
influence on subsequent branches of this philosophical family tree
than did his fellow empiricists. Josep Llobera says that Hume
“was the man who got closer to becoming the Newton of the
human sciences” than anyone else, and that “Hume’s aim was to
introduce the experimental method of reasoning into the so-called
moral sciences. . . . Furthermore, he thought that his science
could reach the same degrée of certainty achieved by physics”
46 Chapter One

(Llobera, 1979, 151). This last may be a bit of an overstatement

on Llobera’s part, but it is a goal we will see revisited at a later
time.
In a very real sense, though, Hume is an extension of the
empiricist tradition. For one thing, all three—Locke, Berkeley,
and Hume—mark a break with a substantial basis of classical
philosophy. The empiricists, and their predecessors (Bacon,
Hobbes, etc.), do not necessarily negate the place of metaphysics
in epistemology and the conception of truth, but they do separate
metaphysics from the science of the natural. Farhang Zabeeh
maintains that “The polemic of . . . empiricists against scholastic
and rationalistic metaphysics was an endeavor to prove that the
only avenue to the kingdom of knowledge is sensory experience”
(Zabeeh, 1960, 6). Zabeeh’s statement may not apply absolutely
in each instance, but a belief in knowledge based on experience
is how the empiricists got that name.

At this point the reader may begin to tire of the continu-

ous refrain of sensory perception being the road to
knowledge. I apologize for this repetitive strain, but I also
ask your indulgence. The reason this notion recurs with
such frequency here is both the frequency of its occur-
rence in this genealogy of thought and its centrality to
the major program of the set of thinkers dealt with in the
early stages of this book.

There is evidence in Hume’s own writing that sensory experience

is primary. Early in his Enquiry concerning Human Understanding,
published in 1748, Hume said, “The most lively thought is still
inferior to the dullest sensation” (Hume, 1988, 63). He further
stated, “If it happen, from a defect of the organ, that a man is not
susceptible of any species of sensation, we always find that he is
as little susceptible of the correspondent ideas” (Hume, 1988,
65).
 The Beginnings of Science 47

While these passages seem perfectly straightforward, Hume

presents us with a problem of interpretation. There is no doubt
that he invested sensory perception with an importance that
oe
cannot be denied. He did, however, own up to some skepticism
regarding the senses. The most vital caution he urged was to
avoid mistaking an impression—which he defined as lively
perceptions, such as sight, hearing, touch, etc—with the object
itself. He wrote inA Treatise ofHuman Nature (which predated the
Enquiry), that

The only defect of our senses is, that they give us

disproportion’d images of things, and represent as minute and
uncompounded what is really great and compos’d of a vast
number of parts. This mistake we are not sensible of; but taking
the impressions of those minute objects, which appear to the
senses, to be equal or nearly equal to the objects, and finding
by reason, that there are other objects, vastly more minute,
we too hastily conclude, that these are inferior to any idea of
our imagination or impression of our senses. (Hume, 1969, 77)

He reiterated this notion in the Enquiry and added that “nothing

can ever be present to the mind but an image or perception, and
that the senses are only the inlets, through which these images
are conveyed, without being able to produce any immediate
intercourse between the mind and the object” (Hume, 1988,
183). The problem created by this paradox, according to John
Danford at least, is one of understanding. Understanding,
particularly self-understanding, is a problem that not only is
difficult to resolve, but is, by and large, separate from science in
that the problem is one of “disjunction between reason and the
senses” (Danford, 1990, 65). Hume expressed the problem of
separation as it affects understanding as discontinuity between,
for instance, mathematics, whose ideas are unfailingly clear and
defined and “the finer sentiments of the mind, the operations of
understanding, the various agitations of the passions, [which]
though really in themselves distinct, easily escape us, when
surveyed by reflection; nor is it in our power to recal [sic] the
original object, as often as we have occasion to contemplate it”
(Hume, 1988, 101).
48 Chapter One

Now we come to the actual importance of Hume in the line

of thought that began with Bacon. If he does express some
skepticism regarding senses, what is at the heart of this skepti-
cism and in what way does it manifest itself? Answers to these
questions center on the notion of causation. As I noted earlier,
Hume is an epistemologist. For Hume, the essence of knowledge
does not lie in an ability to apprehend matters of fact (that is, the
mere description of physical properties or events), but in a
wherewithal to explain. As Hume said, “All reasonings concerning
matter of fact seem to be founded on the relation of Cause and
Effect [emphasis in original]. By means of that relation alone we
can go beyond the evidence of our memory and senses” (Hume,
1988, 72). The difficulty comes in trying to ascribe causes to
particular effects. It had to be recognized, but Hume realized that
it was scarcely adequate to explain that causes precede effects
temporally. Danford examines Hume’s thinking on causation in
some depth and notes that, since precedence is not, in itself,
sufficient to explain, a further step had to be taken. This step, for
Hume, was one not merely of temporal relation, but something
that went deeper—constant conjunction (Danford, 1990, 65-66).

We remember to have had frequent instances of the existence

of one species of objects; and also remember, that the individu-
als of another species of objects have always attended them,
and have existed in a regular order of contiguity and succession
with regard to them. . . . We likewise call to mind their constant
conjunction in all past instances. Without any farther cere-
mony, we call the one cause and the other effect, and infer the
existence of the one from that of the other [emphasis in
original]. (Hume, 1969, 135)

This realization, however, does not succeed in advancing us along

the road to knowledge. In the end, Hume admitted that there
must be a subjective base to an understanding of causation. He
stated that the foundation of any inference regarding phenomena
is “the necessary connexion betwixt causes and effects,” but he
added that “Upon the whole, necessity is something that exists in
the mind, not in objects” (Hume, 1969, 216). Still, Hume’s
writings on causation amounts to an homage to determinism. He
 The Beginnings of Science 49

comes dangerously close to a reduction of thought and behavior

to the purely physical. One thing this line of thought makes
possible is the offering of physical influences as causes for
behavior or human attributes. For example, this clears a path for
hypothesizing environmental or hereditary causes for intelligence.
What we seem to have in Hume is an aporia, a problem
stemming from opposing views on the same matter. While the
ultimate understanding that can lead to knowledge is, to some
extent, subjective, causation, to Hume, rests in the objects. He
defined causation as a product of experience: “as the power, by
which one object produces another, is never discoverable merely
from their idea, ’tis evident cause and effect are relations, of which
we receive information from experience, and not from any
abstract reasoning or reflection [emphasis in original]” (Hume,
1969, 117). So we see that the determination of causation lies
beyond the abilities of reason alone. To add a further twist,
causation cannot be determined solely by sensory perception
either. “There is no single phaenomenon, even the most simple,
which can be accounted for from the qualities of the objects as
they appear to us; or which we cou’d foresee without the help of
our memory and experience” (Hume, 1969, 117-18). The bottom
line, at least according to my own interpretation of Hume, is that
the accumulation of sensory perceptions and the reasonings to
which they are subjected together form experience. While I can
see no other interpretations, I must admit that Hume attempted
to sever experience from both mere sensation and pure reasoning.
This very separation is the basis for my conclusion that it is only
the two combined that produce experience; no other resolution
to the aporia created by his writings in the Treatise and the
Enquiry is apparent to me.
What remains is examination of what, from Hume’s philoso-
phy, appears to have been extracted and adopted into determinis-
tic scientism. Even though Hume’s writings are problematic, there
are elements that can be taken (as has been the case with all of
the philosophers considered here) to present some assumed unity
of thought. For instance, there is no doubt that Hume is an
empiricist, that he places enormous import on sensory perception.
This much has already been demonstrated; we need not delve
50 Chapter One

further into it. Next is the centrality of causation. Regardless of

the difficulties presented by Hume himself in determining cause
and effect, he offered general rules on which to base causation:

(1) The cause and effect must be contiguous in space and time.
(2) The cause must be prior to the effect.
(3) There must be a constant union betwixt the cause and
effect. Tis chiefly this quality, that constitutes the relation.
(4) The same cause always produces the same effect, and the
same effect never arises but from the same cause. (Hume, 1969,
225)

These two concepts (his empiricism and his structure of causa-

tion) can be incorporated into a model of thinking that looks for
certainty in the parts that can be extended to the whole. This is
so despite Hume’s own recognition that induction is the victim
of an unresolvable dilemma—that dilemma being the absence of
any logical link between the existence of something in the past
and its assured existence in the future. The aim of determinism
is again aided by Hume’s hedging. He did indeed state what has
since been termed the Problem of Induction, but he recognized
that inductive reasoning (although he doesn’t use the word
induction) can be helpful in epistemology. As James Force says,

For Hume and for Newton it is perfectly acceptable to reason

from the part to the whole so long as the scientist or design
theorist recognizes that such reasoning is fallible and corrigible
and has the ontological status of a regulative hypothesis
adopted as a methodological assumption only and which is
always subject to the checks and revisions of future experience.
(Force, 1990, 189-90)

What this seems to be saying is that induction can be a tool

employed in the process of deduction; that generalizing from the
parts to the whole can be used in forming theoretical statements,
which then can be tested. This is a logical problem that is
extremely difficult to resolve but which may, in fact, provide a
foundation for praxis (the practice of any discipline or field of
study, including library and information science).
 The Beginnings of Science 51

What we see in Hume is an opportunity for a selective

interpretation. Remember that both scientism and determinism
_ are, in some important respects, simplifications. Hume’s work can
- be simplified to an empiricism that stresses sensory perception
above all, to a determinism that demands the search for effects
and their causes, and to an emphasis on reason as a binding force
(this last fixes him firmly in the Enlightenment and as a modern).
One passage from his writings, perhaps more than any other, can
be lifted and employed by later writers whose particular focus is
positivistic. He concluded the Enquiry with the following state-
ments which clearly do not summarize his thinking in general,
but do express his thought on a particular kind of metaphysical
reliance; these have provided a center of attention for some to
come: “If we take in our hand any volume; of divinity or school
metaphysics, for instance; let us ask, Does it contain any abstract
reasoning concerning quantity or number? No. Does it contain any
experimental reasoning concerning matter offact and existence? No.
Commit it then to the flames: for it can contain nothing but
sophistry and illusion [emphasis in original]” (Hume, 1988, 195).

A Different Voice: Kant

The last of the philosophers to be dealt with in this first

chapter is Immanuel Kant. For the present, treatment of Kant
will be limited; only his thought that bears on the topic at hand
will be considered. Some statements by Kant can be seen to
support the line running through most of the thinkers discussed
so far. In 1781, near the end of the period customarily labeled the
Enlightenment, Kant wrote in his Critique of Pure Reason, “That all
our knowledge begins with experience there can be no doubt.
... In respect of time, therefore, no knowledge of ours is anteced-
ent to experience, but begins with it” (Kant, 1990, 1). On the
face of it, if we limit perusal of Kant to such a cursory glance, it
seems as though he follows directly in the tradition begun with
Bacon. Such is not the case, though. In fact, Kant is treated here
as an example of something of a departure from that tradition.
yd Chapter One

Some writers before Kant had endeavored to incorporate reason

into the scheme of the production of knowledge, particularly
scientific knowledge. None of these go as far as Kant or treat
reason in exactly the same way as Kant. For instance, Kant
explicitly attempted to answer Hume’s problem of causality in the
Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics (1783):

Hume started chiefly from a single but important concept in

metaphysics, namely, that of the connection of cause and effect
(including its derivatives force and action, and so on). He
challenged reason, which pretends to have given birth to this
concept of herself, to answer him by what right she thinks
anything could be so constituted that if that thing be posited,
something else also must necessarily be posited; for this is the
meaning of the concept of cause. He demonstrated irrefutably
that it was perfectly impossible for reason to think a priori and
by means of concepts such a combination, for it implies
necessity. We cannot at all see why, in consequence of the
existence of one thing, another must necessarily exist or how
the concept of such a combination can arise a priori....1..
soon found that the concept of the connection of cause and
effect was by no means the only concept by which the under-
standing thinks the connection of things a priori, but rather that
metaphysics consists altogether of such concepts. . . . I pro-
ceeded to the deduction of these concepts, which I was now
certain were not derived from experience, as Hume had
attempted to derive them, but sprang from the pure under-
standing. (Kant, 1950, 5, 8)

Michael Friedman addresses the difficulty of the adequacy of

experience to explain the universality of a causal relationship:

To say that even A causes event B is to say, first, that there is

a universal rule or law of the form: Events of type A are
followed by events of type B. Yet, because experience alone can
never show that such a rule or law is strictly [emphasis in
original] universal, the judgment that A causes B must be
grounded, additionally, in an a priori source or faculty of
knowledge. The latter is of course the understanding, with its
4 priori conditions of objective judgment in a possible experi-
ence. (Friedman, 1992, 163)
 The Beginnings of Science 53

Kant offered a demonstrably different assessment of causa-

tion—one that admits the insufficiency of purely empirical means
to arrive at universal statements. “An empirical judgment never
~ exhibits strict and absolute, but only assumed and comparative
universality (by induction); therefore the most we can say is...
there is no exception to this or that rule. If, on the other hand, a
judgment carries with it strict and absolute universality . . . it is
not derived from experience, but is valid absolutely a priori”
(Kant, 1990, 2-3). All of this illustrates the complexity of Kant
and his use of reason in setting forth a structure upon which
knowledge can be based. Thomas Wartenberg suggests that
reason is used by Kant in a regulative, rather than a constitutive,
manner.

That is, in characterizing the use of reason as regulative rather

than constitutive, Kant is making reference to the relation of
this use of reason to empirical objects, phenomena. Kant is
claiming that this use of reason is not constitutive of such
objects. . . By making this distinction, however, Kant is not
claiming that the transcendental knowledge supplied by reason
is not essential to understanding the nature of our knowledge,
only that reason’s contribution to the framework does not
involve the actual constitution of the objects that we know.
(Wartenberg, 1992, 237-38)

Kant presents “a picture of scientific practice that is at odds with

the dominant empiricist view of science according to which
science proceeds by means of the simple collection of observed
regularities in experience” (Wartenberg, 1992, 242-43).
So, near the end of an acknowledged era of thought and the
beginning of a new age, Kant presented a dilemma for philoso-
phers to come. Do they accept and incorporate his vision of
reason into a philosophy of science, or do they ignore him and
proceed with a faith in empiricism that strengthens deterministic
scientism? Certainly at the time Kant was producing his major
work the older line of thought was dominant in much of the
Western world.
The empiricism that seems to be persistent also appears to be
materialist, that is, grounded in the physical. There are connota-
54 Chapter One

tions of the materialist stance that are related to this intellectual

genealogy, but affect the intellectual aspects in particular political
and economic ways. The burgeoning of thought that characterizes
the Enlightenment period owes a debt to the Renaissance, since
the earlier age created the opportunity for intellectual growth. To
a substantial extent, the intellectual growth accompanied material
growth. Lisa Jardine argues (convincingly, I think) that the
cultural developments of the Renaissance were closely linked to
material developments, specifically the creation of wealth and the
growth of markets (Jardine, 1996). During the period culture was
valued not solely for aesthetic and intellectual reasons, but also
because the products of culture were also commodities. One effect
of the concentration on the material and the rational was a
transformation in the consideration of what constitutes knowl-
edge and how we achieve knowledge. Toulmin expresses the shift
most clearly: “In four fundamental ways, however, 1 7th-century
philosophers set aside the long-standing preoccupations of
Renaissance humanism. In particular, they disclaimed any serious
interest in four different kinds of practical knowledge: the oral,
the particular, the local, and the timely” (Toulmin, 1990, 30).
The material side of the Renaissance was extended into later
periods, including the Enlightenment and, indeed, all of moder-
nity. The intellectual and cultural debts are indubitable, as Ernst
Cassirer points out in his book that praises most aspects of the
Enlightenment: “Enlightenment philosophy simply fell heir to the
heritage of [previous] centuries; it ordered, sifted, developed, and
clarified this heritage rather than contributed and gave currency
to new and original ideas” (Cassirer, 1951, vi). The Enlighten-
ment owed more to the previous age, though. The material
influence, evident in the Renaissance, continued to have an
impact on thought in the eighteenth century. The continuance of
influence had both material and intellectual sides—in both
periods there was a serious questioning of the assumptions and
givens that had limited social and intellectual growth. The
questioning was partly rooted in the development of markets and
the commodification of cultural products. As Peter Gay says,
“The spirit of capitalism questioned customary ways, despised
tradition, and thus .. . helped to change the general way of
 The Beginnings of Science 33

thinking and to point it, if not directly toward humanitarianism,

at least toward a rationalization of life” (Gay, 1969, 45). In fact,
during the Enlightenment capitalism spread to just about every
part of life—commerce, agriculture, banking, etc.—and affected
the ideas in political, as well as intellectual, spheres (see Im Hof,
1994, 191-95). In addition to its roots in materialism, the
capitalism that grew during the Enlightenment was also con-
nected to the rationalism that also characterized the period. Also,
this capitalism was peculiar to the Western world and firmly
grounded in the religious, cultural, and intellectual (as well as
material) aspects of society (see Weber, 1992 [1930]). The
present book is an examination of the intellectual foundations
and intellectual potential of the social sciences and LIS, but I will
not be able to, nor should I, ignore the attendant cultural and
material influences on the intellectual life. This is a theme that
will recur in each chapter, but will be addressed at some length
near the end of the book.
Douglas Adair offers a summation that serves well to
conclude this chapter: “Bacon, Newton, and Locke were the
famed trinity of representative great philosophers for Americans
and all educated inhabitants of Western Europe in 1783... . By
the middle of the eighteenth century, a multitude of researchers
in all the countries of Europe were seeking, in Newtonian style,
to advance the bounds of knowledge in politics, economics, law,
and sociology” (Adair, 1976, 405). In the next chapter we will
explore the state of philosophy of science in the nineteenth and
twentieth centuries.
 Chapter Two

A Continuation of the
Genealogy of Thought

As the period traditionally referred to as the Enlightenment drew

to a close, a couple of cataclysmic events affected the course of
history. One of these events was of lesser importance to the
genealogy of thought. The American Revolution certainly was
significant in many senses, but its impact on the line of thinking
that is of concern here was not great. In the cause of indepen-
dence the shapers of thought and action in the newly formed
United States were, in some ways, reactive. The quote from
Douglas Adair which ended the first chapter gives an indication
of the reaction of American writers to what had gone before in
the world of science.
Of much greater significance to the topic at hand was the
French Revolution. That Revolution differed enough in cause,
means, and outcome from the American Revolution that the two
cannot be considered as part of any single, coordinated move-
ment. The French Revolution, including the few years immedi-
ately prior to revolutionary action, marks a branching of the
genealogy. The roots remain the same—Baconian and Newtonian
premises constitute the core of thinking throughout this period.

afl
58 Chapter Two

(It should be noted, again, that neither Baconianism nor

Newtonianism are necessarily the literal expressions of Bacon or
Newton, but may be the transmutations by successors.) If
anything, the writings emanating from certain Frenchmen in the
late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries were more openly
scientistic than any before. The French Revolution itself (and its
causes and aftermath) influenced thinking. One line of both pre-
and post-Revolutionary thought remained constant—there must
be a means of achieving the perfectibility of society. Whether
through a liberal or a conservative approach, this goal, at its most
fundamental, remained the same. Further, perfectibility depended
upon a scientific approach, not only to the problems, but to the
very structure, of society. A particular kind of scientism, which
attained prominence in the nineteenth century and continues
through our own, was given the name positivism. It has been
convenient, especially in recent years, to lump all deterministic
scientism into the catch-all category of positivism, but there is no
such single convenient, narrowly defined category. There have
been different philosophies that have taken the name positivism,
and many more have been saddled with this appellation, usually
meant in a pejorative sense. Before we start throwing the
positivist label around, we must continue through this genealogy
to see how thought has developed.

Condorcet

A key figure (though one who is frequently ignored) is Marie-

Jean-Antoine-Nicolas Caritat, marquis de Condorcet. Condorcet’s
background was in mathematics, but his interest in social and
political problems led him to suggest that the same method could
be applied with equal effectiveness to the social as to the physical.
F. A. Hayek relates one of Condorcet’s early articulations of this
suggestion.

As early as 1783, in the oration at his reception into the

academy, [Condorcet] gave expression to what was to become
a favorite idea of positivist sociology, that of an observer to
 Continuation of the Genealogy 29

whom physical and social phenomena would appear in the same

light, because, “a stranger to our race, he would study human
society as we study those of the beavers and bees.” And
although he admits that this is an unattainable ideal because
“the observer is himself part of human society,” he repeatedly
exhorts the scholars “to introduce into the moral sciences the
philosophy and the method of the natural sciences.” (passages
by Condorcet quoted in Hayek, 1979, 191-92)

Condorcet hoped for the establishment of a genuine social

science—one based on discoverable truths, rather than supposi-
tions. In one of his later written works, Sketch for a Historical
Picture of the Progress of the Human Mind (1793), Condorcet stated
that “All error in politics and morals are based on philosophical
errors and these in turn are connected with scientific errors”
(Condorcet, 1976, 250). He did not have the opportunity to
develop his thoughts further; as an ally of the Brissotins he was
imprisoned by the Jacobins on March 27, 1784. He was found
dead two days later. An earlier essay of his, the Essay on the
Application of Mathematics to the Theory of Decision-Making (1785),
included both an acknowledgment of an intellectual debt and the
strongest statement of his scientism: “A great man, Monsieur
[Anne-Robert-Jacques] Turgot, . . . was convinced that the truths
of the moral and political sciences are susceptible of the same
certainty as those forming the system of the physical sciences,
even those branches like astronomy which seem to approach
mathematical certainty” (Condorcet, 1976, 33). In this essay
Condorcet put forth his theory of rational choice, which could be
(and has been) applied to the political and economic spheres, and
beyond.
Lest the reader get the wrong impression, at no point in time
has deterministic scientism been an absolutely dominant way of
thinking; it had its challengers. This is also true at the time of the
French Revolution. Though the term scientism had not yet been
coined in the late eighteenth century, Edmund Burke recognized
the tenets of such thinking and urged all who read his work to
avoid what he saw as the intellectual, social, and moral pitfalls of
scientistic belief. Burke wrote, “The lines of morality are not like
60 Chapter Two

the ideal lines in mathematics. They are broad and deep as well
as long. They admit of exception; they admit of modification”
(Burke, 1898, 16). Burke’s warning was aimed in particular at
that group of French writers known as the philosophes. The
philosophes, and Condorcet was notable among them, espoused a
materialism that was strongly opposed to traditional religion,
both as a belief and as an institution. Maurice Crosland notes
that “On the European front [Burke] was attacking above all a
mentality, one which had come to the fore in the revolutionary
period and which believed in reductionism and social engineer-
ing” (Crosland, 1987, 306). Reductionism means, in one sense
that I’ve mentioned previously, the equation of the social or
mental with the physical. A reductionist belief implies that
humans behave in the same way as other elements of the physical
world. This is a pervasive aspect of deterministic scientism from
the late eighteenth century onward. In the philosophes, and for our
purposes in Condorcet, we have a definite application of reduc-
tionism, to be managed (politically, socially, and in most ways)
through the rational application of scientific methods.
It may be said that, in the philosophes, we have the culmina-
tion of the Enlightenment. In a sense, this is true. By 1800 the
faith in reason was not as dominant as it had been throughout
the century. Challenges to a firm confidence in reason and
rationality came from many quarters, but most of the challenges
centered on a reaction against any such confidence and a call to
grasp once again emotion and sentiment, which could supplant
reason and intellect. The strong reaction, usually seen as the
beginning of the Romantic period, swept over all of Europe, and
included the United States as well. Notable expressions of
Romanticism came in literature, art, and music. While this was
indeed a strong reaction, the genealogy we deal with here did not
come to an end. Its continuance is a clear flow from the seven-
teenth century and through (in France at least) Condorcet. W.
Jay Reedy observes, “It could be argued that Condorcet is a good
candidate to be considered one of the ‘grandfathers’ of French
social science. His Equisse d'un tableau historique des progrés de
V'esprit humain mixes scientism with its ‘philosophical history’ in
a manner at least as utopian (or dystopian) at the syntheses
 Continuation of the Genealogy 61

created by [later writers]” (Reedy, 1994, 20-21). In this respect

Condorcet may be taken as the epitome of the modern, with his
empiricist insistence on the efficacy of mathematical application
to all, including social, problems, and his reliance on reason. The
quest for a science of society continued unabated, though altered
in some important ways, in post-Revolutionary France.

Saint-Simon

As is true of the time covered in chapter I, at this point many

individuals could be mentioned, but it is more fruitful to concen-
trate on some key figures who continue the path begun by Bacon.
In picking up the influence of Condorcet on successors the next
step is Henri de Saint-Simon. Saint-Simon openly acknowledged
his debt to Condorcet in his early writings; as Georg Iggers says,
he “saw the perfection of scientific methodology as the basis of
human progress” (Iggers, 1958, xxi). The drive to achieve
progress was a deliberate reaction to the time. The Revolution,
along with the Terror and Napoleon’s reign, resulted in a
tremendous amount of social, as well as personal, upheaval. As
Reedy notes, “social scientism (i.e., the application of the
assumptions and methods of natural science to studying society)
were also products of that period of insecurity” (Reedy, 1994, 2).
Saint-Simon was attempting to move beyond both the philosophes
and the Jacobins in thought and practice. Even the valuable
vestiges of the eighteenth century—that which could be deemed
worthy as a contribution to progress—was insufficient in Saint-
Simon’s eyes. “The eighteenth century, Saint-Simon was fond of
saying, had attempted to construct a positive system of society
without being able to raise the new one in its place” (Simon,
1956, 314). His answer was to try to build a positive philosophy
on which progress could be based. “Positive” had two meanings:
the opposite of negative, or embodying a focus on progress and
perfectibility of the human condition; and the opposite of
speculative, or the employment of facts to increase knowledge
and certainty. The facts to be employed were, of course, scientific
facts. Saint-Simon’s own words illustrate his scientism as used in
62 Chapter Two

his positive philosophy: “It is because science provides the means

of making predictions that makes it useful, and that scientists are
superior to all other men. All known phenomena have been
divided into different classes. Here is one classification which has
been adopted: astronomical, physical, chemical, and physiological
phenomena” (Saint-Simon, 1975, 74).
As an aside, it is interesting to note that the scientistic
pronouncements of the likes of Saint-Simon were finding their
way into the literature of the day. In Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein,
or the Modern Prometheus (and the subtitle is genuinely enlighten-
ing of what could only be considered a popular view of the
science of the day), Professor Waldman says that modern
scientists “penetrate into the recesses of nature, and show how
she works in her hiding places. They ascend into the heavens:
they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of
the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited
powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the
earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own
shadows” (Shelley, 1993, 40). Of course it is the unknowable,
according to Shelley, that results in the downfall of those
espousing such scientistic hubris.
It must be made clear that Saint-Simon’s aim was to recon-
struct society, to bring about a new social order that would ensure
stability and eradicate insecurity. Peyton Lyon states this clearly
in his assessment of Saint-Simon’s purpose: he “was obsessed
with the need to re-establish social order on a new basis which
would prevent the recurrence of such catastrophic upheavals as
the French Revolution” (Lyon, 1961, 55). As is evident from
Saint-Simon’s writings, quoted above, the ability to predict is
key. One means of predicting for Saint-Simon was to analyze
historical progression in an effort to discover laws. These laws
could then be used to predict the future. The search for laws of
history on which to base prediction is known as historicism.
Historicism is a form of determinism since, as Walter Simon
points out, “A certain line of development, once started, could
continue in one direction and one direction only” (Simon, 1956,
319). Historicism is a flawed principle, as is scientism, because,
for one thing, there is no admission that there may not exist
 Continuation of the Genealogy 63

immutable laws that govern the course of history; for another,

even if such laws might exist, that it would be impossible to know
enough about the past to formulate the laws completely and
unerringly; and for a third, that the past is not open to one, and
only one, interpretation.

Historicism, of course, has other definitions. In a general

sense it can mean the situating of any statement in its
historical context, but it can also encompass the biases or
interests of the period from which the statement ema-
nates (see Hamilton, 1996). In literary study there has in
the past few decades been a resurgence of historicism
under the appellation New Historicism. This way of
thinking is a reaction against the New Critical insistence
that we look only at the text; New Historicism places
that text in history (see Thomas, 1991). These uses of
the term can be applicable to LIS; the more complete
historical context of thought and action is important to
us.

Saint-Simon’s project was to alter the line of development so that

a course of human progress could be followed. Historicism, in
addition to being deterministic, is also strongly nomological; the
purpose is to discern inherent laws and then to use the knowledge
of those laws to predict what will happen. Saint-Simon fell victim
to the fallacy of historicism; as Simon says, “Saint-Simon
evidently changed the rules of the game by postulating what was
going to happen because he wanted it to happen, and then used
history to show why it was going to happen; but in this process
he lost the hindsight which is the saving grace of the ordinary
historian” (Simon, 1956, 321). Saint-Simon, in effect, changed
a hermeneutic or interpretive process into a deterministic one.
Even he had to admit that the events of 1789 were clear only in
retrospect, only after they had played themselves out and could
be examined by looking backward.
64 Chapter Two

Ultimately Saint-Simon proposed disestablishing traditional

religion and replacing it with a human religion. He saw physiolog-
ical phenomena as one in a progression of sciences and human
progress as governed by these phenomena. By the time he died in
1825 his project was not scientific (using his way of thinking),
but ideological. The ideology, based on scientism and historicism,
was put forth as the culmination of an evolutionary process. The
ideology he was proposing he named physicism (based on
physiological phenomena), and it was to be the new religion, to
replace any sort of theistic religion. It was, actually, to be the
third stage in the evolution of religion which progressed through
polytheism and monotheism to physicism. Saint-Simon himself
was able to lay down the precepts of this new religion. It re-
mained for his followers and successors to pick up the program,
but the Saint-Simonians diverged from their namesake in their
efforts to establish a society governed centrally by an elite who
would exercise complete control of all aspects of life. It is not the
purpose here to critique in depth the political philosophy of the
Saint-Simonians, but the next individual to be considered was
foremost among their number and was vocal in articulating a
science of society.

Comte

In 1817 Auguste Comte was hired by Saint-Simon to be his

secretary. Comte, only nineteen at the time, had just been
removed from the Ecole Polytechnique for allegedly becoming
involved in a plot aimed at insurrection. Before beginning his
alliance with Saint-Simon, Comte had been engaged in reading a
number of philosophers from the seventeenth century through
Condorcet and had been taught by the mathematicians Joseph
Louis Lagrange and Gaspard Monge. It may have been Condorcet
who had the most profound influence on the young Comte; he
acknowledged Condorcet’s notion of the perfectibility of humans
and was attracted to a view of history that would find a future of
individuals who were rational, free, and unfettered by the mastery
of religious or tyrannical secular rule. As Mary Pickering points
 Continuation of the Genealogy 65

out, “The acceptance of the limitations of the mind, the relation-

ship of all knowledge to man, and the utility of science to the
human condition were aspects of Enlightenment humanism that
were fervently embraced by Condorcet. These ideas would also
have a great impact on Comte” (Mary Pickering, 1993, 50). Even
in his early development, Comte was exhibiting a denial of the
metaphysical as a basis for knowledge and a modified empiricism
(not so strong as to place all import in the object and not nearly
so rationalistic as to overemphasize the subject). Comte, then, is
a successor to the thinkers discussed thus far.
The foregoing statement may seem to be a rationalization,
made in order to fit individuals in this genealogy so that it
appears to be an unbroken line. First, the lineage of intellectual
debt can be made clear, as has been demonstrated to this point,
by an examination of the writings of the philosophers considered.
While other individuals could surely be added to the genealogy,
the principal proponents of the kind of deterministic scientism
that has been defined here are the ones included. Further, in the
case of Comte, direct homage is not infrequently paid to those
who most deeply affected the evolution of his thought. Pickering
notes some of those debts:

The seventeenth-century sources of positive philosophy are, in

fact, evident, and it is not surprising that Comte would later call
Bacon and Descartes two of his main “predecessors.” Bacon
was at the origin of his empirical idea that all scientific princi-
ples must be based on observed facts, and Descartes helped
form Comte’s rationalism, that is, his tendency to go from
principles to facts. Descartes was responsible for the even more
important idea that the unity of the sciences comes from unity
of method. (Mary Pickering, 1993, 162)

Pickering also says that Comte made special mention of Cant as

“the ‘last eminent thinker’ who had preceded him” and “the-one
‘closest to the positive philosophy” (Mary Pickering, 1993, 296).
Pickering adds, though, that Comte substantially misunderstood
Kant and at times attributed ideas to Kant erroneously.
Many of these influences on Comte’s thinking were enhanced
during the time he worked with Saint-Simon. This is in part due
66 Chapter Two

to Saint-Simon’s active encouragement of Comte’s reading while

in his employ. Of greater importance, in all likelihood, was
Comte’s own maturation throughout those years. It was a
formative period in Comte’s intellectual life. The combination of
forces led, initially, to Comte’s assistance with much of Saint-
Simon’s late writings. The articulation of a positive philosophy
was a shared goal of the elder and junior men. At times the
articulations of the two are so similar that it is difficult to tell
who might be responsible for particular ideas. Hayek suggests, for
instance, that Comte’s System of Positive Policy, while not fully
developed, was essentially a restatement of Saint-Simon’s own
doctrine. Further, Hayek wonders how much that is taken to be
Saint-Simon’s work might have been more properly attributable
to Comte (Hayek, 1979, 253). It does seem clear that Comte was
not merely Saint-Simon’s amanuensis, that he was more than a
scribe making note of the master’s dictation.
Comte wrote profusely on positive philosophy, so some look
at his writings as essential. In fact, it was Comte who coined the
words “positivism” and “sociology.” As has been previously
stated, positivism in Comte’s philosophy, as it was in Saint-
Simon’s, refers primarily to the antithesis of speculation. In order
to achieve a grounding based more on the definite than the
conditional, therefore, some empiricist elements must comprise
a part of positivism. Comte, however, was not a strict empiricist,
nor did he adhere strictly to induction as the only means to
knowledge. He recognized shortcomings in both induction and
deduction and says they must be supplemented by “the rational
construction and scientific use of hypotheses [emphasis in original],
regarded as a powerful and indispensable auxiliary to our study
of nature. . . . Neither [induction nor deduction] would help us,
even in regard to the simplest phenomena, if we did not begin by
anticipating the results, by making a provisional supposition,
altogether conjectural in the first instance, with regard to some of
the very notions that are the object of the inquiry. Hence the
necessary introduction of hypotheses into natural philosophy”
(Comte, 1975, 146). Comte in many ways anticipated the later
research approach by linking both theory and evidence (observa-
tion) as key components. Moreover, as Larry Laudan states,
 Continuation of the Genealogy 67

Comte’s departure from the likes of Bacon (in this regard) centers
on his negation of induction as the sole source of theory (Laudan,
1996, 213-14). Comte is departing in an important way from the
roots of deterministic scientism. A question that arises is: Does he
depart in other ways?
On the face of it, there is another significant departure from
the lineage. Mathematics holds an extremely important place in
Comte’s philosophy and a training in mathematics is vital if any
researcher would pretend to understand the logic of theory,
method, and positive confirmation of hypotheses. In the organic
sciences (and social physics, or sociology, is the most complex of
these) it is the logic of mathematics, and only the logic, that has
a fundamental place. At least that is what Comte says in one
instance: “As for any application of number and of a mathemati-
cal law to sociological problems, if such a method is inadmissible
in biology, it must be yet more decisively so here” (Comte, 1975,
258). When writing of biology, however, Comte appeared to be
more willing to give mathematics a more prominent place:

In the phenomena of living bodies, as in all others, every action

proceeds according to precise—that is, mathematical—laws,
which we should ascertain if we could study each phenomenon
by itself. The phenomena of the inorganic world are, for the
most part, simple enough to be calculable; those of the organic
world are too complex for our management. But this has
nothing to do with any difference in their nature. (Comte,
1975, 176-77)

There is a departure from the past in Comte’s rhetoric. but the

rhetorical diversion with regard to mathematics is neither entirely
consistent nor methodologically grounded in reasons for the
inadequacy of the application of statistics in sociology. I do not
mean this, necessarily, as a defense of such application, but as an
illustration that some of Comte’s ideas are less than fully
developed.
In some respects Comte’s positivism does seem to be begotten
of his predecessors. For instance, he claimed that “the first
characteristic of the positive philosophy is that it regards all
phenomena as subjected to invariable natural /aws [emphasis in
68 Chapter Two

original]” (Comte, 1975, 75). The means for success in the quest
for laws is science based on positive philosophy. And this science
depends on progressing beyond our speculative past since no
amount of speculation can be fruitful in discerning laws. This
means, as Condorcet and Saint-Simon (and Hume before them)
urged, moving past theology and metaphysics, whose

attributes are the same, consisting, in regard to method, in the

preponderance of imagination over observation, and, in regard
to doctrine, in the exclusive investigation of absolute ideas, the
result of both of which is an inevitable tendency to exercise an
arbitrary and indefinite action over phenomena that are not
regarded as subject to invariable natural laws. (Comte, 1975,
Ze)

The nomological aspect (the grounding in laws) is not a new

feature in this genealogy; belief in the existence of natural laws is
a part of its determinism. The entirety of physical phenomena,
and human and social behavior are subsets of physical phenom-
ena, is governed by a set of laws which is immutable. Comte’s
only hedge in this regard is to see sociology as a relative, rather
than an absolute, science; that is, it is dependent upon evolution,
and the less than certain transformation evolution might bring
about.
With the fundamental tenet of his philosophy—the existence
of natural laws—Comte asserts that the sciences are hierarchical,
moving from the inorganic to the organic, the simple and abstract
to the complex and concrete. His hierarchy begins with “five
fundamental sciences in successive dependence—astronomy,
physics, chemistry, physiology, and finally social physics”
(Comte, 1975, 96). Moreover, “It is necessary not only to have
a general knowledge of all the sciences but to study them in their
order. What can come of a study of complicated phenomena if
the student has not learned, by the contemplation of the simpler,
what a law is, what it is to observe, what a positive conception is,
and even what a chain of reasoning is?” (Comte, 1975, 99) After
establishing the hierarchy of the five sciences Comte places
mathematics in the fore, since in his positive philosophy all of the
sciences are dependent on mathematics. This order has a
 Continuation of the Genealogy 69

particular significance; it is seen by Comte as absolutely essential

to the prime purpose of science, prediction. Edmund Ziegelmeyer
assesses the aim of science and the purpose of the hierarchy:
“Ferret out, the Positivist commands us, the unchangeable laws
that govern phenomena in their relations of succession and
similarity, and set aside all useless questions. Then man can
foresee future events by the discovery of the unchangeable laws
that govern the occurrence of natural phenomena” (Ziegelmeyer,
19472; 8-9).
Another trait of deterministic scientism remains to be
discussed—reduction. To Hayek, reductionism is at the heart of
Comte’s sociology. “This new science of social physics [emphasis in
original], that is to say, the study of the collective development
of the human race, is really a branch of physiology, or the study
of man conceived in its entire extension. In other words, the
history of civilization is nothing but the indispensable result and
complement of the natural history of man” (Hayek, 1979, 254).
Hayek’s position is an extreme one that suggests a literal equation
of the social with the physical. Pickering denies that Comte’s
philosophy embodies reductionism at all. Rather, Comte sepa-
rates physiology from sociology because the former is a study of
humans as individual physical entities and the latter is a study of
humans as part of society (Mary Pickering, 1993, 151). Both
Hayek and Pickering overstate their cases, but Pickering’s is by
far the weaker. To begin with, the hierarchy itself is reductionist;
it implies not only that sciences of the organic are dependent on
and derivative of the inorganic, but also that the science of
society likewise depends on and derives from the sciences of the
physical. Perhaps even more to the point, while Comte does
assert that the nature of sociology and biology are distinct, there
is only one method of studying them: “As to the method, the
logical analogy of the two sciences is so clear as to leave no doubt
that social philosophers must prepare their understandings for
their work by due discipline in biological methods” (Comte,
£27526).
What we have in Comte is a complicated, and far from
consistent and clear, discourse on what constitutes science, how
the study of the social fits into the construction, and what
70 Chapter Two

methods should be employed. Apart from establishing a hierar-

chy, Comte’s discussion of method is almost that of an excursus,
something appended because there had to be something there to
fill out his system. While Pickering maintains that the method is
well developed, it is sketchy at best. He invoked mathematics,
but there was no uniform application of mathematics throughout
the sciences. He wrote of induction and deduction, stating that
neither, alone, is adequate, but did not define precisely what he
meant by them. It is widely acknowledged that Comte’s doctrine
was a very influential force in philosophy (which is why a
substantial amount of space is devoted to him here), but what did
he contribute? Laudan suggests, and rightly so, that some less
frequently admitted aspects of Comte’s philosophy have had an
enduring influence. These include an admission that Comte:

(1) Recognized the structural similarity of explanations and

predictions;
(2) Used the notion of verifiability and predictability to resolve
the dual problems of meaning and demarcation;
(3) Recognized the prediction [emphasis in original] were not
essentially inferences from past to future but from the known
to unknown;
(4) Stressed the theory-laden character of observation; and
(5) Acknowledged the value of hypotheses, including those
dealing with theoretical (viz., nonobservable) entities. (Laudan,
197 1536)

However, in addition to these contributions, Comte added

strength to claims of reductionism, the nomological nature of
science, determinism, and scientism. So, it remains to be seen to
what extent Comte influenced thinking in the nineteenth century
and beyond.

Mill
The matter of influence is a complicated one. The complexity
is manifest most clearly in John Stuart Mill’s reception of Comte.
In the first edition of his System of Logic, published in 1843, Mill
 Continuation of the Genealogy 71

made numerous references to Comte; many of these were

laudatory and most were indicative of a strong effect of Comte on
Mill’s thinking. Perhaps because Mill was still rather young when
the book first appeared, and perhaps because of a possible
personal rift between the two (Hawkins, 1938, 8), Mill eventually
drifted away from Comte to some extent. In any event, subse-
quent editions of the System of Logic contained revisions by Mill
that lessened the apparent connection between him and Comte.
What may be more probable as an explanation for Mill’s alter-
ation in assessment of Comte was the latter’s espousal of his
positivism, not just as a philosophy of science or method of
thought, but as a form of civil order or organization and, eventu-
ally, as a religion (reminiscent of Saint-Simon in his later years).
Over time the acknowledged influence of Comte on Mill was
limited to method, and even in that area Mill questioned the
efficacy of Comte’s system. Granted, positive philosophy was not
new with Comte, but Mill ultimately attempted to diminish his
contributions further. Later editions of the System of Logic still
included praise for Comte: “Within a few years three writers . . .
have made attempts . . . towards the creation of a Philosophy of
Induction: . . . greatest of all, M. Auguste Comte, in his Cours de
Philosophie Positive, a work which only requires to be better
known, to place its author in the very highest class of European
thinkers” (Mill, 1852, 172). At a later time Mill’s altered opinion
was evident:

Nor is it unknown to any one who has followed the history of

the various physical sciences, that the positive explanation of
facts has substituted itself, step by step, for the theological and
metaphysical as the progress of inquiry brought to light an
increasing number of the invariable laws of phaenomena. In
these respects M. Comte has not originated anything, but has
taken his place in a fight long since engaged, and on the side
already in the main victorious. (Mill, 1961, 12)

Mill is, in many ways, a more direct descendent of a line of

thought that has foundations in Baconianism and Newtonianism.
This is particularly evident in his insistence on induction as the
logical basis of science. He wrote, “We have found that all
pp Chapter Two

Inference, consequently all Proof, and all discovery of truths not

self-evident, consists of inductions, and the interpretation of
inductions: that all our knowledge, not intuitive, comes to us
exclusively from that source” (Mill, 1852, 171). Moreover,
induction is based on an assumption that strikes at the founda-
tion of nature. Mill asserts that the assumption is both a basis
and a result of inductive reasoning, central to and an outgrowth
of the process of inferring the universal from the individual. He
says that “the proposition that the course of nature is uniform, is
the fundamental principle, or general axiom, of Induction” (Mill,
1852, 184). Mill admits that if this proposition is not true, then
all other inductions prove false, since they are based on the
uniformity of nature. The implication of such a belief is that the
uniformity of nature is the first and most important of natural
laws. Twentieth-century physics has provided ample evidence for
something other than uniformity, so Mill’s system must be called
into question.
Struan Jacobs notes that, in the course of revising his System
of Logic, Mill changed his assessment of the utility of hypotheses,
formulating more of a companion relationship between induction
and hypothesis (Jacobs, 1991). While this move is indicated in
Mill’s writings, hypothesis is still distinctly subordinate to
induction.

[H]ypotheses are invented to enable the Deductive Method to

be earlier applied to phenomena. . . . [T]he Hypothetical
Method suppresses the first of the three steps [in the process of
explanation], the induction to ascertain the law; and contents
itself with the other two operations, ratiocination and verifica-
tion; the law, which is reasoned from, being assumed, instead
of proved.
This process may evidently be legitimate upon one supposi-
tion, namely, if the nature of the case be such that the final
step, the verification, shall amount to, and fulfill the conditions
of, a complete induction. (Mill, 1852, 291-92)

Here Mill is substantially at odds with Comte and much more

sympathetic to his seventeenth- and eighteenth-century predeces-
sors. He did claim that many intellectual ancestors, going back to
 Continuation of the Genealogy 73

Bacon, were in error in their inductive reasoning, but the errors

rested primarily with the rigor (or lack thereof) with which they
applied induction. To the extent that Mill did mitigate his
criticism of hypotheses he came closer to Comte’s thinking and
solidified the influence of Comte on his work.
Walter Simon claims that the principal effect Comte had on
his contemporaries and followers was that of the method of
positivism (Simon, 1963, 23-24). This is evidently true in the
case of Mill (although the influence of Comte on Mill might have
been greater if Mill had been guilty of fewer misreadings of
Comte’s work (Scharff, 1989). What is definite is that the
determinism inherent in Comte’s system endured in Mill’s. The
latter’s principles of evidence display a mathematical reduction-
ism:

there is no science but that of number, in which the practical

validity of a reasoning can be apparent to any person who has
looked only at the form of the process. . . . A conclusion,
therefore, however correctly deduced, in point of form, from
admitted laws of nature, will have no other than a hypothetical
certainty. At every step we must assure ourselves that no
other law of nature has superseded, or intermingled its
operation with, those which are the premises of the reasoning;
and how can this be done by merely looking at the words?
(Mill, 1852, 431)

The reductionism of Mill extends to the heart of his thinking. At

once he equates epistemology with the philosophy of science
(since he reduces knowing to the science of human mental
faculties) and says that science itself can be pared down to the
logic of its processes (Mill, 1961, 53). This reductionism sur-
passes Comte, who saw positive philosophy as a _ historical
culmination with regard to the quest for answers to questions that
were earlier subjected to theological and then metaphysical
inquiry. Mill’s stance is, by comparison, ahistorical; he negates
the entire questioning process that predates the application of the
logic of science. His position, then, is also more strongly deter-
ministic than Comte’s.
74 Chapter Two

From Mill onward the genealogy of thought takes a variety of

turns as many writers and theorists direct their attention to
human society. While it is true that Saint-Simon and Comte
purported to be setting forth a new science of society, their
thoughts were still abstract, especially in comparison with many
who wrote from the mid-nineteenth century on. This is certainly
not to imply that elements of Baconianism and other aspects of
deterministic scientism become submerged in the effort to
articulate a social science. Beginning at that time, though, the
various theorists took issue with one another regarding specific
features of the vision for a science of society. Just as Mill dis-
avowed particular tenets of Comtean positivism while retaining
the essential goal of a scientific founding for society, so too did
many of his contemporaries disagree with one another and with
their predecessors even though they propounded ideas that
focused on a scientifically determined theory of human society.
The seeming disagreement among fundamentally like-minded
writers has characterized the stream of thought for the last
century and a half. The points of disagreement are certainly not
uninteresting, but I would be hard-pressed to claim the existence
of a genealogy of thought if there were no ties that bind. As we
will see, the genuine disputations and departures from this line of
thinking are more a product of our century than of any other.

Marx

Now that the foregoing paragraph has prepared the way for
the tricky path ahead, we have to give at least some passing
attention to a thinker who has presented more grounds for
disagreement (sometimes violent) on more fronts than, possibly,
anyone before or since—Karl Marx. There is neither time nor
space here for a lengthy disquisition on Marx’s far-reaching
theories, but his writings on science deserve some attention here.
One reason for a bit of an examination of Marx is the realization
that there are almost as many interpretations of his stance
regarding science as there are interpreters. Marx himself is a
prime source for these multiple readings of his works. Two brief
 Continuation of the Genealogy LP)

passages can serve to illustrate the problems he presents to

interpretation. In writing of the foundation of science Marx
stated, “Sense experience must be the basis of all science. Science
is only genuine science when it proceeds from sense experience,
in the two forms of sense perception and sensuous need, that is,
only when it proceeds from Nature” (Marx, 1956, 77). This
statement is quite reminiscent of much that has appeared thus far
in these pages. He seems disinclined to make the reader’s task an
easy one, however. In his Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts,
written in 1844 (and also the source for the previous statement),
he wrote,

Even when I carry out scientific work, etc., an activity which I

can seldom conduct in direct association with other men—I
perform a social, because human, act. It is not only the material
of my activity—like the language itself which the thinker
uses—which is given to me as a social product. My own
existence is a social activity. For this reason, what I myself
produce, I produce for society and with the consciousness of
acting as a social being. (Marx, 1956, 77)

It is no wonder that there are still competing interpretations

of Marx’s stance on science. As Izabella Nowakowa and Leszek
Nowak point out, there are, today, views of Marxism as an
espousal of scientific philosophy, that is, as a reliable generaliza-
tion of existence (Nowakowa and Nowak, 1978). They further
recognize that some other interpretations deny that philosophy
can be scientific, but many of those maintain a similar view of the
essence of science as a depiction of truth. When Marx’s inconsis-
tencies are weighed, it is rather easy to see how opposing
interpretations of his work continue to thrive. Yet despite some
of Marx’s assertions on science, he never developed a scientific
approach to the examination of society’s future. As Daniel Little
reminds us, “much of Marx’s science is rather dissimilar from the
constructions of natural science: Marx’s account is not a compre-
hensive, unified theory, it is not confirmed through test of its
prediction, its explanations do not rely on laws of nature, and its
hypotheses are generally couched in descriptive or observational
terms” (Little, 1986, 200). Little’s observation illustrates, in part,
76 Chapter Two

the problematic nature of Marx: the proliferation of ideological

interpretations of Marx, that is, appropriations of the theories
and conclusions of Marx regarding capital, production, power,
etc. on some scientific grounds to lend credence to later concep-
tions of these phenomena. Little further writes that “Laws of
nature are thought to arise from the determinate properties of
natural processes and mechanisms, whereas social laws derive
(directly or indirectly) from facts about individuals making
decisions within conditions of constrained choice” (Little, 1986,
28). The interpretive problems arise when the latter is mistakenly
translated into the terminology and thinking of the former.
The interpretive problem—what some might go so far as to
call the interpretive fallacy—is not a completely newly discovered
dilemma. Decades ago Antonio Gramsci wrote “Critical Notes on
an Attempt at a Manual of Popular Sociologists” (Gramsci,
1971). In that piece Gramsci expressed opposition to those who
appropriated Marx’s works for sociology in the sense that laws,
causality, and prediction could be applied to society in the same
way they might be applied to the sciences. Gramsci’s epistemol-
ogy had a humanistic founding that strengthened his opposition
to determinism. His epistemology led “him to belittle the efforts
of positivist science to engage in objective analysis and value-free
observation of society” (Kahn, 1989, 163). The debate over Marx
is bound to continue with little hope of resolution. Such debate
demonstrates, by its existence, the question of scientific
determinism—and also it vitality.

Something Missing?

Some readers may wonder why one particular philosopher

has not been mentioned up to this point. Of course Hegel is
certainly one of the most influential thinkers who has ever lived.
However, even with the generous definition of genealogy used
here, Hegel does not really fit well. His thought did influence
Marx, but much of Marx’s work took a turn that was quite
independent of Hegel. Hegel did not share the view of science
that was held by many from Bacon well into the nineteenth
 Continuation of the Genealogy 77

century. He does not fall prey to the elimination of humanism

that Toulmin says many seventeenth-century philosophers did.
The empiricists have had difficulties with Hegel’s metaphysics,
especially since, at its most extreme, empiricism rejects metaphys-
ics altogether. The very idea of a phenomenology of spirit (Hegel,
1967) may even seem rather foreign to a positivist thinker.
Hegel’s idealism was attractive to some of the earlier advocates of
hermeneutics (see chapter 6 for a discussion of hermeneutics),
but his writings are a bit afield of this heritage.

Spencer
I mentioned earlier that the genealogy takes some turns in the
nineteenth century (and, to reiterate, it is the variability, as
Foucault says, that is interesting). One of these variations is
represented by Marx. Another, and a rather lengthy path
continuing into this century, begins with Herbert Spencer. What
is it about Spencer that marks a change in the legacy of determin-
istic scientism? From Bacon in the early seventeenth century
through the early French positivists the vision of science and its
place in inquiry has resided more in the philosophical realm than
anywhere else. Many of the writers dealt with so far have
searched for a scientific application to the problems facing
humans, but the problem has largely been an intellectual one and
the primary question has been how the certainty of science could
extend to the rest of existence. This question hasn’t changed by
the nineteenth century, but application of the principles underly-
ing the question are more directly applied in the social sphere.
There is a strong hint of this dynamic in Comte, but he focused
more on framing the question, on the search for a philosophical
basis for the study of society’s problems. It is Spencer, more than
any other, who offered a means of applying sociology (that is, the
study of society) in the light of science. With Spencer sociology
begins to mature as a discipline.
Spencer follows a tradition in the nineteenth century
(including Mill) that is an extension of application of Newtonian
principles to “sciences” other than physics and astronomy. The
78 Chapter Two

application of the principles is partly conceptual (social science

conceived as a science) and partly methodological (in the sense of
a quest for explanatory laws). Valerie Haines uses as an example
of the latter Spencer’s application of laws of organic evolution to
social evolution with the aim of discovering ultimate causation,
with “ultimate” meaning incapable of further analysis (Haines,
1992). Spencer’s incorporation and extrapolation of evolution to
society establishes him as the author of social Darwinism in his
concept of society as utilitarian. Two characteristics of determin-
istic scientism seem especially to pervade Spencer’s
sociology—reductionism and phenomenalism. He repeatedly
refers to society as a thing and wrote, “Ignoring for the moment
the peculiar traits of races and individuals, observe the traits
common to members of the species at large; and consider how
these must affect their relations when associated” (Spencer, 1971,
37). It is clear that he was reducing society to the physical.
Phenomenalism (the claim that sensory observation is the best
grounding for any truth claim) is evident in his 1893 statement
that “Admitting, or rather asserting, that knowledge is limited to
the phenomenal, we have, by implication, asserted that the
sphere of knowledge is co-extensive with the phenomenal”
(Spencer;.) 9/1553);
Stanislav Andreski sums up Spencer’s reliance on the
encompassing power of science as the means by which society
should be studied:

Herbert Spencer firmly believed in the unity of science: not

only in the sense that the basic logical methods are the same in
all fields of scientific inquiry, which was the chief message of his
somewhat resented illustrious forerunner Auguste Comte, but
also in the sense that the basic processes in all realms of being
are essentially identical, which he proceeded to prove in the
successive parts of his System of Synthetic Philosophy.
(Andreski, 1971, 7)

Spencer benefitted (if “benefitted” is the correct word) from the

scientific upheaval caused by Darwin and the questions that his
Origin of Species thrust upon not just science but philosophy,
ethics, and, of course, sociology. In the most simplistic sense
 Continuation of the Genealogy oh

Darwin’s theory gave credence to a belief in the governance of

natural laws and the extent to which such laws govern every
aspect of existence, including the social. The belief in laws almost
inevitably leads to a deterministic view of humans and human
society and Spencer embraced this determinism, in the form of an
inevitable path of history:

the course of civilization could not possibly have been other

than it has been. . . . [G]iven an unsubdued earth; given the
being—man, appointed to overspread and occupy it; given the
laws of life what they are; and no other series of changes than
that which has taken place, could have taken place. For be it
remembered, that the ultimate purpose of creation—the
production of the greatest amount of happiness—can be
fulfilled only under certain fixed conditions. (Spencer, 1971,
215)

Spencer was particularly influential in the U.S., where his

fundamental conservatism seemed amenable to an “evolutionary”
view of free markets and individualism. As Richard Hofstadter
points out, “If Spencer’s abiding impact on American thought
seems impalpable to later generations, it is perhaps only because
it has been so thoroughly absorbed” (Hofstadter, 1994, 50). In
fact, there is at least some connection between Spencer and
Charles Ammi Cutter, who admitted to having been influenced
by an evolutionary model. Francis Miksa argues, convincingly,
that the connection must not be overstated, though. Cutter, and
other nineteenth-century librarians who turned their hands to
organizing materials, did little to suggest formal, logical classifica-
tions of knowledge (Miksa, 1998, 36-37). On the other hand, the
pragmatics of library classification in the nineteenth century is,
itself, a paean to a phenomenalist approach to knowledge.

Durkheim

It seems that Spencer must be one of the most influential of

the scientistic thinkers, but his impact on sociology—beyond as
a pioneer who built respectability for the discipline—was rather
80 Chapter Two

short lived. Of more lasting influence was someone whose career

began while Spencer was still active. Emile Durkheim not only
proved a forceful and articulate advocate of a kind of positivist
sociology, but he spoke more to the point of sociological method
than had anyone up to that time. Durkheim was most assuredly
a descendent of Saint Simon, Comte, and the rest, but he
extended the reach of sociology beyond a philosophical stance.
Whereas many of his predecessors contemplated the nature of a
study of society and how it fit in with other disciplines (notably
the natural sciences), Durkheim aimed to create a practice of
sociology. There is no doubt that he was a believer in a science of
society and that his belief was founded on reason and reliance on
experience.

Indeed our main objective is to extend the scope of scientific

rationalism to cover human behaviour by demonstrating that,
in the light of the past, it is capable of being reduced to
relationships of cause and effect, which, by an operation no less
rational, can then be transformed into rules of action for the
future. What has been termed our positivism is merely a
consequence of this rationalism. (Durkheim, 1982, 33)

While he attempted to distance himself a bit from the positivism

of the past, his method is firm in its positivist roots.
Durkheim departed in some important ways, though, from
the earlier sociologists. He agreed with Comte that social
phenomena are akin to physical phenomena, that they are things;
that is, that they are realities that are independent from ideas or
conceptions of them. Durkheim, however, claimed that Comte,
and Spencer for that matter, did not fully apprehend society and
social fact as thing and that they reverted to a sociology based on
ideas of society and social phenomena. Their sociology, then, was
incomplete; they did not fully reject metaphysics in practice.
Durkheim could be seen as having a Cartesian bent; he adhered
to a belief in an absolute conception of knowledge. That absolute
was, for him, rooted in the language and method of science. He
wrote that the sociologist “must feel himself in the presence of
facts governed by laws as unsuspected as those of life before the
science of biology was evolved” (Durkheim, 1982, 55). This
 Continuation of the Genealogy 81

language is reminiscent of Comte, but Durkheim strove to apply

the tenets of science in a search for fundamental laws of society.
His nomological approach necessitated a forbearance of individ-
ual phenomena only insofar as, collectively, they constitute social
phenomena. Moreover, social phenomena were to be viewed
objectively.
Herein is perhaps the most important and enduring legacy of
Durkheim. The sociologist, as a scientist, was required by him to
be a neutral observer of social facts; in that neutrality was the
sociologist’s objectivity. But the concept of objectivity did not
end there. The social fact, as a thing, was viewed as an objective
phenomenon. The social fact, in such a conception, is no different
from a physical fact—atomic weight, molarity, solubility, etc.
Social phenomena are reduced in Durkheim’s method to data,
and Durkheim says as much.

A thing is in effect all that is given, all that is offered, or rather

forces itself upon our observation. To treat phenomena as
things is to treat them as data [emphasis in original], and this
constitutes the starting point for science. Social phenomena
unquestionably display this characteristic. What is given is not
the idea that men conceive of value, because that is unattain-
able; rather it is the values actually exchanged in economic
transactions. . . . Social phenomena must therefore be
considered in themselves, detached from the conscious beings
who form their own mental representations of them.
(Durkheim, 1982, 69-70)

This objectification of social phenomena was a foundation of

Durkheim’s method for sociology as a nascent science, and indeed
of his positivist science generally.
The impact of Durkheim’s method has not gone unnoticed.
Jennifer Lehmann addresses his adherence to the language and
method of science: “Through his insistence that social reality is
part of nature, Durkheim sets the stage for the more radical claim
that social reality is like natural reality, that social forces are like
natural forces. Durkheim’s terminology is the terminology of the
natural sciences: determinism, causality, necessity [emphasis in
original]” (Lehmann, 1993, 59). Note the observation that
82 Chapter Two

Durkheim’s program is deterministic. Durkheim believed that the

answer to questions of society lay in ascribing causes to observ-
able effects. His belief did not end there; it extended to verifying
that the same causes are invariably ascribable to the same effects.
Anthony Giddens claims that Durkheim has been the progenitor
of most of the positivist sociology of the twentieth century
(Giddens, 1977, 36-40). If I might be permitted to speculate, I
would say that a fundamental reason for Durkheim’s attractive-
ness is the strong claim of objectivity (in both of the senses noted
above) that he makes. The attractiveness is not sufficient to
counter the error of the strong claim of objectivity. Christopher
Bryant offers a cogent counter to the claim:

Now it is true that a thermometer recording eliminates the

individual’s subjective estimations of heat and that legal rules,
etc., have an existence independent of any particular individual,
but it is nonsense to suggest that physicists derive their concept
[emphasis in original] of heat from thermometer readings any
more than they do from sense impressions, or that legal rules
present themselves to sociologists as sense data. Durkheim
confused natural phenomena which exist independently of
human conceptions of them, and social phenomena, which exist
independently of individual manifestations, and called them
both “objective”; and he supposed that in each case this
objectivity is such to make possible the formation of concepts
directly from sense perception when his own examples show
that it is not. (Bryant, 1985, 37)

Bryant’s argument accurately points out the flaw of believing

that social phenomena are sense data. He succinctly uncovers the
mistake of equating an object and one’s concept of what the
object is, of the idea of the object. The problem that is at the
heart of this book goes deeper than that, however. Up to this
point we have seen how many thinkers have conceived of science
and the extent of science as embracing all knowledge. We have
seen how many of these thinkers have founded their ideas and
theories in the natural sciences and translated them into the
realm of the human and the social. What we have yet to see is
precisely why this is mistaken and how easy it is to fall into the
 Continuation of the Genealogy 83

trap of deterministic scientism. Theodor Adorno puts his finger

on the problem:

Disciplines and modes of thought are not justified by their mere

existence but rather their limit is prescribed for them by the
object. Paradoxically, the empirical methods, whose power of
attraction lies in their claim to objectivity, favour the subjec-
tive—and this is explained by their origins in market research.
... In general, the objectivity of empirical social research is an
objectivity of the methods, not of what is investigated. (Adorno,
Lab)

We will return to this essential matter when the discussion

focuses on the operational philosophy of library and information
science. It is easy to mistake what is being studied for the method
applied to the study, especially if certain specific methods are
employed.
As we enter the twentieth century the genealogy accelerates
the branching that began in the late nineteenth century. The
occurrence of the branching is not surprising; from the late 1800s
on we have seen a rapid growth in the enterprise of research that
has been concomitant with the fragmentation of disciplines and
the rise of the professions. What do I mean by the fragmentation
of the disciplines? In the nineteenth century a number of
thinkers, including many mentioned here, turned their attention
to society—its compositions, its-structure, its behavior, etc. At the
same time many others focused on the natural sciences. Into this
century inquiry has become much more targeted, with scholars
and researchers defining realms of inquiry more and more
narrowly. In the sciences, the narrowing process has been
associated with, if not resultant from, the ability to examine
physical phenomena in greater detail. For instance, physics
has branched into a number of subdisciplines, such as
chromothermodynamics, nuclear physics, condensed matter
physics, electrodynamics, quantum mechanics, and others. In the
social sciences, the narrowing has been associated with more
specific questions regarding human behavior and society. With
the branching has come a more complicated family tree, in the
sense that the line of thought that has been traced thus far has
84 Chapter Two

had some influence in many of the emerging disciplines and sub-

disciplines.

Language and the Genealogy

Before returning to the effects of the genealogy and determin-

istic scientism on the social sciences generally, some attention
must be paid to a movement that exerted a profound influence on
philosophy, the philosophy of science, and the social sciences for
a number of years. In the early part of this century the focus of
some thinkers began to incorporate work in an emerging
discipline—linguistics. The adherents of this movement took a
cue from a few sources that took a different look at language. The
first such look at language to be dealt with here was, essentially,
a reformulation of linguistics—Ferdinand de Saussure’s Course in
General Linguistics (Saussure, 1966), published posthumously in
1916. Saussure’s Course was not completely or overtly determinis-
tic or positivistic, but it did share characteristics with Durkheim’s
sociology. Most notable, as Jonathan Culler points out, is a
conception of language as social fact (Culler, 1986, 62-63). Culler
asserts that one connection between Durkheim and Saussure is
that social facts are objective. Saussure’s linguistics, to a lesser
extent than does Durkheim’s sociology, depends on a method
that is founded on the possibility of objective analysis. Saussure’s
linguistics aimed at the discovery of the fundamental structure of
language; in the aftermath of the appearance of his Course his
linguistics has been dubbed structuralist. This approach to
linguistics has influenced other disciplines, such as literary theory
and anthropology. The disciplinary stances that have derived
from structural linguistics have tended to stress a search for
underlying laws more strongly than did Saussure.

As is the case with almost all of the individuals discussed,

Saussure certainly contributed many valuable ideas.
Saussure, along with Charles Sanders Peirce, helped to
 Continuation of the Genealogy 85

establish a framework for semiotics, the study of signs.

Such a study need not be deterministic. Umberto Eco
clarifies Peirce’s conception of semiotics, which empha-
sizes action, the combination of a sign, its object (what
the sign signifies), and its interpretant (Eco, 1976, 15-
16). This idea of semiotics embraces the role of the
knowing and interpreting subject.

The philosophy of language was the focus of the earliest work

of Ludwig Wittgenstein. In his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, first
published in 1921, he proposed a foundation for an analytical
approach to language. While a direct link with Saussure is
elusive, the concerns of Wittgenstein in the Tractatus coincide
with many of Saussure’s in his Course. Of most relevance to the
genealogy are his remarks regarding the logic of propositions. In
particular, his analysis was focused on the ability of language to
embody or convey, through such perceptible signs as the written
word, meaningful communication. Communication, to be
meaningful, must be based on what Wittgenstein called “facts”;
that is, that words (signs) refer to objects. In short, Wittgenstein
attempted to remove the metaphysical from the analysis of
language and from the construction of propositions. If a
proposition strayed from object, then it made no sense. “Most
propositions and questions, that have been written about
philosophical matters, are not false, but senseless. We cannot,
therefore, answer questions of this kind at all, but only state their
senselessness. Most questions and propositions of the
philosophers result from the fact that we do not understand the
logic of our language” (Wittgenstein, 1990, 63). In his later
works, all of which were published posthumously, Wittgenstein
recanted these early ideas. Nonetheless (perhaps due to
propitious timing as much as anything else), the concepts in the
Tractatus were influential (along with Saussure’s linguistics to a
somewhat lesser extent, and Principia Mathematica by Bertrand
Russell and Alfred North Whitehead to an equal extent) in the
formulation of logical positivism.
86 Chapter Two

Logical Positivism

Logical positivism (or logical empiricism) is the most famous,

or infamous, manifestation of deterministic scientism. The
disciplinary branching just noted is, in a sense, illustrated in this
philosophical movement. Rather than depicting the splits
experienced in the epistemological paths of several disciplines,
though, logical positivism demonstrates the branching by
allowing a convergence of members of several disciplines into the
movement. Representatives from philosophy, physics, mathemat-
ics, and sociology contributed to the theoretical foundation of the
school of thought. A great deal has been written about logical
positivism from the time of its first articulation to the present. It
is not the intention here to present a lengthy exegesis of its
philosophical tenets, but some description is essential to the
genealogy. It is essential because logical positivism was not
without antecedents; it is, in fact, clearly descended from the
totality of precursors we have dealt with to this point. It is also
essential because logical positivism was a considerable force in
philosophy for a few decades and because its influence lives
on—either directly through the writing of it adherents, or
indirectly as a link in the long line of deterministic
scientism—particularly in the social sciences.

The Vienna Circle

The movement began in the 1920s as a group of individuals

who found commonality in both the kinds of questions they
sought answers to and the means of answering the questions.
These individuals, of whom Moritz Schlick was most prominent
in the early days, became known as the Vienna Circle. The group
included A. J. Ayer, Rudolf Carnap, Otto Neurath, Kurt Gédel,
and Hans Hahn, among others. Their acknowledged intellectual
ancestors explicitly included Hume, Comte, Mill, and Spencer, as
well as Russell, Whitehead, and Wittgenstein. The Vienna Circle
itself lasted for only a decade or so (the encroachment of Nazism
was largely responsible for dispersing its members), but, as a
philosophical school, it lasted into the 1950s. Part of the
 Continuation of the Genealogy 87

influence of the movement was due to the intellectual breadth of,

and respect commanded by, its members. Another contributory
factor was the importance of the questions they addressed. Most
especially, the logical positivists sought to respond to philosophi-
cal questions through the analysis of the language, the syntax, of
the questions themselves and, then, their potential answers. One
consistent means of defining the question and its answers is a
reliance on experience, on what can be empirically verified, what
can be true to all who experience a certain phenomenon. The
importance of empiricism to logical positivism is almost encom-
passing; it is at the root of much of the thinking that is central to
logical positivism.
One way that experience affects the construction of logical
positivism is in its rejection of the metaphysical. This rejection is
not new in the genealogy; this is one element of logical positiv-
ism’s strong link to the tradition of deterministic scientism. The
rejection of the metaphysical is made explicit by Carnap in his
essay “The Elimination of Metaphysics through Logical
Analysis of Language” (Carnap, 1959a). In that essay Carnap
maintained that any metaphysical statements are “pseudo-
sentences”; that is, they either include words which have no
concrete meaning or take meaningful words and put them
together in such a way as to violate rules of syntax so that the
sentence containing the words has no meaning. The question
addressed by logical positivism is: How can it be shown that a
sentence is meaningful? The simplified answer is that the
meaning can be verified. One means of verification is experience;
there can be specific empirical criteria that can be applied to the
sentence. The agreement of experience (the vast majority of
people experiencing the same thing) may be one possible
criterion. Another means is verification through logic, through the
method of formal logic which might be employed to indicate the
internal agreement of a sentence (that the rules of grammar and
syntax are not violated) and agreement with that which has
previously been verified. Those sentences which cannot pass these
tests lie in the realm of the metaphysical and, according to logical
positivism, are meaningless. Verification is a hallmark of the
movement’s theoretical foundation.
88 Chapter Two

Unified Science

Another aspect of the logical positivist stance is the quest for

unified science. In Carnap’s conception, one basis for the unity
of science was experience. Experience, as Carnap has attempted
to demonstrate, is an element of the formal analysis that is part
of every discipline. Logical analysis was, for him, the thread that
constituted a commonality, regardless of the field of endeavor or
question. He wrote,

There are not different sciences with fundamentally different

methods or different sources of knowledge, but only one
[emphasis in original] science. All knowledge finds its place in
this science and, indeed, is knowledge of basically the same
kind; the appearance of fundamental differences between the
sciences are the deceptive result of our using different sub-
languages to express them. (Carnap, 1959b, 144)

Neurath took the idea of a unified language being part of unified

science a bit further. This language, according to Neurath, was
physicalist; it was placed in space and time and both subject to
and expressive of physical laws (Neurath, 1959, 186-87). The
logical positivism movement, and particularly Neurath, envi-
sioned the creation of the International Encyclopedia of Unified
Science. While the Encyclopedia was never fully realized, the
philosophical foundation of the project embodied an openly
reductionist claim. All disciplines are reducible to the physical.
This notion has been challenged by many since its articulation.
Oswald Hanfling provides a succinct and direct objection to its
inclusiveness: “It does not follow that [connections between the
language used in various branches of knowledge] must all be of
one kind or that there must be a homogeneous class of terms to
which others are reducible” (Hanfling, 1981, 113).
The claims of logical positivism held a definite attraction,
especially to the then-burgeoning social sciences. (The attraction
is not a new one; philosophers down the years found the lure of
deterministic scientism strong enough to seek its application in
fields of study beyond the natural sciences.) The notion that
propositions can be verified suggests that there can be an
 Continuation of the Genealogy 89

affirmation of truth claims. The belief in laws governing phenom-

ena hints at causation and an underlying foundation for social, as
well as physical, phenomena.

[The logical positivists] proposed a theory of meaning that

showed how scientific discourse was grounded in sensory
experience and thus certain to be meaningful. They provided an
account of explanation that used deduction to show how
particular events could be explained by laws and an account of
confirmation that showed how particular events provided
evidence for the laws that were developed. Finally, they showed
how the laws of each science could be unified into axiomatic
structures and ultimately grounded in a unified account of
nature. (Bechtel, 1988, 29)

The attractiveness, however, could not overcome the numerous

objections to the logical positivist program. The collapse of the
system was evident when even its adherents began hedging their
positions. Ayer wrote, “A proposition is said to be verifiable, in
the strong sense of the term, if, and only if, its truth could be
conclusively established in experience. But it is verifiable, in the
weak sense, if it is possible for experience to render it probable”
(Averni992) 31);

Challenges to Logical Positivism

The attack on verification got its start with Karl Popper, a

contemporary of those in the Vienna Circle and one who
conversed with many of their number. Popper refused to accept
the verification principle; he claimed that inductive inference is
impossible, so there could be no logical basis for verification by
experience. Inductive inference begins with a general truth claim
and asserts statements about particular instances. For instance,
for the claim, “All swans are white” to be verifiable, we would
have to have observed the color of all swans that ever existed and
observe the color of all swans to come. Popper sought to replace
confirmation (which would be necessary for verification) with
corroboration. In the most important sense, Popper’s use of
corroboration means “not falsified”; in other words, a hypothesis
90 Chapter Two

or truth claim has not yet been shown to be false. This idea
implies that there is a perpetually ongoing search and that we
learn, we know more, by coming to an understanding of both the
exploratory process and the system of finding that result from
inquiry. As Popper said,

Science is not a system of certain, or well-established, state-

ments; nor is it a system which steadily advances towards a
state of finality... . The advance of science is not due to the
fact that more and more perceptual experiences accumulate in
the course of time. Nor is it due to the fact that we are making
ever better use of our senses. Out of uninterpreted sense-
experiences science cannot be distilled, no matter how industri-
ously we gather and sort them. Bold ideas, unjustified anticipa-
tions, and speculative thought, are our only means for interpret-
ing nature: our only organon, our only instrument, for grasping
her. (Popper, 1965, 278-80)

The attack on logical positivism itself intensified under W. V.

Quine. Quine examined the logic of the central beliefs of the
movement and found it wanting. In particular, he pointed out
errors in the notion of logical analysis that Carnap and others
propounded. He writes,

[I]t becomes folly to seek a boundary between synthetic

statements, which hold contingently on experience, and analytic
statements, which hold come what may. Any statement can be
held true come what may, if we make drastic enough adjust-
ments elsewhere in the system. Even a statement very close to
the periphery can be held true in the face of recalcitrant
experience by pleading hallucination or by amending certain
statements of the kind called logical laws. (Quine, 1980, 43)

He also dispatches the principles of reductionism on similar

grounds; for truth to be ascertained a phenomenon would have
to be subject, not only to the sense experiences of the questioner,
but also to the sense experiences of all humankind. The attacks
prompted Ayer to admit that the Vienna Circle “thought that
they had succeeded, where Kant had failed, in finding a way ‘to
set philosophy upon the sure path of a science.’ This end has not
 Continuation of the Genealogy 91

been attained: it may, indeed, be unattainable” (Ayer, 1959; 9-

10). Later in his life Ayer admitted, “I suppose the most impor-
tant of the defects [in logical positivism] was that nearly all of it
was false” (quoted in Hanfling, 1986, 261).
Philosophers mark the death of logical positivism with
Quine’s objections to the logical and analytical stance of the
movement. Those aspects of logical positivism that made it
unique—language as a manifestation of formal logic, the principle
of verification—were indeed discredited by the mid-1950s. The
demise of this particular philosophical school of thought should
in no way be interpreted as an end to deterministic scientism.
The elements that logical positivism shared with the rest of the
genealogy continued and continue to live on. Part of the logical
positivist program lived on in the writings of some of its earliest
proponents. Carl Hempel collected a number of his essays for a
volume published in 1965. In one essay, “The Function of
General Laws in History,” originally published in 1942, he wrote
that “general laws have quite analogous functions in history and
in the natural sciences, that they form an indispensable instru-
ment of historical research, and that they even constitute the
common basis of various procedures which are often considered
as characteristic of the social in contradistinction to the natural
sciences” (Hempel, 1965, 231). Hempel remained steadfast in his
notions regarding explanation and retained the nomological
approach (the reliance on the uncovering of general laws from
empirical observation) and the assumption that the natural
sciences and the human sciences are fundamentally consanguine-
ous.

Latter-Day Positivists

The debate concerning positivism still occupies the pages of

journals. Sometimes the literature keeps the issue alive by
including anti-positivist papers, intended to illustrate precise
errors in positivist thinking. The presence of so many items
denouncing positivism suggests that it yet has some vitality as a
mode of thought or operation. This literature is far too volumi-
nous to deal with here (and it is not necessary to subject the
OZ Chapter Two

reader to the bulk of this literature), but a couple of works can be

used as indications of the nature of debate and analysis. Bernd
Baldus, for example, examines the promises offered by positivism
and finds that little has been accomplished by that program.
Nonetheless, positivism has a hold on much of the work in
sociology. Baldus writes,

Two decades ago, positivists on one side confronted Marxist

and hermeneutic critics on the other. Accusations of dogmatism
and unscientific research met charges of conservatism and
misguided empiricism. The outcome, if one can assess it so
briefly, was a politically deeply divided discipline. Positivist
sociology has taken firm charge of sociology departments and
major journals in the United States. (Baldus, 1990, 150)

In reply to Baldus, Gerhard Lenski counters that

The heart of [positivism]—and the one element that has

persisted unaltered from the Comtean period—is the belief that
scientific knowledge must be based on, tested by, and grounded
in sensory experience, directly or indirectly (as with the use of
the electron microscope or images transmitted by telescopes in
space), and that neither intuition, logical reasoning, moral
imperatives, or divine revelation can substitute for this. This
has been the primary article of faith on which the whole of
modern science rests. (Lenski, 1991, 188)

Lenski’s statement is not so much a rejoinder to Baldus’s

criticisms as it is a methodological assertion of some of the
natural sciences. I say some because many theoretical scientists
might well take issue with Lenski’s blanket definition. Even in the
natural sciences there is the problem (which is not trivial) of the
equation of the measurement by instrumentation and direct
sensory experience.
The debate, as characterized by Baldus and Lenski, centers on
two principal points: definition—even where there is agreement
on the definitions of concepts, the agreement can be violent; and
the notion of the social sciences as a branch of the natural
sciences. The former point results in less-reasoned disagreements;
there is usually less dispute about the definitions of terms than
 Continuation of the Genealogy 93

about the appropriateness of the terms in specific contexts. The

latter point is the more contentious and is probably the single
most pivotal issue in the debate today. In much of the rhetoric
the matter is reduced to claims regarding the determination of
causality and predictions of the future from the present. Adher-
ents to a deterministic stance argue for both of these possibilities
and opponents frequently argue against them. Omitted from
much of the discourse is the observation by Baldus that “The
complexity of social processes, acknowledged by most authors,
raises the prospect of a potentially infinite causal regress. Causal
explanation of the kind advocated by positivist sociology neces-
sarily requires choice and simplification, and the omission of a
large part of the variables that caused an event under study”
(Baldus, 1990, 157). Complexity can confound efforts to predict,
and sometimes to explain, human and social phenomena.
This, in effect, concludes the exploration of the genealogy of
thought. Admittedly, the present discussion does not include every
thinker or writer, nor does it include every articulation of deter-
ministic scientism. It does, I hope, illustrate that there has been
a line of thinking that has been transmitted, albeit with some
evolutionary changes, over nearly five hundred years. The roots
of some present-day thought extend back at least as far back as
Bacon and Baconianism. In the next chapter an extension of the
genealogy will be tackled. It is impossible to examine the philo-
sophical (and even the methodological) stance of library and
information science, and all of the social sciences, without
understanding the contemporary conception of science. The
genealogy presented here suggests that science is a unified entity
and that philosophy of science is characterized by agreement as
to purpose, approach, and method. As we will see, such is not the
case. There is considerable discussion regarding what science is,
what it does, how it is communicated, and what extrascientific
elements (such as political) it may possess. This is all fodder for
the discussion in chapter 3.
 Chapter Three

What Is Real?:
Science and Ideas of Reality

The preceding two chapters are an attempt to trace an intellectual

heritage. In the minds of some, the genealogy came to a culmina-
tion, for good or ill, with logical positivism. Those who maintain
a strong belief in the promise of science rarely invoke the word
positivism, but their behavior and some of their writings betray
an abiding fondness for those perceived characteristics of a stance
that seems to point to the perfectibility of knowledge. For them,
the lure of deterministic scientism suggests some ultimate answers
to enduring questions. Those who reject the notion of a transcen-
dent science that is equipped to provide the method that will lead
to an answer, if not the answer itself, to large questions see
tenacious vestiges of positivist principles. I began this book by
suggesting, and reiterate now, that a more encompassing episte-
mology has been a considerable force for centuries. At the risk of
being repetitious I will state again that this epistemology is
scientism. It is important at this juncture to emphasize that
scientism is no mere operational means or methodological
convenience. It is much more than that; it is a theory of knowl-
edge, its creation, and its growth. What I tried to accomplish in

95
96 Chapter Three

the first two chapters is to illustrate how, through time, scientism

has developed and endured as, for many, an epistemological
foundation, a fundamental intellectual stance on which inquiry
and praxis might be based.

Positivism Revisited

The most recent manifestation of deterministic scientism is

what is customarily called positivism. A number of commentators
adopt the term positivism to reflect a multifarious set of beliefs
and activities. As I mentioned at the outset of chapter 1, Michael
Harris, for instance, accuses positivism of shutting library and
information science off from the important questions and the
possibility of addressing those questions. As I also mentioned in
the first chapter, the strict constructions of positivism—those of
Saint-Simon, Comte, and the Vienna Circle—are specific
expressions of the more sweepingly dominant scientism. I do not
mean to imply that Harris, and many other writers, are wrong;
quite the contrary. As I hope to demonstrate, as those individuals
relate their observations on the specific characteristics and tenets
they ascribe to positivism, they are really describing the elements
of deterministic scientism. What we have, then, is the not
unfamiliar problem of linguistic inconsistency and categorical
uncertainty. Many have observed and critiqued the basic
structure of the epistemological stance of scientism; they just
happen to have referred to it as positivism. Because of the
vagaries of the term positivism, some writers have attacked the
critics of the epistemology on the grounds that they are not really
addressing the essential elements of either Comtean or logical
positivism. D. C. Phillips, for instance, illustrates that what is
called “positivism” is not a single school of thought or philosophi-
cal stance; there are differing intentions when the term is used in
different contexts (Phillips, 1983). As we will soon see, replacing
scientism for positivism enables us to examine, without the taint
of that imprecise label, the epistemological claims that must be
questioned.
Before turning to that concern it should be noted that, while
some philosophers have rung the death knell for positivism, it
 What Is Real? 97

certainly has not disappeared from the literature or from thought.

Moreover, positivism is not universally vilified. Some go farther
than a yearning for a simplified time when epistemological faith
could anchor itself in the promise of certainty proffered by a
deterministic scientism, a faith in the method and causal impera-
tive of science. Arthur Staats, for example, calls for a unified
positivism as the appropriate philosophical stance for psychology.
The goal of this stance is unified science, characterized by a
progressive mode of thought and action.

As progress occurred in finding common underlying principles,

the science endeavor took on an organized, consensual nature.
Competition become that of being first to solve problems,
rather than disagreement on fundamentals. The language of
discourse became consensual, as did the slate of problems to be
solved. Knowledge became more connected, simple, and
parsimonious, easier for the scholar and scientist. The science
became more directed, with more continuing, progressively
profound investigation in place of the former study of anything
that could be superficially justified. These are the characteristics
of modern unified science. (Staats, 1991, 900)

There is much to take issue with in Staats’s statements. The

first thing that many readers would dispute is the claim that there
has been progress (or even that progress is possible). Such a view,
however, would lean toward the nihilistic, and only some extreme
skeptics would deny the possibility of progress. Others, on the
other hand, might question any sweeping claim that science has
been responsible for progress in any but a rather narrowly applied
sense. The second thing that springs from the page is Staats’s
claim, made without a hint of irony, that science is based on
consensus. Many, myself included, would make the counter claim
that science is, by its nature, based on contention, on dispute.
Even Popper, the ultimate advocate of coming to knowledge by
means of conjecture and refutation, would be loath to go so far
out on a limb. There has been, and still is, disagreement over
fundamentals. One would need look no farther than the argu-
ments between strong evolutionary adaptationists, such as George
Williams and Richard Dawkins, and those who disagree with the
98 Chapter Three

encompassing nature of adaptationism, such as Stephen Jay

Gould and Richard Lewontin. Since there is no universal episte-
mic consensus, there is not, and there could not be, any linguistic
consensus. Staats appears to extend the rule of Occam’s Razor
(that, given two equally plausible solutions to a problem, the
simpler solution is preferable) to mean that there will always be
a simple solution, and that “science” will provide it.
In order to reach his conclusion, Staats must work through a
willful misreading of Merton and, especially, of Kuhn. Staats
extrapolates Kuhn’s observation and conclusions regarding
scientific discipline to psychology without a critical concern for
the object of study. He then urges psychology to move itself, as
a discipline, towards the respect and prestige accorded to science
by emulating science’s aspiration for a grand unified theory.

Psychology must achieve compact, parsimonious, interrelated,

and consensual knowledge to be considered to be a real science.
... Unificationism says that psychology must begin to make a
systematic investment in unification and that it could be
strengthened greatly by a well-developed field devoted to
weaving together, in many individual works, the endless
diversity the science produces. (Staats, 1991, 910)

(Such urgings are not uncommon to LIS.)

Shortly after the appearance of Staats’s article there was a
reaction to his recommendations for psychology. Less than a year
after his paper was published, American Psychologist included
letters by five individuals who responded to his call for a unified
positivism. None of the letter writers takes issue with the most
fundamental premise of the article—psychology is a nascent
science that needs to find a strategy for maturation so that it can
be accepted as coequal with the natural sciences. Four of the
respondents see unification (but not necessarily unified positiv-
ism) as an ideal, but disagree with particulars of Staats’s program.
One, Susan Schneider, makes it clear that she shares the scientis-
tic goal set forth by Staats. She writes that “unification of
psychology as a science surely must begin with the tacit under-
standing that a naturalistic approach will be taken to the subject
matter: For example, scientific methods will be used, existence of
 What Is Real? 99

the paranormal will not be assumed a priori, and the mind-body

problem will not be an issue in the ontological sense” (Schneider,
1992, 1056). Cartesian dualism (which addresses the mind-body
problem) is frequently negated, but it may be premature to
relegate it to the philosophical scrap heap without more compel-
ling arguments against it. From both Staats’s paper and the
responses it seems that scientism is viewed as a viable ambition
for at least some psychologists.
A bit of evidence that bolsters the observation that “positiv-
ist” thinking persists in many disciplines can be provided by the
fact that a number of writers continue to feel the need to counter
the arguments of such thinking. Donald McCloskey characterizes
the willingness of economists to embrace, uncritically, a “crude”
version of positivism:

An economist who uses ‘philosophical’ as a cuss word . . . and

does not regard philosophical argument as relevant to his
business will of course not reexamine the philosophy he lives
by, regardless of what is going on in the philosophy department.
Even grown-up economists, therefore, do not have an occasion
to rethink their youthful positivism. Economists young and old
still use the positivist way of thinking. (McCloskey, 1989, 226)

McCloskey’s observation is a very important one, and it is

applicable to LIS as well. (And I hope that librarians and
information professionals will not use “philosophical” as a cuss
word.) What McCloskey is calling for is reflexivity, self-examina-
tion. The need for reflexivity in fields such as economics and LIS
is rooted in practice. Effective practice is, consciously or not,
founded in particular ways of thinking and ways of conceiving
knowledge. This book, I hope, is an exercise in reflexivity.
David Smith critiques a specific articulation of the efficacy of
a positivist approach to the field of social work which advocates
a scientific formulation for study and research (Smith, 1987).
Not even history has been free from the lure of positivism (as
many readers already know). Joyce Appleby, Lynn Hunt, and
Margaret Jacob state that the desire to uncover laws, along the
lines of those propounded by science, has substantial roots in the
study of history. Further, contemporary work in history has not
100 Chapter Three

severed itself from those roots. “Explanatory history—the search

for the laws of historical development—was born in the nine-
teenth century: it bequeathed a powerful analytical tool useful to
all peoples trying to make sense of where they had been and what
they were becoming. Every history book available
today—including those about the ‘end of history’—reflects the
enduring power of that nineteenth-century vision of scientific
history” (Appleby, Hunt, and Jacob, 1994, 52). I offer these
examples to illustrate that the debates and concerns regarding
what has been called positivism have by no means disappeared in
the time since philosophers disavowed logical positivism. As I
promised earlier, it is time to show why we must move beyond
the constricted terminology of positivism.

What Characterizes Deterministic

Scientism

A number of commentators have offered compilations of

elements or claims that, they maintain, characterize positivism.
Most of the elements, though, are consistent with the genealogy
of thought chronicled in the first two chapters. The most
consistently applied, and most accurate, characteristics are those
that link the most fundamental tenets of the scientific tradition
to knowledge claims of all disciplines. The tenets are not entirely
consistent with any single conception of positivism but do
characterize the basis of scientism. It is necessary here to relate
some of the many litanies of fundamental elements of positivism.
An exploration of some of the lists will help us to consolidate
these essential characteristics of deterministic scientism.
One simple set of features is offered by Georg Henryk von
Wright. He limits the core elements of “positivism” to three.

One of the tenets of positivism is methodological monism, or

the idea of the unity of scientific method amidst the diversity
of subject matter of scientific investigation. A second tenet is
 What Is Real? 101

the view that the exact natural sciences, in particular mathemat-

ical physics, set a methodological ideal or standard which
measures the degree of development and perfection of all the
other sciences, including the [social sciences]. A third tenet,
finally, is a characteristic view of scientific explanation. Such
explanation is, in a broad sense, “causal”. It consists, more
specifically, in the subsumption of individual cases under
hypothetically assumed general laws of nature, including
“human nature.” (von Wright, 1971, 4)

The second tenet observed by von Wright has an obvious

connection to Comte and his classification of the sciences. As we
have already seen, however, the concept of classifying disciplines
(sciences) is even older than Comte. Hobbes’s effort at discerning
a hierarchy of sciences predates Comte’s by almost two hundred
years. This element has deep roots in the genealogy of scientific
thought. The third tenet has obvious deterministic implications.
If individual cases can be subsumed under covering laws, then the
identification of cases that can be similarly defined determines
that the same law applies to them. As Richard Miller notes, for
some the adherence to a covering law model constitutes “a
worship of natural science that serves a social interest in manipu-
lating people as if they were things” (Miller, 1987, 15). The
implications of Miller’s observation are profound; the idea and
actions of social Darwinism illustrate the negative impact of such
a belief. The deterministic link, if the critics are correct, is
unmistakable.
A similarly simple list of “epistemological assumptions,”
specifically of logical positivism, is offered by Martha Brunswick
Heineman. She points out that the particular incarnation of
positivism was a manifestation of a frequently expressed philo-
sophical goal of the twentieth century—the quest for certainty. As
indicated in chapter 2, this school of thought depends on a
premise of empiricism, not quite as strong as that of the
Baconians, but strong nonetheless. Heineman’s list of characteris-
tics centers on those things that are essential to scientific inquiry.
They are as follows:
102 Chapter Three

Correspondence rules (operational definitions)—. . . the belief

that, in order to preserve truth inherent in physical observa-
tions, concepts, and definitions (theory) must be tied to these
observations by logical operations. . . The symmetry thesis—
... explanation and prediction [are] formally the same thing.
... The business of science is the justification, not the discov-
ery, of theories— . . . scientific logic [is] deductive logic because
deductive logic [preserves] truth. . . . [T]he discovery of
hypotheses [is] not considered a process of logic but of psycho-
logical creativity. .. . Reductionism—If the logic of science
is deductive and _ if theories are merely abbreviations for
observations, it follows that complex theories should reduce
into simpler ones that are closer to basic observations.
(Heineman, 1981, 375-77)

With respect to the last item, there is a long history of unease

between theory and observation. The purest of empiricists, such
as Bacon, eschew theory entirely; those who are less extreme
claim that theory is just an expression of the consistency of
observations. In both cases there is a strong reluctance to accept
that some disciplines, and the language they use, may be theory-
laden. The logical positivists, as depicted by Heineman, are
presenting nothing new, in this regard, to the history of scientific
thought.

Claims of Positivism

Paul Tibbetts recognizes that the claims of logical positivism

are connected to Comtean positivism and Mill’s logic. He further
maintains that the claims of positivism are not merely an artifact
of the Vienna Circle; some aspects continue in sociology and
show no sign of disappearing despite the attention they receive in
the literature. The claims Tibbetts associates with positivism are:

(P.1) Explicit adoption of the deductive-nomological model of

explanation. . . . (P.2) The systematic and rigorous exclusion of
all metaphysical claims form the domain of genuine cognitive
assertions. . . . (P.3) Reductionism and the “unified language”
thesis. . . . (P.4) The verification doctrine concerning cognitive
 What Is Real? 103

significance. . . . (P.5) An operational definition of the empirical

concepts of science. . . . (P.6) The doctrine of phenomenalism
or that all empirical claims which purport to be genuine must
ultimately be grounded and verified by sensory observation.
... (P.7) The sharp dichotomy for [positivism] between factual
and normative questions. . . . (P.8) A sharp distinction is to be
drawn between the “context of discovery” and the “context of
verification and justification.” (Tibbetts, 1982, 185-87)

Some of these claims have been accepted as peculiar to the logical

positivism of this century. The verification principle, the hallmark
of logical positivism, is the element that might most clearly be
seen as unique to this incarnation of scientism. The belief in the
efficacy of science’s ability to realize truth is not a new one, but
the arrival of verification through semantics is indeed a twentieth-
century activity. Logical positivism’s hostility to metaphysics is
sometimes taken as original to that school of thought, but if we
recall Hume’s admonition against metaphysics, quoted in chapter
1, we see that this aspect has a lengthy heritage.
Christopher G. A. Bryant delves a bit deeper in time, back to
earlier expressions of positivism. He does not confine his con-
struction of a list of characteristics to a single source, since he sees
a complex of influential factors that evolved over a period of time.
Bryant focuses his attention on French positivism, as conceived
or adopted by Saint-Simon, Comte, and Durkheim, and how it
has had an enduring influence on sociology and social theory. He
identifies twelve tenets of French positivism:

1. There is but one world, and it has an objective existence.

... 2. The constituents of the world, and the laws which govern
their movements, are discoverable through science alone,
science being the only form of knowledge. Therefore that which
cannot be known scientifically, cannot be known. . . . 3. Science
depends upon reason and observation duly combined... .
4. Science cannot discover all the constituents of the world, and
all the laws which govern them, because human powers of
reason and observation are limited. Scientific knowledge will
remain for ever relative to the level of intellectual development
attained and to progress in the social organisation of science.
104 Chapter Three

... 5. What man seeks to discover about the world is normally

suggested by his practical interests and his situation... .
6. There are laws of historical development whose discovery will
enable the past to be explained, the present understood and the
future predicted. . . . 7. There are social laws which govern the
interconnections between different institutional and cultural
forms. .. . 8. Society is a reality sui generis. . . . 9. Social order is
the natural condition of society. . . . 10. Moral and political
choice should be established exclusively on a scientific basis.
... 11. The subjection of man before the natural laws of history
and society precludes evaluation of institutional and cultural
forms in any terms other than those of conformity with these
laws. . . . 12. The positive, the constructive, supersedes the
negative, the critical. The positive, the relative, also supersedes
the theological and the metaphysical, the absolute. (Bryant,
1985, 12-22)

Bryant recognizes that his list is an amalgamation, that no one

individual has ever embraced all twelve tenets, nor do these
aspects characterize all French sociological thought of the period.
He also emphasizes that the expression of positivism constitutes
a tradition, a flow through time from Saint-Simon to Durkheim,
and then beyond, although there are some differences between
the French positivism of the nineteenth century and the positiv-
ism of the Vienna Circle.

Positivism in LIS

In our own discipline Harris takes a hard look at the genesis

of research. The formal beginnings of research in, especially,
library science, came together as a reaction against the “concep-
tion of librarianship as a mechanical art.” At about the time of
the founding of the Graduate Library School (GLS) of the
University of Chicago in the 1920s there were strengthened calls
for a more scientific approach to the field (although the calls were
certainly not universal). Not accidentally, the lure of science as a
cure for the ills of an anemic research program was strongest at
the University of Chicago, where the influence of the Vienna
Circle was quite powerful throughout the institution. The
=

What Is Real? 105

intellectual underpinnings of research in LIS can be traced,

according to Harris, to the fact that graduates of the GLS
dispersed to most library education programs and constituted a
substantial portion of the faculties of those schools. The episte-
mology they tended to hold dear was, and is, characterized by a
particular set of beliefs:

1. Library science is a genuine, albeit young, natural science. It

follows then that the methodological procedures of natural
science are applicable to library science; that quantitative
measurement and numeration are intrinsic to the scientific
method; that epistemological issues are best treated with
respect to specific research questions; and that complex
phenomena can best be understood by reducing them to their
essential elements and examining the ways in which they
interact.
2. The library (broadly defined) must be viewed as a complex
of facts governed by general laws. The discovery of these laws
and theories is the principal objective of research.
3. The relation of these laws and theories to practice is essen-
tially instrumental. That is, once the laws and theories are in
place, we will be able to explain, predict, and control—i. e.,
produce a desired state of affairs by simply applying theoretical
knowledge.
4. The library scientist can and should maintain a strict “value-
neutrality” in his or her work. (Harris, 1986, 518)

The spread of GLS graduates to other schools as faculty served to

perpetuate the epistemology and create, in Harris’s view, an
intellectual hegemony.
I do not intend to dispute the observations of these critics of
positivism. The primary reason for the fruitlessness of dispute is
that each of these writers is concentrating on specific articulations
of positivism. Some of the features they specify have long
histories; others are more properly seen as developments of a
particular time and place. For instance, there are aspects of
French positivism that are outgrowths of the Revolution and are
steeped in post-Revolutionary politics. The stance of the Vienna
Circle members is, to some degree, a product of the state of
Western Europe between the world wars. It is likely that each of
106 Chapter Three

the individuals cited above has a particular literature or segment

of a literature in mind as they construct a list. The specific
characteristics manifested in social work are a bit different from
those apparent in sociology or library and information science.
There is one idea that does unify the conceptions of positivism,
and that links positivism explicitly with scientism. Jurgen
Habermas assesses philosophical positivism and finds it wanting:
“by making a dogma of the sciences’ belief in themselves,
positivism assumes the prohibitive function of protecting
scientific inquiry from epistemological self-reflection. Positivism
is philosophical only insofar as is necessary for the immunization
of the sciences against philosophy” (Habermas, 1971, 67). In this
sense positivism (scientism) is exclusionary; it admits to no rivals
and no doubts in the power of its claims (be that power of an
epistemic sort or a purely discursive sort). Those speaking from
a positivist, as well as from a scientistic, point of view do so with
an assumed authority that makes the reflexiveness Habermas
mentions unnecessary. We will return to this thought when we
look closely at specific works that embody a scientistic stance. For
now, we can look to the above lists for evidence of consistency
and agreement, and attempt to construct a single set of features
of deterministic scientism.

Scientism

Drawing from the aforementioned lists, keeping in mind the

genealogy of thought, and focusing on the most fundamental
aspect of scientism—the belief that the premises and methods of
the natural sciences offer the soundest road to truth—we can
arrive at a cohesive set of claims that lie at the heart of determin-
istic scientism. What follows is, to me at least, the most essential
and most consistent of such claims. This is not to say that
someone cannot identify other claims that have more limited
application or less central relevance, but these seem to be key.
The first of the claims is that a deductive-nomological approach
governs inquiry in any discipline that would aspire to be a
science. The claim embodies two concepts. The first is that the
logic of deduction is the most powerful tool in a discipline’s
 What Is Real? 107

methodological arsenal. This particular element is in opposition

_ to Baconianism and its reliance on induction, but is in keeping
_ with one line of thought in the genealogy—that knowledge flows
- from the theoretical, the general, to the practical, the particular.
Explicit in this element is the confidence that theory is monistic
(that is, that there is only one), and that it can provide the
totality of a context for inquiry. Further, this view holds that the
growth of knowledge lies in the confirmation of theories. As
Miller observes, “a theory is portrayed as a set of premises for
deductions of more directly observable phenomena; whether a
theory is acceptable depends on its playing this deductive role in
successful explanation” (Miller, 1987, 136). According to Miller
successful theory embodies its own confirmation through
empirical means. The second element of the claim is that the
purpose of deduction from theories is the discovery of explana-
tory laws. These laws are empirical, based on observation and,
ideally, cover all circumstances. A corollary purpose underlying
general laws is that they be predictive. In scientism, the
deductive-nomological approach necessitates treating humans as
if they were physical entities with purely physical properties.
Thus, theories can be constructed and tested empirically so as to
explain and predict, say, human behavior.
A second claim of scientism is reductionism; that is, all can be
reduced to a physical state. Mental activity, for instance, is
nothing more than brain, or neural, activity. Such an attitude is
extended to social phenomena as well; behavior is governed by
physical factors. There can be no denying that human behavior
is certainly influenced by human physiology, including both
normal physiology and physiological pathology. The reductionist
stance, however, asserts that the physical is the determining factor.
An extreme reductionist stance (which is rare) holds that the
physical is the only determining factor. Robert Trigg explicitly
links reductionism and determinism, specifically in the realm of
human behavior. He says, “Assuming that determinism is the
thesis that every event has a cause, a belief in determinism
embraces the claim that all human behavior is causally explica-
ble.” Trigg further recognizes that a belief in determinism is such
an unmitigating position that the belief itself is subsumed in the
108 Chapter Three

determinant. “Even the adoption of the belief in determinism is

the product of some causal chain, and those who advocate
determinism have to accept that their own commitment to it is
itself causally explicable” (Trigg, 1985, 172). He uses as an
example of the ineluctable link of reductionism with determinism
a particular work, Genes, Mind and Culture, by Charles J. Lumsden
and Edward O. Wilson. Lumsden and Wilson are sufficiently
confident in their strongly reductionist program that they can
assert that “all domains of human life, including ethics, have a
physical basis in the brain and are part of human biology,” and
“When the roots of ethics and motivation are fully exposed,
political science, economics and sociobiology can be more easily
uncoupled from the genetic and cultural biases of the specialists
who originate them” (Lumsden and Wilson, 1981, 181, 174). Of
course, if true, then the roots of knowledge would also have to
have a physical foundation. If their claims are extended, then the
conclusions of Lumsden and Wilson are, themselves, physically
determined. Reductionism, which necessarily implies that natural
and social explanations and predictions are the same, results in
the reification of social action, the translation of the mental into
the concrete and objective. Trigg further offers that “The extreme
materialist who says that ideas are unimportant is, in fact, in the
grip of an idea. Those who believe that society functions at a level
untouched by human understanding have to come to terms with
the irrelevance of their own understanding of this fact” (Trigg,
1985, 42).
Not unrelated to reductionism is the third scientistic claim,
phenomenalism. In the phenomenalist conception sensory
observation is the truest grounding for a claim or statement. Ernst
Mach, one of the most influential physicists of the late nine-
teenth and early twentieth centuries, refused, for much of his life,
to believe in existing atomic theories of matter since such
particles were impossible to observe at the time. This objectivity
of observation is tied to the notion of value-neutrality, mentioned
by Harris (and others), and usually rhetorically attributed to Max
Weber.
There is no doubt that Weber, particularly in The Methodology
of the Social Sciences, expressed his awareness that value judgment
 What Is Real? 109

and empiricism are necessarily separate. The phenomenalist claim

implies that it is possible for a researcher or teacher to adopt a
neutral stance with regard to the object of study and the re-
searcher’s (or teacher’s) own value judgments and value interpre-
tations. Weber’s own position has problematic aspects, as he
attempted to reconcile objectivity with human value judgment.
“In the empirical social sciences, as we have seen, the possibility
of meaningful knowledge of what is essential for us in the infinite
richness of events is bound up with the unremitting application
of viewpoints of a specifically particularized character, which, in
the last analysis, are oriented on the basis of evaluative ideas”
(Weber, 1949, 111). An interpretation of Weber has been that
it is possible to separate empirical investigation from human
evaluative means. Weber, however, presents a complex argument
against an objectivism that would demand the independence of
the observer and the observed.
The last two key claims of scientism are very closely related.
One is the unity of science, or methodological monism. This
means that the same goals and methods apply equally to all
sciences, including the social sciences. This concept is itself
reductionist; all disciplines, all means of inquiry can be reduced
to what amounts to an almost metaphysical appreciation of
science. Such an appreciation is paradoxical because the logical
positivists worked vigorously to realize a unified science, yet they
dismissed metaphysics as having no sense or being the antithesis
of physicalism. Physicalism extended to the social sciences;
human behavior was seen to be rooted in human biology (another
connection with reductionism). Unity of science, though, is a
conception that transcends any one articulation of scientism; it
permeates every notion of scientistic thought. For instance,
Habermas defines scientism as “science’s belief in itself: that is,
the conviction that we can no longer understand science as one
[emphasis in original] form of possible knowledge, but rather
must identify knowledge with science” (Habermas, 1971, 4).
(This last suggestion by Habermas is a striking one; it is so
powerful that we will have to explore it further in the context of
contending ideas of science.) When Harris writes of positivism
as the epistemological foundation of library and information
110 Chapter Three

science, he is acknowledging, consciously or not, that a more

pervasive scientism is defining knowledge and that there is
admission in the discipline of LIS that it is incapable of advanc-
ing knowledge except insofar as it is part of the unity of science.
Again, the idea of unity of science fits the ideal classifications of
knowledge set forth by Hobbes and Comte.
The last of the central claims of scientism is methodological
idealism, or the view that the natural sciences, most especially
physics, embody the degree of development and maturity to be
sought after by all disciplines. This is an aspect of scientism that
is frequently acknowledged. For instance, Andrew Sayer states
that a widely held assumption is that “The ‘soft’ sciences are
weak at prediction not because they deal with intrinsically
unpredictable objects but because they have not yet developed
theory and scientific methods” (Sayer, 1992, 130). The idealism
of the “scientific method” is also part of the belief that science
defines epistemology. Trigg observes that “methods developed by
the physical sciences for predicting and controlling the physical
environment are assumed to be the only ones available for
gaining knowledge in other areas” (Trigg, 1985, 114). Method-
ological idealism is based on a vital, but questionable, assump-
tion: there is a single unified scientific method.
To counter this assumption one can turn to a couple of
sources. One, chemist Henry Bauer, illustrates convincingly that
there are multiple methods at work in the sciences, each applied
to the questions that it is best fitted to answer. The other source,
and one that adherents to some claims of scientism may find
convincing, is Karl Popper, who also asserts that there is no such
thing as a single scientific method (Popper, 1983). The methods
employed in a primarily descriptive science differ considerably in
kind from those used in a primarily experimental science. Further,
Bauer realizes that the common concept of the scientific method
is an unattainable ideal, while still admitting that the ideal is a
worthwhile intellectual and ethical construct (Bauer, 1992). It
should be noted that the concept of methodological idealism is a
useful heuristic; it can help with many critiques of existing
methods in many disciplines.
 What Is Real? 111

If method is defined with sufficient vagueness, then the claim

of methodological idealism becomes at once more palatable and
more meaningless. It can also become more tenuous. Popper,
himself an anti-positivist, but one who is not altogether unsympa-
thetic to some aspects of scientism, states, “Labouring the
difference between science and the humanities has long been a
fashion, and has become a bore. The method of problem solving,
the method of conjecture and refutation, is practised by both. It
is practised in reconstructing a damaged text as well as in
constructing a theory of radioactivity” (quoted in Bryant, 1985,
178). It is not difficult to turn the tables on Popper in this regard
and say that the similarity between the sciences and the social
sciences (and humanities) is that their methods depend necessar-
ily on interpretive understanding, or hermeneutics. I cannot claim
originality for this thought but, as we will see, it becomes integral
to a reconception of epistemological grounding for LIS and the
social sciences generally.
We can summarize the fundamental scientistic tenets in
tabular form.

Table 3.1
Characteristics of Scientism

Claim Meaning

Deductive-Nomological The logic of deduction is the

Aspect only means of analysis and the
purpose is the discovery of
covering laws.

Reductionism Everything, even the mental and

the social, can be reduced to the
physical.

Phenomenalism Sensory observation is the tru-

est way to verify a claim or
statement.
112 Chapter Three

Methodological There is only one method and

Monism that is the method of the sci-
ences.

Methodological The method of the mature

Idealism sciences, such as physics, pro-
vide the ideal for all disciplines.
PoCocac 9 HOO AIH HHH HEHEHEHHHEHEHEHE
HEMHHHRIHHHHH HHIHHI HHHHI HIE HHH HTB IS I Se

Materialism

One particular expression of a scientistic stance which

embodies the aforementioned properties is materialism. I should
say that a particular form of materialism embraces the kinds of
scientistic elements just outlined; it is what Paul Moser and J. D.
Trout call “reductive materialism.” It may also be known by the
term “naturalism,” but, again, there are varieties of naturalism.
Reductive materialism holds “that every psychological property
is equivalent or identical to a conjunction of physical properties”
(Moser and Trout, 1995, 5). Moreover, they observe that this
form of materialism can be identified with the specific kind of
scientism I speak of here: “Historically, many materialists have
held that causes in question must be deterministic. A system is
deterministic, roughly speaking, if its state at any time is a
necessary consequence of its states at an earlier time conjoined
with the laws of nature” (Moser and Trout, 1995, 11). A
proponent of this position is David Armstrong, who suggests the
following argument, based on the notion that everything is
phenomenal:

1 The cause of all human (and animal) movements lies solely

in physical processes working solely according to the laws of
physics.
2 Purposes and beliefs, in their character of purposes and
beliefs, cause human (and animal) movements.
3 Purposes and beliefs are nothing but physical processes
working solely according to the laws of physics. (Armstrong,
1995, 42)
 What Is Real? 113

Not everyone, of course, is sympathetic to Armstrong’s argument.

Donald Davidson says that “Mental events such as perceivings,
rememberings, decisions, and actions resist capture in the
nomological net of physical theory. . . . [T]here are no strict
deterministic laws on the basis of which mental events can be
predicted and explained” (Davidson, 1995, 107-8). The foregoing
does serve to illustrate that deterministic scientism is far from
being a distant dream; it has vitality among philosophers, and
probably more strength among others, such as social scientists.
At this point I want to insure that there are no misunder-
standings about my stance regarding the claims of scientism.
First, deterministic scientism is an extreme position, one that
depends on the adoption of absolutist claims. The five claims just
mentioned do constitute an absolutist position. The quarrel I
have with scientism is the unyielding absolute assertion that it is
the means of defining knowledge and its growth. There are aspects
of the claims that not only have appeal, but are compelling in a
less absolute, more open, epistemological stance. For instance,
Harold Kincaid says that “there is little reason to think physics
shows there is a logic of confirmation, a single scientific method,
as sharp distinction between laws and accidental generalizations,
or that all adequate sciences are ultimately reducible to physics”
(Kincaid, 1994, 111). Even given this statement, he defends the
possibility of social scientific laws. His defense rests on an
absence, however; law is not adequately or completely defined, so
we do not know fully what constitutes a law. In actuality, and
Kincaid does explain this dilemma, the concept of law, even in a
discipline like physics, is problematic. For one thing, laws are
usually conditional, expressed under the condition of ceteris
paribus (all other things being equal or constant, which assumes
that only specific independent and dependent variables might
change and other factors do not). This condition considerably
changes the conception of laws and forces a reconsideration of the
possibility, and utility, of such laws in the social sciences.
Each of the other claims can be softened so that the effect is
not that of an absolute requirement for knowledge. As I said
earlier, it is undeniable that an individual’s physiological state
can have an effect on his or her mental state. The absolute claim
114 Chapter Three

asserts that the physiological state invariably determines the mental

state. The examples illustrate that it is neither possible nor
desirable to adopt an opposingly absolute position; rather, we
should realize and understand that the problem of knowledge, in
LIS or any other discipline, is a complex one. It is also essential
to realize, as Habermas tells us, that scientism reduces epistemol-
ogy to methodology and, in so doing, shrouds the actual makeup
of the world and of experience. Knowledge itself becomes
irrational in that it is assumed that knowledge accurately
describes reality (Habermas, 1971, 68-69). Method is not a
substitute for knowledge, although scientism asserts that it is.
This said, it is also undeniable that science has a measure of
power and influence over non- and quasi-scientific disciplines. It
is imperative that we explore in some depth the competing
conceptions of science and scientific practice.

Science and Ideas of Reality

This section heading may well strike some as odd, since it

seems to call into question whether there is anything we can call
reality. It is certainly not the intention here to assert that there
is no such thing as reality. However, this is one of the most
heated areas of discussion among philosophers and sociologists of
science. The contention is focused on whether there is anything
that can exist apart from our mental conception of it. The
position held regarding this issue carries important implications
for the way one conceives knowledge and the concomitant ways
of structuring inquiry and practice. In other words, the stance
taken on the matter of science as defining or discovering reality
tends to be indicative of the manner of conceiving the nature of
the object of study and the methods used to study those objects.
The weight of such a stance can strike at the heart of study in all
of the social sciences. The import of the implications is evident
when we consider the advice given by Abraham Kaplan in a work
that has been very influential in many social science disciplines
for a number of years: “The unity of science is more than an
abstract philosophical thesis; it marks the ever-present potential-
 What Is Real? 115

ity of fruitful unions. It is in this sense that all the sciences,

whatever their subject-matter, are methodologically of one
species: they can interbreed” (Kaplan, 1964, 31). For there to be
interbreeding, for there to be one method, there must be unity of
conception; there has to be agreement on what, exactly, is the
nature of what is examined.
Perhaps a more pertinent rationale for the examination that
will follow is the presence of some arguments within the LIS
literature in favor of viewing LIS as essentially the same as all of
the physical sciences. A few examples illustrate this point. Some
years ago, in a book intended to be a primer for research in LIS,
Herbert Goldhor stated that science provides, not only the best,
but the sole means to gaining knowledge. He further said that
one hallmark of scientific research, testing hypotheses by
quantitative means, is the way to get to the truth of any relation-
ship between or among variables (Goldhor, 1972). This is a very
strong claim, but it is shared by some others. Terrence Brooks
agreed with Goldhor and urged the adoption of the methods and
even the epistemology of the physical sciences. He said that
“Information researchers are just now struggling to codify
concepts and agree on units of measurement. There is hope that
information science will coalesce into a science at some future
point” (Brooks, 1989, 248). Implicit in his statement is the
notion that a discipline can evolve from whatever state it is in at
a given point in time into a “science.” Lloyd Houser and Alvin
Schrader issued a call for the transformation of the profession
through the transformation of education. The proper grounding
for librarianship and education for the profession is science
(Houser and Schrader, 1978).
All of the writers just mentioned seem to confuse a very
important distinction that Ian Hacking offers. What is studied in
all disciplines may be categorized as to “kind.” The LIS writers
above assume that “objects” of study, usually human beings and
their actions, are of what Hacking calls the “indifferent” kind. An
indifferent kind is not aware or self-conscious; it is not necessarily
passive (e.g., plutonium is not passive; it can kill), but it does not
choose what it can be. Contrast this with “interactive” kinds,
which are self-conscious and are affected by descriptions and
116 Chapter Three

classifications (e.g., someone may be affected by the ways that

having a disability may be conceived or described) (Hacking,
1999, 103-5).
There is, by no means, universal agreement with the positions
just summarized, but the arguments are persuasive to many. It is
evident that the aforementioned writers, and many within LIS,
have been influenced, explicitly or tacitly, by ideas circulating
among philosophers and sociologists of science, as well as among
scientists. These ideas have to do with the fundamental concep-
tion of the universe and everything in it. In the absence of
universal agreement there is, and has been for a few decades, a
debate over how to conceive of the world around us. If the debate
is oversimplified, it could be seen as divided into two
factions—realism and relativism. Such an oversimplification,
however, does a serious disservice to the variations in thought
regarding the world and our place in it. To reiterate, the positions
held by some of the principals in the debate have exerted
influence over social science and LIS. The influence is certainly
not absolute; thought and practice in LIS can be an uneasy
mixture of various beliefs. To a considerable extent, though, the
prevailing influence is a manifestation of deterministic scientism.
We need to have a very clear understanding of the complexities
of the debate. And we need to realize that the debate, as an
exercise in persuasion, may not be an objective examination of
the foundations of science; there is a social element that pervades
the debate itself. As Steve Fuller says, the debate “is a political
battle over who has the right to speak for, or ‘represent,’ science,
with all the benefits that are understood to accrue to its represen-
tative” (Fuller, 1993, 12).

Realism

The stance that appears to have held sway in much social

science thought is that of realism. Menas Kafatos and Robert
Nadeau offer what they see as the prevailing view of scientists:
“Science in our view, and in the view of virtually all physical
scientists, is, first of all, a rational enterprise committed to
 What Is Real? 117

obtaining knowledge about the actual character of physical

reality” (Kafatos and Nadeau, 1990, 3). The actual reality to
which they refer can be defined in at least a couple of different
ways, and the differences are vital to a conception of reality and
a stance that would call itself realism. One version of realism we
can call metaphysical realism, which holds that there are things
that exist independently of our mental representations of them.
Any metaphysical claim to realism is, as John Searle points out,
an ontological theory (a theory of being), not a theory of knowl-
edge. This may seem a fine point, but in a later chapter, in the
discussion of epistemology, the discussion will prove to be
important. For instance, consistent with metaphysical realism
would be the belief that if there were no human beings on earth
the mountain ranges, lakes, and oceans would still exist. Of
course such a stance makes sense, and, in the example just given,
we can agree that there are such entities because we can eventu-
ally observe them. A person who has never seen an ocean
firsthand can still believe that oceans exist, and can travel to one
to substantiate that belief. Perhaps more to the point, strong
realism seeks to find a place for everything and to put everything
in its place. According to Ronald Giere, realism is thus akin to set
theory in mathematics: “Reality is conceived of as consisting of
discrete objects, sets of discrete objects, sets of sets of objects, sets
of ordered pairs of objects, and so on. True statements are those
that describe objects as belonging to the sets to which they in fact
belong” (Giere, 1999, 78). A strong version of realism, and the
version most often dubbed scientific realism, holds that
unobservable physical things exist independently of the mental.
The belief in the physicality of the unobservable is the
metaphysical aspect of this stance. It is decidedly at odds with
logical positivism, which tried (unsuccessfully) to remove the
metaphysical from all consideration. It is also incompatible with
earlier positivist, and broader scientistic, propositions. Recall that
one of the tenets of deterministic scientism is phenomenalism,
which holds that knowledge claims must be grounded in sensory
experience. The example used earlier was that of Ernst Mach who
denied atomistic theories of matter because atoms, at that time,
were not observable. Most practicing scientists, even if they
118 Chapter Three

haven’t given formal thought to metaphysical realism, behave as

though unobservable entities are real. If they didn’t, there would
be far fewer interesting and potentially fruitful scientific theories.
A mitigated position is that of epistemological realism, which
suggests that observable things exist independently of our represen-
tations of them. In these versions of realism there inheres the
central idea that physical reality is extra-human; it exists regard-
less of our knowledge of it (in the case of epistemological realism)
or our ability to know it (in the case of metaphysical realism).
The first of the two, the existence of objects regardless of our
knowledge of them, implies that we can know something of these
objects. These objects are referred to by Roy Bhaskar as “the
intransitive objects of knowledge” (Bhaskar, 1975, 21). This is
opposed to transitive objects of knowledge, which include the
theories, hypotheses, models, methods, and technologies (in
short, the human interventions) used by humans to inquire into
the intransitive objects. On the face of it, Bhaskar’s division not
only makes sense, but seems an essential distinction. In fact, I
heartily endorse the distinction and urge that both practice and
research in LIS be aware of the distinction. However, there are
still problematic elements of the notion of intransitive objects of
knowledge. Philosophers of science tend to limit that category to
physical objects, but some open its inclusiveness. John Ziman
says that “there is nothing in our basic model of science to say
that the behaviours of human beings cannot in principle be
studied by the same methods as the behaviour of neutrinos,
nucleic acids, or nematodes” (Ziman, 1978, 158). A bit later,
when our focus of attention is on the social sciences, we will see
that Ziman’s view is shared by a number of people.
Christopher Norris cites Bhaskar’s categorizations and states,
“To conflate [the intransitive and the transitive] . . . is the
cardinal error of relativist philosophies and one that leads to
disabling consequences in both spheres of inquiry. Thus it
relativises ‘truth’ (in the natural and human sciences alike) to
whatever form of discourse—or de facto regime of instituted
power/knowledge—happens to prevail in some given discipline at
some given time” (Norris, 1996, 159-60). The conflation Norris
writes of is the assumption that the intransitive can be treated as
 What Is Real? 119

though it were transitive, that the one can be studied in the same
way as the other. A different kind of conflation, one consistent
with scientism, is also possible. The transitive could be treated as
though it were intransitive. This idea is (perhaps less than
consciously) integral to the blueprint for an overhaul of LIS
education posited by Houser and Schrader: “we assert that there
are fundamental problems relating to the production, collection,
organization, dissemination and utilization of knowledge in all its
various media forms which demand to be treated and solved
scientifically” (Houser and Schrader, 1978, 4).
It becomes evident that calls for realism are not entirely
consistent in detailing what comprises a realist position. Jarrett
Leplin lists a set of these that recur in various conceptions of
realism (while making it clear that no group, possibly no individ-
ual, espouses all of the theses):

1. The best current scientific theories are at least approximately

true.
2. The central terms of the best current theories are genuinely
referential.
3. The approximate truth of a scientific theory is sufficient
explanation of its predictive success.
4. The (approximate) truth of a scientific theory is the only
possible explanation of its predictive success.
5. A scientific theory may be approximately true even if
referentially unsuccessful.
6. The history of at least the mature sciences shows progressive
approximation to a true account of the physical world.
7. The theoretical claims of scientific theories are to be read
literally, and so read are definitively true or false.
8. Scientific theories make genuine, existential claims.
9. The predictive success of a theory is evidence for the
referential success of its central terms.
10. Science aims at a literally true account of the physical
world, and its success is to be reckoned by its progress toward
achieving this aim. (Leplin, 1984, 1-2)

Some of the tenets are strong; that is, some of them are assertions
of an almost absolute condition. For example, the assertion that
terms in theories are referential means that the theory is an
120 Chapter Three

accurate picture of reality and that there is a clear linguistic link

between what is said and what is. The linguistic and semantic
elements have probably been the source of more dispute than any
other aspects of realism. The language used to express a theory
(in particular the individual statements that comprise the theory)
is taken to represent what actually exists (at least to some
realists).
These ten items present the ideas that most frequently create
difficulties for anyone who thinks about realism. As was stated at
the beginning of this section, metaphysical realism is the straight-
forward claim that there are things that exist independently of
our apprehension of them. Such a notion is consonant with
Kant’s idea of reality an sich, the reality of the thing in itself,
independent of its reality for a perceiver. Laurence BonJour
contrasts Kant’s idea with a very different version of
realism—what he calls semantical realism. Semantical realism is
reflected in the list above. As BonJour says, “semantical realism
is the thesis that our statements (and presumably also our beliefs)
purport, in virtue of their meaning or content, to describe this an
sich reality” (BonJour, 1985, 162).
Some philosophers, Donald Davidson perhaps more aptly
than anyone else, point out a fundamental problem with the kind
of language-based claims of realism depicted above. Drawing from
Quine, he stresses the “inscrutability of reference.” Even in cases
of clarity of reference, there are referents that are either arbi-
trarily created or variable according to different constructions of
reference. The example he uses is the sentence, “Rome is a city in
Italy.” This statement is true in relation S, where the word
“Rome” is mapped to the place Rome, and the predicate “is a city
in Italy” is mapped to cities in Italy. The statement is also true in
relation S’, where the word “Rome” is mapped to an area one
hundred miles south of Rome, and the predicate “is a city in
Italy” is mapped to areas one hundred miles south of cities in
Italy. The truth conditions are equivalent, but unless all elements
of reference are made clear there is no way of telling what a
sentence like “Rome is a city in Italy” means. For most of our
daily life there is agreement regarding reference. For disputable
claims, including claims in LIS having to do with, say, informa-
 What Is Real? 121

tion retrieval, there may be less than complete agreement, or even

understanding, of the elements of reference.
Some realists believe that the goal of science is to discover
truth, which in its strongest iteration necessitates a belief that
absolute truth exists and is knowable. This is the stance of
Popper (1983, 24-27). Theories provide a means to truth in this
strong position: “Theories are not only instruments. What we aim
at is truth: we test our theories in the hope of eliminating those
which are not true” (Popper, 1982, 42). It seems that such a
strong position would have to include the belief that language is
capable of expressing truth, and expressing it unambiguously. A
possible explanation for the accurate claim that no theory yet
propounded has been able to express absolute truth is that we
simply haven’t gotten there yet, but we’re on the right path. Both
Karl Popper and Hilary Putnam attempt to handle the problem
of truth not realized by saying that our theories, over time, have
come progressively closer to approximating, or being similar to,
truth. The notion of progress is one we'll return to shortly.
Two important criticisms have been leveled at the idea that
theories (and the language of which they are construed) can
correspond to truth. One, recognized by Philip Kitcher, is that
scientific theories tend to be idealized. Generalizations and
artificial conditions are inevitably used in both theorization and
the testing of theories. These generalizations and artifices are at
odds with truth and a correspondence to truth. Kitcher dismisses
this criticism by saying that, “In general, I propose that we view
idealizing theories as true in virtue of conventions. . . . Idealiza-
tion is an appropriate substitute when we appreciate that the
search for exact truth would bury our insights about explanatory
dependence in a mass of unmanageable complications” (Kitcher,
1993, 126). This explanation creates a dilemma. On one hand, by
the terms of a strong realist position it is an unsatisfactory
rationalization. On the other hand, the idealization that exists in
the sciences and the social sciences is necessary. There is no way
to account for every aspect of a situation, especially since many
of the aspects are unknown, and perhaps in the social sciences,
unknowable. Kitcher’s claim of progress to truth can be seen,
variously, as the philosopher’s rationalization of the scientist’s
p22 Chapter Three

pragmatism (the quest for theories that work better than existing
theories), and as a statement of a weak claim of realism. The two
ways of seeing Kitcher’s explanation are not entirely incompati-
ble; the weak version of realism includes some elements of
pragmatism.

Truth

Another point, made by Putnam, is that truth is itself an

idealization. The ideal nature of truth, and a potential explana-
tion of the unproblematic aspect of that nature, rests, according
to Putnam, in two essential ideas: “(1) that truth is independent
of justification here and now, but not independent of all justifica-
tion. To claim a state is true is to claim it could be justified.
(2) truth is expected to be stable or ‘convergent’; if both a
statement and its negation could be ‘justified’, even if conditions
were as ideal as one could hope to make them, there is no sense
in thinking of the statement as having a truth-value” (Putnam,
1981, 56). The idealization of truth is clear in the two state-
ments. However, the explanations why they are not problematic
are less than convincing. The first presents a particular challenge,
since a claim of truth founded on possible justification depends
on an assumption that the possible justification is not itself an
idealization and, further, that the claim to justification is actually
an approximation of truth. The second statement is less problem-
atic in the abstract, but still presents some challenges for the
discovery of truth, especially given the complexity and seemingly
possible justification of contradictory ideas in practice. The
efficacy of the two statements depends heavily on a belief that
language is able to describe truth or its approximation in unam-
biguous and noncontradictory terms. In any event, both Kitcher
and Putnam appear to be softening realism to the point where
one could question whether their positions still deserve the name.
Putnam has since mitigated his stance, recognizing that, even if
the concept of reality can be stable, the approximation of reality
(and truth) is quite elusive. He writes,
 What Is Real? 123

It is not at all clear that [the idea that fact can be established
beyond controversy] is correct even for the “hard sciences”.
Science has changed its mind in a startling way about the age
of the universe, and it may do so again. If establishing
something beyond controversy is establishing it for all time, as
opposed to merely establishing it so that it is the accepted
wisdom of one time, then it is far from clear how much funda-
mental science is, or ever will be, “established beyond contro-
versy.” (Putnam, 1987, 64)

One of the central notions of Putnam’s skepticism, though not

directly addressed by him, is the very idea of controversy and its
bases—is a “fact” controversial because of differing evidentiary
groundings, or because of vested interests (including financial
support, influence, ego) in the adherence to one position or
another? This is not a trivial question, but Putnam’s later stance
does hold more promise as a philosophical position.

Realism and LIS

So where do we stand with regard to realism? It seems

obvious that there are some problems with strong realism, in
particular that realism could be a claim of how the world must be
or that it prescribes and regulates strategy for scientists. In
fairness to many who call themselves realists, the strong version
of realism is frequently a straw man held up by some opposing
realism. For instance, in negating realism Bas van Fraassen must
first define it; this he does by saying, “Science aims to give us, in
its theories, a literally true story of what the world is like; and
acceptance of a scientific theory involves the belief that it is true.
This is the correct statement of scientific realism” (van Fraassen,
1980, 8). Softened positions of realism appear to be more
common. Eman McMullin takes issue with the claim that theory
is a true account of the world. If it were, it would be irrefutable,
and that (though McMulllin doesn’t say this) would mean that
the theorizers would be able to achieve infallibility. McMullin
says, “Science aims at fruitful metaphor and at ever more detailed
structure. To suppose that a theory is literally true would imply,
124 Chapter Three

among other things, that no further anomaly could, in principle,

arise from any quarter in regard to it” (McMullin, 1984, 35).
Similarly, Richard Boyd writes, “the realist conception of theory-
mediated experimental evidence does not have the consequence
that any traditional laws are immune from refutation. Instead, it
provides the explanation of how rigorous testing of these and
other laws is possible” (Boyd, 1984, 61). It seems evident, then,
that we cannot judge realism on the basis of its strongest claims,
since many of its adherents either don’t accept those claims or
weaken them.
This is not to say that there aren’t those, even within LIS,
who hold to strong versions of realism. Donald Davidson, in
finding some serious problems with strong realism, recognizes
that for such realism to apply to the human sciences, of which
LIS is one (along with psychology, sociology, history, and many
others), one would have to suppose that states are entities; that
is, attitudes, beliefs, and the like are real in the same sense that
physical objects are real (Davidson, 1997, 121). He says states
are not entities in this sense, and I agree. The mental is of a
different type; it is intentional and self-aware. I am not denying
the possibility of truth with regard to the mental, but justification
of the truth of the mental is not the same as justification of the
truth of the physical. Again, these concerns are epistemological
and will be discussed in a later chapter.

As we study information retrieval in LIS we inevitably

have to recognize that the database and its content have
an indisputably ontological existence. The information
seeker, while also an ontological being, has an epistemic
goal in employing strategies to search the database and to
evaluate the retrieved material. The seeking and evaluat-
ing processes have to be examined on epistemic grounds.

A couple of softened positions represent efforts to retain what

appears to many to make sense in realism, while avoiding pitfalls
 What Is Real? 125

that might render the position obviously false. One of these

softened stances is held by Alan Chalmers, who urges that we
adopt an unrepresentative realism, which, he says, is realist in a
couple of ways. “Firstly, it involves the assumption that the
physical world is the way it is independently of our knowledge of
it... . Secondly, it . . . involves the assumption that, to the extent
that theories are applicable to the world, they are always applica-
ble, inside and outside of experimental situations” (Chalmers,
1982, 163). The second sense of realism is weaker than some
stances in that it recognizes that theories may not be absolute
representations of reality. At the same time, though, Chalmers is
stating that a theory that has not been refuted clings to life
because of some, at least apparent, connection to the world as it
is. He goes further with a softening of realism: “Unrepresentative
realism is unrepresentative insofar as it does not incorporate a
correspondence theory of truth” (Chalmers, 1982, 163). Aban-
doning the necessity of corresponding to truth is a major conces-
sion, and one that is probably amenable to many who would call
themselves anti-realists. Another position is even weaker than
Chalmers’s. Giere suggests the stance of constructive realism, but
only as it might be applied to scientific models and hypotheses.
This position holds that theoretical models can be similar to the
real world, but that the model is a human creation (Giere, 1988,
93-94). Giere straddles realism and relativism, but he emphasizes
that there are substantive problems with a social constructivist
position.

Relativism

Since we have to begin discussing alternatives to realism

somewhere, let’s start with the stance that is as far from realism
as possible—relativism. In one very important way, the relativist
position makes an interesting point: the practice of science is a
social exercise. No matter what our conceptions of the various
disciplines that comprise the natural, or for that matter the social,
sciences, they are practiced by human beings. For that reason it
is difficult to assert with the confidence Popper has that “To the
126 Chapter Three

scientist only truth matters, not power” (Popper, 1994, 194-95).

To say that scientists, or anyone, act solely out of one specific
motivation, such as the quest for truth, is to ignore the multifac-
eted social, cognitive, and affective influences on actions.
Moreover, such a view is deterministic; the nature of the object
of study determines the motivation of the practitioner. Doubtless
there are some scientists who do what they do to attain power (or
money, or fame, etc.). However, they couldn't gain power (except
in extremely rare instances) without accomplishing something
meaningful in the world of science. Conversely, no scientist seeks
only power, or there would be little motivation to gain power
through science in particular. Of course there is a social element
to human behavior; only a fool would deny such an obvious
truism. So relativism must be more complicated than such a self-
evident assertion. Let’s investigate relativism further.
The relativist position can be fairly simply stated. Steven
Shapin says that he takes “for granted that science is a histori-
cally situated and social activity and that it is to be understood
in relation to the contexts in which it occurs,” and that “the task
for the sociologically minded historian is to display the structure
of knowledge making and knowledge holding as social processes”
(Shapin, 1996, 9). Barry Barnes and David Bloor elaborate a bit
on relativist doctrines; they include “(i) the observation that
beliefs on a certain topic vary, and (ii) the conviction that which
of these beliefs is found in a given context depends on, or is
relative to, the circumstances of the users” (Barnes and Bloor,
1982, 22). They add a third element, which they call an equiva-
lence postulate. This postulate maintains “that all beliefs are on
a par with one another with respect to the causes of their
credibility. It is not that all beliefs are equally true or equally
false, but regardless of truth and falsity the fact of their credibility
is to be seen as equally problematic” (Barnes and Bloor, 1982,
23),
There is another way of expressing the relativist position.
Rom Harré and Michael Krausz observe that (again, simplistically
stated) relativists may be divided into two camps—skepticism
and permissiveness. They distinguish the two thusly: “1 Skepti-
cism: no point of view is privileged, no description is true, and no
 What Is Real? 7

assessment of value is valid. 2.Permissiveness: all points of view

are equally privileged, all descriptions are true and all assessments
of value are equally valid” (Harré and Krausz, 1996, 3). It seems
as though there is no difference between the two, but, as Harré
and Krausz point out, the first can be seen as malign and the
second as benign. Skepticism is malign because it denies legiti-
macy to any point of view; perhaps another way of seeing this
stance is as nihilism. Permissiveness is benign because it allows
legitimacy for all points of view, although legitimacy is frequently
situated (that is, it places a perspective within a particular
temporal, spatial, cognitive, cultural, or other locus). One aim of
relativism is to deny absolutism, the establishment of an ultimate
truth, perhaps on the grounds that such privileging denies
potentially meaningful points of view (meaningful at least to
those who hold the belief in question) or constructs a hegemonic
dominance that may be based on political, rather than epistemic,
grounds.
In the cases of both skepticism and permissiveness the claims
include their own demise. If no position is privileged, or if all are
equally privileged, then there is no reason at all to accept either
claim above any other stance. When we turn to the social sciences
more explicitly later, we'll see that privileging is a problematic
matter. A position may be epistemically privileged in that it is a
justifiable knowledge claim, or it may be politically privileged in
that it receives support from powerful adherents. One difficulty
with most articulations of relativism is that the distinctions
among kinds of privileging are not acknowledged. This itself may
be a form of political privileging.
As is the case with realism, there are some compelling reasons
to lean towards relativism. And as is the case with realism, it is
the weaker version of relativism that is more attractive. One of
the elements of a weak version of relativism includes a skeptical
view of the claim of neutrality in science (which has been
extended to the social sciences). The skeptical belief is that it is
impossible for humans, who are acting agents in the practice of
science, to eschew all bias, preference, or assignment of value. At
a fairly basic level, for instance, there are preferences expressed
for certain questions in a scientific subdiscipline, and pursuing
128 Chapter Three

those questions is privileged over the pursuit of others. As

Andrew Pickering depicts this element,

Relativists thus deny that science has the kind of objectivity

that the philosophical tradition has sought to ascribe to it.
Scientists are here revealed as genuine agents, by no means
operating with their hands tied behind their backs. And
scientific knowledge is consequently chained to particular
communities: it is knowledge relative to them, with this
relativity typically spelled out in terms of interests; it does not
“float free” of its conditions of production and use as the
objectivist hopes. (Andrew Pickering, 1994, 110)

The weak version does not overstate the influence exerted by

interests, but admits that they do exist.

Problems of Relativism

Relativism is not without substantial difficulties, though. The

idea of the social construction of knowledge is, at least in some
form, an inescapable one, but it can be taken too far. Probably
the most extreme expression of the constructivist position comes
from Steven Shapin and Simon Schaffer, who write, “As we come
to recognize the conventional and artifactual status of our forms
of knowing, we put ourselves in a position to realize that it is
ourselves and not reality that is responsible for what we know [emphasis
added]” (Shapin and Schaffer, 1985, 344). It would be easy to
heap ridicule on this notion; suffice it to say that such an extreme
denial of ontology is without foundation. Modifications of such
an idea are not at all uncommon in the sociology of knowledge.
Karin Imorr-Cetina, who observed work done in a particular
laboratory, suggests that “Scientific method is seen to be much
more similar to social method—and the products of natural
science more similar to those of social science—than we have
consistently tended to assume” (Knorr-Cetina, 1981, 34). Her
work builds on that of Bruno Latour and Steve Woolgar, who
also observed laboratory work and conclude that the essential
element of that work is the construction of facts, which is a step
in the construction of reality (Latour and Woolgar, 1986). As
 What Is Real? 129

Hacking points out, even if some aspects of human action are

socially defined, they are nonetheless real (Hacking, 1999).
The problematic aspect of the constructivist view is the
unavoidably social element of knowledge, whether scientific or
other. For instance, while many of us would dearly love to believe
that there are “brute facts” that exert causal influence on
phenomena, we can’t evade the reality that, at least to some
extent, as Alan Gross says, “the phrase ‘brute facts’ is an oxymo-
ron. Facts are by nature linguistic—no language, no facts. By
definition, a mind-independent reality has no semantic compo-
nent” (Gross, 1990, 202-3). Even if there are nonsemantic forces
at work in the world, we cannot conceive of them without
language. Once language is employed, the goal of absolute
objectivity disappears, and some alteration, intended or not,
occurs. Some who adopt the relativist position aver that the
alteration is intentional. Woolgar, in advocating a strong version
of relativism, speaks of

the ideology of representation, the set of beliefs and practices

stemming from the notion that objects (meanings, motives,
things) underlie or pre-exist the surface signs (documents,
appearances which give rise to them). ... The problem. . . is
that any attempt to dismantle this ideology, rather than a
particular set of claims which emerge from a specific disciplin-
ary (natural scientific) application of this ideology, appears
tantamount to dismantling one’s own discipline. (Woolgar,
1988, 99)

This is an inherently confused position; Woolgar seems to believe

that there is no possibility for agreement on the construction of
the natural world because of the social element that is the
foundation of our conceptions. At the same time, he appears to
believe that a single ideology is possible. The latter belief should
be refuted by the former.
Perhaps the most eloquent refutation of the relativist position
regarding facts that is espoused by Latour, Woolgar, and others
is offered by Alvin Goldman. In speaking of social epistemology,
Goldman stresses that the epistemic program, the quest for
knowledge, is necessarily a normative one that is comprised of
130 Chapter Three

rational as well as social elements. While the relativist argument

centers on the essentialness of the negotiation of facts, Goldman
points out that confusion also centers on this point.

First, the sociologist who studies life in a scientific laboratory

does not observe the negotiation of scientific facts. What is
observed is only the negotiation of scientific assertions or
beliefs, i.e., what the scientists agree to say or believe about the
facts. That there are “negotiation” processes in social belief-
fixation hardly demonstrates that there are no facts of the
matter independent of this negotiation [emphasis in original].
(Goldman, 1987, 136-37)

Goldman’s concepts pertaining to social epistemology will be very

useful in the later discussion of knowledge.
The confusion reaches its peak with David Bloor and his
“strong programme” (SP) for the sociology of knowledge. Bloor’s
goal is to set forth a scientific means for the study of knowledge.
That science, though, is grounded completely in the social
element of knowledge growth or, more appropriately, of belief. He
articulates four tenets for SP:

1. It would be causal, that is, concerned with the conditions

which bring about belief or states of knowledge. . . .
2. It would be impartial with respect to truth and falsity,
rationality or irrationality, success or failure. . . .
3. It would be symmetrical in its style of explanation. The same
types of causes would explain, say, true or false beliefs.
4. It would be reflexive. In principle its patterns of explanation
would have to be applicable to sociology itself. (Bloor, 1991, 7)

He admits that there may be some nonsocial causes of beliefs, but

these factors are neither necessary nor sufficient to those beliefs.
Without dragging this discussion out, I have to point out that the
most useful aspect of Bloor’s SP, the realization that social factors
influence social outcomes, is nothing more than a tautology (see
Slezak, 1994).
Bloor’s “strong programme” is fatally flawed; even though he
denies it, his program is rife with internal contradictions,
especially regarding causation. On the one hand, we cannot
 What Is Real? 131

accept physical causation for beliefs about the physical world

because of intervening social forces. On the other hand, we can
identify social causes for those beliefs. Larry Laudan provides a
thorough critique of Bloor’s work, and concludes that much of
what Bloor would have us believe is groundbreaking is really
nothing more than the myth. His tenets are little more than
obfuscation; science does not actually operate in the ways Bloor
seems to believe (see Laudan, 1996, 183-209). In fact, Bloor’s
program, as is true of the constructivist theories of Woolgar,
Shapin, Schaffer, and others, are exemplars of deterministic
scientism, even though they would not only deny this, but would
probably assert that they are trying to oppose scientism. All belief
has social determination (there is no real epistemological
difference between this and the stance that there is a purely
physical determination). Further, these positions are highly
reductionist; all is reduced to the social, and the ontological and
epistemological (that is, anything normative) are dismissed. The
positions also attempt to propound methodological monism;
there is only one way to examine any question. For these reasons,
we have to reject any strong relativist or constructivist stance.

How Did We Get in This State?

Interpretations of IKcuhn

Relativism, and particularly social constructivism, has

flourished in recent years. While it would be presumptuous to
ascribe cause to one particular event, the ascendance of relativist
thought received a boost in 1962 with the publication of the first
edition of Thomas Kuhn’s The Structure of Scientific Revolutions.
Kuhn himself denied for the entirety of his life that he was a
relativist, but his work did suggest that there are social underpin-
nings of scientific work. Kuhn’s thesis is much more complicated
than are those of Bloor, Shapin, and others, though. Moreover,
his position is not entirely consistent, and that inconsistency has
contributed to much of the debate surrounding his work. Few
books have been cited more frequently than The Structure of
132 Chapter Three

Scientific Revolutions (SSR), and few have been more frequently

misread. It is important that we turn to the source and examine
just what Kuhn has to say about science, progress, and the growth
of knowledge. One of the most fundamental, and most challeng-
ing, points in SSR is the division of scientific work into periods
of normal science and revolutionary science. Normal science is
marked by stability, consensus on the problems that should be
addressed, and agreement on the means by which those problems
should be studied. The period is especially marked by acceptance
of a paradigm. Here is where the problems begin with compre-
hending just what Kuhn meant. As Margaret Masterman shows,
Kuhn employs over twenty distinct usages of “paradigm,” and
there is a lack of clarity in his employment of the word and a lack
of consistency of meaning (Masterman, 1970, 61-65).
Much interpretation of Kuhn, especially in the social sciences,
has fixated on “paradigm,” with the frequent outcome that Kuhn
is assumed to be prescriptive, that he is saying legitimacy as a
science comes only with the development of a paradigm. There
are numerous flaws in this interpretation. First, it is not a
prescription for success so much as it is a strategy for continuing
work. That is, the impetus is not simply to find a paradigm;
rather, the paradigm emerges if it can provide “a new and more
rigid definition of the field,” and “The decision to reject one
paradigm is always simultaneously the decision to accept another,
and the judgment leading to that decision involves the compari-
son of both paradigms with nature and with each other” (Kuhn,
1970, 19, 77). The latter point has some grounding in realism;
the new paradigm has a more effective link to the way things
really are. Also, his point that one paradigm is not abandoned
until another can replace it is an essential one. As he says,
“Probably the single most prevalent claim advanced by the
proponents of a new paradigm is that they can solve the problems
that have led the old one to a crisis” (Iuhn, 1970, 153). In short,
the paradigm (or “disciplinary matrix,” the term Kuhn later used
to illustrate that practitioners use a set of methods, theories,
hypothesis, and other elements) emerges from scientific work; it
is not artificially imposed upon that work. The complexity of
scientific, or disciplinary, work is ignored by those who would
 What Is Real? 133

reduce the work to a single idea. The reducing is recorded by Paul

Feyerabend, who says, “More than one social scientist has
pointed out to me that now at last he had learned how to turn his
field into a ‘science’—by which of course he meant that he had
learned how to improve it. The recipe, according to these people,
is to restrict criticism, to reduce the number of comprehensive
theories to one, and to create a normal science that has this one
theory as its paradigm” (Feyerabend, 1970, 198).
Another problem in the interpretation of Kuhn resides in the
locus of a paradigm. As is evident from Feyerabend’s anecdote,
many assume that the discipline itself contains the appropriate
paradigm; it is the job of the practitioners to discover it. Kuhn’s
explanation of the disciplinary matrix should be sufficient to
explode such a misguided notion, but that notion is persistent.
Kuhn is, at times, more explicit in what he means by paradigm
although even in his explanation there are the seeds of confusion.
He writes, “A paradigm governs, in the first instance, not a
subject matter but rather a group of practitioners. Any study of
paradigm-directed or of paradigm-shattering research must begin
by locating the responsible group or groups” (Kuhn, 1970, 180).
Yes, paradigm can refer to agreement, but we would ask if Kuhn’s
expression of “paradigm” is the only possible way of conceiving
states of agreement on the parts of scientists.

Even in Kuhn’s own framework, “pre-paradigm” science is

better described as multi-paradigm science. By his own character-
izations of what constitutes having a paradigm, each of the
competing schools has a paradigm. What is lacking at this stage
are not paradigms, but a dominant paradigm that can guide the
energies of the vast majority of practitioners concerned with the
same general subject matter [emphasis in original]. (Giere,
1999/35)

This clarifies that it is in the practice of science, not in science

itself, that the consistent elements of a disciplinary matrix apply.
His statement, however, seems to open the door to constructiv-
ism. A reader so inclined could take the passage to mean that the
only significance rests in the practice, rather than in the disci-
pline, but this would be a gross misreading of Kuhn. He denied
134 Chapter Three

relativism and expressed an abiding faith in scientific progress

(Kuhn, 1970, 206). )
All of this is not intended to dismiss some of the genuine
problems with Kuhn’s ideas. For instance, as Stephen Toulmin
aptly points out, the distinctions between normal and revolution-
ary science are overstated. In fact, Toulmin maintains that
Kuhn’s essential relaxing of the demarcation between the two
aspects of science amounts to a dissolution of the distinction
altogether (Toulmin, 1970, 41). Toulmin himself may be
overstating the case; there is an apparent disruption of both the
epistemological grounding of a discipline and the work of its
practitioners when a revolution occurs. Feyerabend also takes
Kuhn to task for this seemingly absolute distinction; Feyerabend
believes, with good reason, that the proliferation of theories
alternative to the governing one exists all the time, not just in the
event of a revolution (Feyerabend, 1970, 212). In other words,
normal science is not as stable as Kuhn might have us believe.
Criticism of Kuhn’s notion of gestalt shift is offered by W. H.
Newton-Smith. He says, “By and large this analogy is absurdly
far-fetched. For few of us had anything like this dramatic shift of
attitude when, having learned Newtonian mechanics in school,
we came slowly and perhaps painfully to appreciate the greater
virtues of Einsteinian mechanics” (Newton-Smith, 1981, 118).

Kuhn and Incommensurability

The idea of Kuhn’s that has created the most stir among
serious discussants is that of incommensurability. The adherents
of competing paradigms are so grounded in their particular
matrices that they are unable to communicate sensibly with one
another. Kuhn goes so far as to say that “the proponents of
competing paradigms practice their trades in different worlds.
. .. Practicing in different worlds, the two groups of scientists see
different things when they look from the same point in the same
direction. Again, that is not to say that they can see anything
they please. Both are looking at the world, and what they look at
has not changed. But in some areas they see different things, and
they see them in different relations one to the other” (Kuhn,
 What Is Real? 135

1970, 150). His thesis of incommensurability is consistent with

his idea of revolutions; the change from normal science to
revolutionary science entails a gestalt shift. A practitioner looks
at the discipline in one way, and then shifts to a different view;
the one vision precludes the other. Paul Hoyningen-Huhne, in his
explication of the incommensurability thesis as articulated
throughout Kuhn’s career, points out that there are substantive
inconsistencies in the thesis (Hoyningen-Huhne, 1993, 206-22).
As is the case with other of Kuhn’s ideas, there is overstatement
in Kuhn’s notion of incommensurability. The utility of his thesis
lies in the possibility that communication is difficult between
adherents of different theories because the terms used in descrip-
tion can have meanings that are not consistent across theories.
In fairness to those who would claim that there is such a
thing as incommensurability in the sense that adherents of one
paradigm are unable to communicate with those of another,
Kuhn, in many places in his book, practically enables such a
reading. However, Kuhn has repeatedly tried to correct the
misreading. Michael Malone says that most misreaders of the
incommensurability thesis presume that the invention or mastery
of a particular paradigm necessarily means undergoing a transfor-
mation of perception, a gestalt shift. This shift, according to those
who hold to a narrow view of incommensurability, equates insight
into a possible way of conceiving something with conviction that
this is the only way of conceiving something. There definitely
can be difficulties with communication, though, and Malone says
these difficulties are observed by Kuhn in the actions and
expressions of scientists: “Kuhn’s incommensurability thesis
requires . . . two features: (a) concepts and correlated ontologies
sufficiently different that the world depicted in one theory cannot be fully
represented by the rival theory, and (b) an inherently vague theory-fact
distinction” [emphasis in original] (Malone, 1993, 77). Kuhn,
then, is not presenting as relativistic a stance as some believe, but
he is pointing out the problem with the assumption that semanti-
cal realism holds for every scientific claim.
Some of the misreadings of Kuhn are indicative, first, of the
wishes or desires of the commentators and, second, the leap from
Kuhn to social constructivism. A couple of examples of the former
136 Chapter Three

can be found in LIS. Paul Metz, in his examination of citation

analysis as a method to study library use, says that this means of
analysis “has settled into what Kuhn has called ‘normal science,’
but as most bibliometricians well know, this very settling into
comfort and habit may be the first sign that radically new
perspectives and questions will soon emerge” (Metz, 1990, 160).
Not so latent in his statement is the hope that a revolution is
imminent and that bibliometrics can emulate the patterns of
progress in the natural sciences. Jeffrey Gatten looks at interdisci-
plinary research in LIS and consistently assumes that “paradigm”
is a normative criterion that describes a science (Gatten, 1991).
His hope is very similar to Metz’s. The latter product of the
misreading of Kuhn can be seen in Stephen Cole’s assertion that
“For Kuhn, a new paradigm is simply a different, rather than a
better, way of looking at reality” (Cole, 1992, 9). Likewise, E.
Doyle McCarthy says that “There are no such things as bare
facts, Kuhn argued, even scientific ones, since facts emerge and
are known by virtue of a form of thinking within which they can
be received and accepted” (McCarthy, 1996, 18). Cole and
McCarthy are representative of some in the social sciences who
are apparently looking for substantiation of constructivist claims.
They ignore Kuhn’s repeated acknowledgment of progress and of
at least a weak realist view of the content of science.
This brief discussion of Kuhn is not meant to be an affirma-
tion of all aspects of his thesis. There is quite a bit in his writings
that presents conceptual and practical problems. Some of the
more bothersome elements of Kuhn’s thought are challenged by
Imre Lakatos. For one thing, as Lakatos points out, normal
science is not typified by monopolistic control of one paradigm.
“The history of science has been and should be a history of
competing research programmes (or, if you wish, ‘paradigms’),
but it has not been and must not become a succession of periods
of normal science: the sooner competition starts, the better for
progress” (Lakatos, 1978, 69). (In his championing competition
Lakatos shares a modicum of common ground with Feyerabend
[see Feyerabend, 1975].) In sympathy with Kuhn, though,
Lakatos recognizes that there are some extrascientific, and not
necessarily rational, factors that may influence the acceptance of
 What Is Real? 137

a paradigm. To counter those factors, Lakatos suggests that “we

must not discard a budding research programme simply because
it has so far failed to overtake a powerful rival. We should not
abandon it if, supposing its rival were not there, it would
constitute a progressive problemshift” (Lakatos, 1978, 70). And
throughout this discussion it must be remembered that Kuhn and
Lakatos focused on the natural sciences and offered their
descriptive and strategic analyses in that context only.
What Kuhn’s work has meant for the conception of reality
has been a heightening of the debate, even conflict. The contro-
versy centers on the mixture of some realist premises and the
realization that some social factors influence disciplinary practice.
It is the mixture that is Kuhn’s strength. Why? The mixture is
not irrational; in fact, it is the most rational explanation for both
content of disciplines and practice within those disciplines.

The Answer?

This section heading may seem pretentious, but I want to

emphasize the question mark. What follows is an alternative to
the two positions just discussed. The strong versions of realism
and relativism are absolutist positions. Some people have no
problem with the absolutist nature of the positions, but there are,
at least in my view, unresolvable problems with the strong
versions. The principal difficulty is that both stances are
exclusionary; each maintains that one, and only one, force
governs all aspects of the sciences. In the case of realism, that
force is nature; the task of science is to discover what actually
exists, and there are no substantive barriers to that discovery. In
the case of relativism, that force is society; all knowledge, even
putative knowledge of nature, is socially and culturally con-
structed. The inescapable conclusion is that both strong positions
are, to some extent, irrational. Each position ignores aspects of
the other that definitely impinge upon the growth of knowledge.
In this section I hope to draw from balanced critical assessments
to present a position that is sufficiently rational and inclusive
that it can serve inquiry and practice in all disciplines. The
138 Chapter Three

position, as we will see, is a flexible one, taking into account

objects of study that are more or less natural and more or less
social, along with the challenging nature of the means of study.

Science and Feminism

To some, the strong version of realism includes a denial,

intentional or not, of human agency in the practice of science or
of any disciplinary inquiry. In particular, some who approach the
matter from a feminist perspective point out that there are some
clearly social elements of practice that work against full participa-
tion in disciplinary activities by all who might contribute to
progress. Mary Hawkesworth suggests that claims of objectivity
have been used for less than objective purposes. “Under the guise
of objectivity, philosophy and science objectify women, deny
their agency, silence their alterity, and condemn them to ‘objec-
tively’ certified inferiority. . .. Under this construal, objectifica-
tion approximates reification, a process that distorts as it
concretizes. To reify a human being is to view a person as a thing,
that is, as an entity devoid of consciousness and agency”
(Hawkesworth, 1994, 154-55). Objectivity, then, might be used
as an excuse to ensure that: (1) certain methods are used in
inquiry, (2) certain results are more probable, and/or (3) certain
individuals or groups are precluded from participation.
The feminist critique of science studies demonstrates that the
practice of science is not absolutely objective. I cannot emphasize
strongly enough that the most useful critiques are aimed at the
practice, rather than the content, of science. It is a truism that
science is distinct from the practice of science, that the content of
study is an entity separate from the act of studying the content.
The distinction implies that what scientists do may be influenced
by the social relationships and cultural settings in which they
work, as well as by the objects of study. This claim may be an
oversimplification; it may be that the conception of science and
the conception of the objects of study are also influenced by
social and cultural factors. This latter notion is bolstered by the
way science is practiced in the U.S. and elsewhere today.
Scientific work in the U.S. depends to a considerable extent on
 What Is Real? 139

support from sources other than the scientists’ own institutions.

Competition for external support is a strong force in practice; the
sources of funding establish priorities and tend to support those
projects that match their priorities. Even more subtly, the
infrastructure of scientific practice, including the literature and
the academic reward system, is less than objective in that there
are decisions made that are not based solely on nature. Sandra
Harding realizes these forces and says, “Science is politics by
other means, and it also generates reliable information about the
empirical world. Science is more than politics, of course, but it is
that. It is a contested terrain and has been so from its origins.
Groups with conflicting social agendas have struggled to gain
control of the social resources that the sciences—their ‘informa-
tion, their technologies, and their prestige—can provide”
(Harding, 1991, 10).
To say that the practice of science is political is to address
only the surface of the matter. It doesn’t answer the question of
how the politics may manifest itself. As Evelyn Fox Keller says,
“Beliefs per se cannot exert force on the world. But the people
who carry such beliefs can. Furthermore, the language in which
their beliefs are encoded has the force to shape what others—as
men, as women, and as scientists—think, believe, and, in turn,
actually do” (Keller, 1992, 25). Even though there is the stated
goal of objectivity, the language that is used to state theories, to
assert claims, etc. is a human device, and, so, is not of the same
“type” as the physical phenomena studied. At the least, we can
surmise that our descriptions of what science is, of what knowl-
edge is, are not entirely objective. An important difference
between the kind of feminist critique that is the focus here and
constructivism, as Joseph Rouse informs us, is that “feminist
critics have tried to participate in the practices through which
knowledge of the world is constructed as authoritative” (Rouse,
1996, 33).
140 Chapter Three

Rationality

All this sounds as though there is no objectivity in scientific,

or any disciplinary, work. It isn’t that there is no rationality, just
that there is no absolute rationality. This statement indicates,
quite concisely, the quarrel I have with Enlightenment thinking.
While elements of the genealogy suggest that emphasizing
rationality goes along with eliminating the subject, I’d prefer to
see humans as rational subjects. The difference between this and
the Enlightenment view is that the inclusion of ourselves as
subjects allows us to examine both the general and the particular,
both the global and the local. Disciplinary practice is communal;
there are positive and negative aspects of the determination of
practice by community and, as Keller says, science is “not simply
defined by the exigencies of logical proof and experimental
verification” (Keller, 1995, 4). The structure of a community is
not simple. That structure, as was previously mentioned, includes
the politics of funding, the competition for rewards, and also
some level of agreement (albeit reached through dialectical
means). As Helen Longino relates, the complexity of community
structure includes convention based on collective practice and
also work that is substantially individual (such as hypothesis
testing and experimentation) (Longino, 1992, 208). The duality
(or perhaps multiplicity) that Longino speaks of is an inevitable
part of disciplinary practice, and it leads to the healthy competi-
tion Lakatos speaks of and to both the rationality of practice and
its occasional vagaries.
I make the claim that disciplinary practice, and here I lump
the sciences and the social sciences together, is, by and large,
rational. The claim to rationality is not a strong claim. First, I
readily admit that rationality is not absolute, that it does not
hold in all occasions. Second, I want to make clear that the
rationality I speak of is applicable to the content of disciplinary
matters. In this regard, rationality is specific and is targeted to
the content of the questions and methodology of the disciplines.
It could be argued that the politics and power relations of
disciplinary practice have their own rationality, but it is separate
from the rationality of disciplinary content. Third, rationality
 What Is Real? 141

does not preclude debate, or even dispute. That one method of

study is rational does not mean that it is the only rational means
of study. It is frequently the case in the social sciences that
multiple methods are necessary to address complex questions.
Fourth, rationality does not eliminate errors. As Longino says, “If
rationality is, at least in part, the acceptance or rejection of beliefs
on the basis of evidence, then theory and hypothesis choice is,
when based on evidence, rational. Rationality, however, is not the
infallible road to truth or away from error that it is often claimed
to be” (Longino, 1990, 59). Rationality is a very different
criterion from objectivity. Chalmers stresses the distinction:
“although individual judgements and wishes are in a sense
subjective and cannot be determined by logically compelling
arguments, this does not mean that they are immune to rational
argument” (Chalmers, 1982, 138). In the social sciences it is
frequently rational to recognize that phenomena such as human
behavior are arbitrary or have arbitrary and subjective compo-
nents. Seeking a completely objective answer to a question is not
always rational.
A potential objection to the claim of rationality comes from
the recognition, just noted, that, despite what Popper says, some
actions are motivated by power. Perhaps Popper was taking the
naive view of power as forcible domination, but it is not that
simple a force. Rouse warns us that “the understanding of power
as essentially repressive or censorious is inappropriate here. The
power characteristic of scientific knowledge (at least in the
natural sciences) does not operate directly upon or against
persons and their beliefs. It is a constructive power that reshapes
the world and the way it is manifested” (Rouse, 1987, 20).
Further, he says that “power can influence our motivation to
achieve knowledge and can deflect us from such achievement, but
it can play no constructive role in determining what knowledge
is” (Rouse, 1987, 14). What the force of power does imply is that
rationality is, much more often than not, social rather than
individual. It is the product of institutional dynamics, which
means that, while it is not static, rationality is a collective
criterion. Mature disciplines should be seen as having more fully
142 Chapter Three

developed collective conceptions of what is rational, instead of

having an agreed-upon “paradigm.”
Rationality is also inherent in a variation of Kuhn’s incom-
mensurability thesis. Instead of seeing competing visions as
existing in different worlds it is more fruitful to recognize the
challenges that surround understanding. If Kuhn were correct it
would be unlikely that some revolutions would ever have been
successful, since they are not understandable to the adherents of
an opposing view. Let us focus on the dialectical nature of
competing views. Richard Bernstein sees the efficacy of the
incommensurability thesis in terms of dialectic: “What is sound
in the incommensurability thesis is the clarification of just what
we are doing when we do compare paradigms, theories, language
games. We can compare them in multiple ways. We can recog-
nize losses and gains. We can even see how some of our standards
for comparing them conflict with each other” (Bernstein, 1983,
92). The recognition of a dialectic is useful in two ways: (1) it is
the arena in which competing ideas are presented in their
entirety, so that rational theory evaluations can take place, and
(2) it provides a way to study the metadisciplinary aspects of the
grounds of competition, compromise, agreement, and choice (the
genuine grounding of cultural studies of a discipline). The
dialectic is complicated by the idea that theories are
underdetermined by data. That is, there is no amount of data
that can fully verify a theory, so theory choice is made even more
difficult. We need not see underdetermination as an insurmount-
able hindrance. As Laudan shows convincingly, the argument
from underdetermination is usually overstated and it does not
interfere substantively with theory choice (Laudan, 1996, 29-54).
The concept of underdetermination is part of the dialectical
challenge to disciplines.
All of the foregoing is intended to illustrate shortcomings of
some widely held conceptions of reality, or its absence. What I
suggest here is that the strong versions of realism and relativism
are so exclusionary as to render themselves irrelevant. It is not
productive to cling to either extreme stance. There are, however,
weaker versions of both that have important and useful implica-
tions for disciplinary practice, including practice in LIS. From
 What Is Real? 143

realism we can retain the belief that there are things that exist
independently of ourselves, whether they be observable or
unobservable. Even those, such as Michael Luntley, who thor-
oughly and convincingly reject the strong realist version, accept
that “The characterisation of content requires the subject’s
possession of a conception of a world beyond that which is
experienced” (Luntley, 1988, 4). What this means is that
epistemology is grounded in an ontology; that is, knowledge is,
fundamentally, knowledge of something, and that something is
rooted to some extent in reality. Along with that, realism implies
some correspondence to truth. Again, I am not referring to an
absolute here, but to a nonarbitrary connection between knowl-
edge and truth. This truth is corrigible (it can be corrected as we
obtain more evidence or employ sounder means of analysis), but
it is an approximation of what really is.
While we must reject strong relativism we have to come to
grips with the social elements of knowledge. We reject the strong
version because it falls victim to its own claims. If no theory or
idea can be justified, then the very idea of social constructivism
has no justification. The denial of strong relativism doesn’t mean
that there are no reasons or justifications for accepting some
theories or rejecting others. What we have to admit is that the
social makes both the acceptance and rejection of theories and the
understanding of why theories are accepted or rejected more
challenging. This realization includes the awareness that, as
Longino says, “It is, of course, nonsense to assert the value-
freedom of natural science. Scientific practice is governed by
norms and values generated from an understanding of the goals
of scientific inquiry” (Longino, 1990, 4). We can go even further
with this idea. Taking our cue from Rouse, we can see that
discussion of the value neutrality of disciplinary practice reifies
value; it reduces value to an object (Rouse, 1996, 256). An
example of this kindof reification of value in our own field can
be found in Bruce Kingma’s examination of the economics of
information. He writes, “economists use mathematics to quantify
the benefits and costs of decisions and make unbiased, scientific
assessments of value” (IKingma, 1996, 9).
144 Chapter Three

Other Ways of Thinking about Realism

The mitigated stance I advocate has, it seems to me, the
greatest potential for richness in understanding the questions that
face all disciplines and in comprehending the ways to inquire.
The understanding I speak of depends on the acceptance of the
suggestion that, while we are not absolutely rational, we are
fundamentally rational. Roger Trigg describes a circumstance that
does not fall prey to strong realism or strong relativism: “What
goes on in the brain, what forces are at work in society, even what
epistemological standards are acceptable, themselves need to be
recognized by a human reason that is not totally constrained by
its context” (Trigg, 1993, 219). He also states that, because we
are fundamentally rational, we seek knowledge, and science is one
way of seeking knowledge; we are not rational simply because we
are scientists (Trigg, 1993, 62).
Another way of expressing the mitigated stance is, to borrow
from Giere, perspectival realism.

Imagine the universe as having a definite structure, but exceed-

ingly complex, so complex that no models humans can devise
could ever capture more than limited aspects of the total
complexity. Nevertheless, some ways of constructing models of
the world do provide resources for capturing some aspects of
the world more or less well. Other ways may provide resources
for capturing other aspects of reality more or less well. Both
ways, however, may capture some aspects of reality and thus be
candidates for a realistic understanding of the world. (Giere,
19979)

What Giere proposes includes an inherent recognition of a

fundamental point, one that is essential for us to admit. John
Searle, who is himself a realist in a meaningful sense, states the
point, which “presupposes a distinction between facts dependent
on us and those that exist independently of us, a distinction I
originally characterized as one between social and institutional
facts on the one hand and brute facts on the other” (Searle, 1995,
149). Searle uses that distinction to address challenges to realism
(which admits to the existence of brute facts). The challenges, he
 What Is Real? 145

says, in the main conflate the two kinds of facts and try to use the
existence of social facts to negate the existence of brute facts, and
are wholly unsuccessful. In LIS we should be conscious of the
distinction, since, while some of our practices deal with brute
facts, more are concerned with social facts.
This perspectival realism spoken of by Giere is not absent in
LIS. To give just one example, Donald Kraft and Bert Boyce
stress perspective at the outset of their book on operations
research. In defining models they state that models “are analogies
of some real thing or some real system. They are not the thing
they model, though. . . . There can be many models of the same
thing that emphasize different characteristics and that are used
for different purposes” (Kraft and Boyce, 1991, 12). They further
advise us, “Never take a model too literally, substituting the
model for reality,” and “Never use a model for ends for which it
was not designed” (Kraft and Boyce, 1991, 18).
The understanding we seek necessitates that we attempt
interpretation of the world around us and of how we respond to
it. And this interpretation is, or can be, a rational project. We can
follow the lead of Rouse, who says, “the world is always inter-
preted, through language and practice. An uninterpreted world
would be unintelligible. But the interpretation does not make the
world the way it is; it allows it to show itself the way it is”
(Rouse, 1987, 159). Interpretation is not, perhaps to the dismay
of those who see virtue in deterministic scientism, entirely
subjective. As we will explore later, interpretation is at the heart
of both inquiry and practice in LIS. As such it is a methodology
(a global approach to exploration) rather than a method (a
specific means of study applied to a specific question). We must
recognize, as Bernstein does, that there is a “claim for the
ontological significance of hermeneutics, and [a] claim for its
universality” because “We are ‘thrown’ into the world as beings
who understand and interpret—so if we are to understand what
it is to be human beings, we must seek to understand understand-
ing itself, in its rich, full, and complex dimensions” (Bernstein,
1983, 113). Susan Haack also expresses this kind of constraint
on interpretation: “My picture also acknowledges a partnership
of perception with background belief, in the sense that our beliefs
146 Chapter Three

about what we see, hear, etc., are affected not only by what we
see and hear, but also by already-embedded beliefs about how
things are” (Haack, 1993, 110). We take her statement just a bit
farther; our beliefs are also affected by what is, in the metaphysi-
cal sense.
Interpretation is not, of course, without challenges. A very
practical challenge is the realization that interpretation is
dynamic. In large part the dynamic aspect is a factor of what is
interpreted. “One can start from the idea that the world is filled
not, in the first instance, with facts and observations, but with
agency. The world, I want to say, is continually doing things, things
that bear upon us not as observation statements upon disembod-
ied intellects but as forces upon material beings [emphasis in
original]” (Andrew Pickering, 1995, 6). One genealogical line of
hermeneutics has strong realist leanings. This line assumes that
meaning—of the world and of our interpretation of it—is fixed.
Our task, then, is to discover that meaning. This view of herme-
neutics is too exclusionary to be productive. Another challenge is
to identify ideology as it affects our interpretation and our means
of investigation (along with determining the question that will be
asked). Alan Chalmers provides a specific example:

We have illegitimate extensions of biology and evolutionary

theory in the form of social Darwinism and sociobiology posing
as explanations of social phenomena, thereby disguising the
political realities and serving to justify various kinds of oppres-
sion such as that of the poor or women or racial minorities, and
in recent times we witness an increasing tendency to reduce
social issues to economic ones to be dealt with by a
(pseudo)science of economics. (Chalmers, 1990, 125)

There is one task left in this descriptive part of the examina-

tion of LIS thought and practice. Now that we have a glimpse of
differing ways of defining reality in the context of science, we
have to look at the social sciences and explore the currents of
thought in disciplines that are closer in content to LIS. As we'll
see, the positions regarding the social sciences owe a huge debt to
the genealogy we've already delved into. In part the social
sciences embrace the prevailing stances in the sciences; in part
 What Is Real? 147

they react to these stances. The next chapter presents this

exploration.
 Chapter Four

False Starts and Dead Ends for

Social Science and LIS

Most of the previous three chapters are concerned with what we

might call the historical problematic, that is, the history, or
genealogy, of the social sciences and LIS (informed by Foucault’s
idea of history). While largely descriptive, this background serves
to enable us to understand the various, sometimes competing,
influences on contemporary social science. The variety, even the
competition, continues today, and this presents something of a
dilemma for us as we try to analyze the current state and move
towards a richer and more fruitful future. To simplify, the
dilemma can be expressed as a dichotomy. On one hand, social
science and LIS have embraced some form of scientistic determin-
ism and that path has led to little conceptually sound theory or
practice. On the other hand, some theory and practice in social
science and LIS have been informed by other conceptual bases.
In this chapter we'll examine the first path. We will do so with
the full understanding that the dichotomy is, to some extent, an
oversimplification (nothing in life is ever so easy that we can
create a clear either-or division). The unproductive and unsound
work that has been done is not always completely off the mark,

149
150 Chapter Four

but it can be found wanting. We should remember that the

historical problematic (the various examples of thought and
practice that have managed to find a foothold and exert some
influence in the past) is present to a greater or lesser degree in the
disciplines today.

Unity of Science

One idea that consistently recurs over time is the possibility

and desirability of the unity of the sciences. This notion dates
back as far as Bacon and finds champions over the centuries in
Hobbes, Condorcet, Saint-Simon, Comte, the logical empiricists,
and some (as we will soon see) today. A usual feature of this
belief is trust in the eventual discerning of a set of covering laws
that govern all disciplines. Appleby, Hunt, and Jacob refer to this
as the “heroic model of science,” and observe that a simple
dictum guides thought: “Imitate mechanical science, follow its
methods, seek laws for everything from human biology to the art
of governing—that was the advice bequeathed to the Western
world by the Enlightenment” (Appleby, Hunt, and Jacob, 1994,
15). The most fundamental underlying assumption of this belief
is that there is nothing in our being or experience that is extra-
natural, so natural laws hold sway over everything. Many have
tried to support this idea, and point to regularities in the natural
world and advances in natural science (perhaps most especially
biomedical science, including biogenetics and neuroscience) as
evidence of the correctness of this thought. Anomalies and even
failures are accounted for by a claim to progress; while we haven't
uncovered all the secrets of the natural world, we are on pace to
do so at some future time.
The connection between unity of science and covering laws
is a very important one. A persistent and widely held concept is
that the social sciences are a part of the natural sciences and some
fundamentals apply to both. The unifying link extends both to
theoretical constructs and to methods. If everything is reducible
to the physical world, then one set of laws should be discoverable
that would explain everything. Philosophers through the ages
 False Starts and Dead Ends 151

have grappled with the debate between dualism and monism. The
concept of dualism, usually associated with Descartes, holds that
there are two mutually irreducible things, such as the mind and
the body. For Kant the dualist distinction was based on a
separation of the object of sensory experience (which he called
phenomena) and the object of rationality (which he called
noumena). The monist position, in brief, is that there is only one
reality. That reality is most often assumed to be the physical, and
the mind is taken to be rooted in the physical being of the brain.
It would be rather difficult today to find many dualists; most
philosophers agree that some form of monism more aptly
captures human existence. Even with such apparent agreement,
however, there are several conceptions of monism (including
methodological monism) and they vary considerably according to
the suggested strength of the determinism of the physical. Some
stances, as we've seen, maintain that human behavior is governed
by predictable physical processes. Others hold that, while the
mind is not separable from the body, mental phenomena are too
complex to allow any sort of facile prediction.
One version of the monist position may be labeled “material-
ism” or “physicalism.” This stance was mentioned briefly in
chapter 2, but a bit more explication would be helpful here.
Materialism can be described as a position that

affirms that philosophy is continuous with the natural sciences.

. . . Historically, many materialists have held that causes in
question must be deterministic. A system is deterministic,
roughly speaking, if its state at any time is a necessary conse-
quence of its states at an earlier time conjoined with the laws of
nature. (Moser and Trout, 1995, 9, 11)

Materialism is an attractive stance in part because it incorporates

an attempt at finding causal relationships. Materialists tend to
agree that the source of causation lies in physical laws. For
instance, David Armstrong suggests a syllogism that captures the
causal strength of materialism based on natural law:
152 Chapter Four

1. The cause of all human (and animal) movements lies solely

in physical processes working solely according to the laws of
physics.
2. Purposes and beliefs, in their character of purposes and
beliefs, cause human (and animal) movements.
-.3. Purposes and beliefs are nothing but physical processes
working solely according to the laws of physics. (Armstrong,
1995, 42)

There is no problem with the logic of the syllogism, but the

premises are certainly disputable. If either 1 or 2 is erroneous,
then this fundamental idea of materialism collapses. One of the
points of materialism that is disputed is its ontological authority;
that is, the authority of physical science to tell us what is real,
what exists. We'll soon return to the strong physicalist stance
when we look more closely at behaviorism and the computational
theory of mind.
The assumption that covering laws can be found relies on a
more basic assumption: a discreet set of facts describes any given
phenomenon and the description of those facts enables complete
understanding and prediction. This assumption is apparent in
Fritz Machlup’s assessment of the natural and social sciences:

The main difference lies probably in the number of factors that

must be taken into account in explanations and predictions of
natural and social events. Only a small number of reproducible
facts will normally be involved in a physical explanation or
prediction. A much larger number of facts, some of them
probably unique historical events, will be found relevant in an
explanation or prediction of economic or other social events.
This is true, and methodological devices will not do away with
the difference. But it is, of course, only a difference in degree.
(Machlup, 1994, 6)

What sort of thinking would lead someone to utter such a claim?

For one thing, the social scientist, librarian, or information
scientist would have to believe (or act as though he or she
believes) that human behavior is no different from other phenom-
ena in the natural world. This means that our behavior is
 False Starts and Dead Ends iS!

governed by discernible, although possibly complex, physical

processes. This idea denies that human will is anything other
than a manifestation of those physical processes and that
anything other than definite physical causation is responsible for
what we do. I will take issue with this later; for now let’s focus on
the conceptual basis of this particular path.

What Is History?

The scientistic strain in social science and LIS has to resolve

some formidable questions. One of the most important is how
should we investigate our past, especially if the past functionally
determines the present and future. In other words, an important
question is, what is history? The path we're investigating now
relies, explicitly or tacitly, on the definition offered by Carl
Hempel (mentioned earlier, but reiterated here):

[G]eneral laws have quite analogous functions in history and in

the natural sciences, that they form an indispensable instru-
ment of historical research, and that they even constitute the
common basis of various procedures which are often considered
as characteristic of the social in contradistinction to the natural
sciences.
By a general law, we shall here understand a statement of
universal conditional form which is capable of being confirmed
or disconfirmed by suitable empirical findings. (Hempel, 1965,
231)

Hempel’s is an extreme claim; it is the equation of the physical

and social sciences in terms of both the foundation of thought
and of method. Of course this notion has not been adopted by
everyone. Even those who believe firmly in objectivity and
objective knowledge couldn’t swallow such a view of history. Karl
Popper, for instance, refuted such a notion in his The Poverty of
Historicism. He defines historicism as an approach to social science
that has prediction as its ultimate aim and seeks to accomplish
this goal by means of the discovery of explanatory laws (Popper,
154 Chapter Four

1957, 3). (There are several quite different definitions of histori-

cism; Popper’s is only one.)
The quest for historical laws did not originate with Hempel.
As Applegate, Hunt, and Jacob point out, claims of explanatory
history based on laws date back to the nineteenth century and
were influenced by the success of Newtonian mechanics in
predicting phenomena in the natural world. A science of society
would have to account for the past (Appleby, Hunt, and Jacob,
1994, 52-56). It should be noted that, while such bold claims as
Hempel’s raise eyebrows and receive attention, they haven't been
widely accepted by historians in this century (Novick, 1988,
393-95). It is other social sciences, such as economics, sociology,
and LIS, that may be more accepting of the quest of general laws
of history. Before we applaud the discipline of history for
avoiding some of the dead ends of other social sciences, let’s keep
in mind that, as a discipline, it has found the goal of objectivity
quite amenable. This goal has affected the practice of history for
some in the profession:

The assumptions on which it rests include a commitment to the

reality of the past, and to truth as correspondence to that
reality; a sharp separation between knower and known, between
fact and value, and, above all, between history and fiction.
Historical facts are seen as prior to and independent of interpre-
tation: the value of an interpretation is judged by how well it
accounts for the facts; if contradicted by the facts, it must be
abandoned. Truth is one, not perspectival. Whatever patterns
exist in history are “found,” not “made.” Though successive
generations of historians might, as their perspectives shifted,
attribute different significance to events in the past, the
meaning of those events was unchanging. (Novick, 1988, 1-2)

Novick is obviously describing a strong realist stance; mitigated

stances can readily admit to the need for interpretation.
Hempel’s idea of history contains a couple of elements that
invoke aspects of the genealogy, previously discussed. For one
thing, Hempel’s confidence in the eventual discovery of historical
laws hearkens back to the Enlightenment. Alisdair MacIntyre
observes that Enlightenment thinkers were “infant Hempelians”; 2)

they grounded explanation in generalization that would lead to

 False Starts and Dead Ends 155

uncovering regularity in the form of laws. Perfectability of the

human condition would depend on the explanation and predic-
tion that would result from the effort at uncovering laws (MacIn-
tyre, 1984, 88). A second point in Hempel’s conception (and
also in the goal of historical objectivity) is that the inquirer
approaches a question from a position of neutrality. Neutrality
manifests itself in at least two ways: (1) the researcher does not
commit to a particular theory, since such a commitment would
blind that individual to the reality that waits to be discovered; (2)
the researcher adopts no values and no valuation of the observed
facts or of the researcher’s position.
The first element is unabashedly Baconian and echoes
Newton’s claim, “Hypotheses non fingo [I feign no hypotheses].”
The second is wracked with problems, not the least of which are
logical. The very act of observing is a value judgment; some
evidence is sought and examined on purpose. Something is
leading the inquirer to observe certain things and not others; the
alternative is hopeless confusion. For this reason numerous
writers have discussed the theory-dependency of observation.
Further, some quasi-theoretical position is leading the researcher
to ask certain questions, and then gather the data; otherwise the
researcher would be paralyzed by the possible questions with no
way to begin the inquiry. Appleby, Hunt, and Jacob state,

The notion of objectivity inherited from the scientific revolu-

tion made it sound as if the researcher went into a trance,
cleared his mind, polished the mind’s mirror, and trained it on
the object of investigation. Of course, there were methods to be
followed, but the beliefs, values, and interests that defined the
researcher as a person were simply brushed aside in this
deception to allow the mirror to capture the reflection to
capture nature’s storehouse of wonders. (Appleby, Hunt, and
Jacob, 1994, 260-61)

The ideal of neutrality may also be expressed, as Brian Fay

does, as objectivism. At the simplest level objectivism entails a
view of reality that is based on its complete independence of the
mental. At a deeper level objectivism
156 Chapter Four

derives from the importance of eliminating those subjective

elements which becloud our mental perception. Since objec-
tive truth is achieved by ridding ourselves of deceptive mental
elements, objectivity can also be defined as the cognitive state
of lacking a priori categories and conceptions, desires, emotions,
value-judgments, and the like which necessarily mislead and
thereby prevent attaining objective truth. (Fay, 1996, 202)

As we saw in the last chapter, there is ample warrant to agree

with the claim that there is a reality independent of our minds.
A problem arises, though, when this belief is extended to the
claim that we are able to shed all preconceptions, prejudice—in
short, all theory. The dead ends we will examine momentarily
tend to assume that ability. This error amounts to denying our
humanity.

Progress and Advancement

Hempel aside, there are some persistent assumptions that
tend to be included in most, if not all, of the unproductive
peregrinations in the social sciences. Some of these assumptions
subsume Hempel’s version of historicism (in Popper’s sense) and
some transcend it. Alexander Rosenberg enumerates three
fundamental assumptions that seem to capture a central dilemma.
He writes that comparisons between natural and social sciences
“presuppose (1) that we know what progress in natural science is
and how to measure it; (2) that based on our measurements, the
natural sciences have made more progress; and (3) that the social
sciences aim for the same kind of progress as the natural sciences”
(Rosenberg, 1995, 6). The line of thought that is our focus in this
chapter embraces these assumptions uncritically. It boils down to
a very particular definition of success that contains some key
parts. For instance, when it comes to method it is supposed that
the methods of the natural sciences are the product of those
disciplines’ maturity, so they will lead to the most successful
results. This ignores the reality that there is no single scientific
method, because the sciences are themselves different from one
 False Starts and Dead Ends 157

another. The assumptions affect theory and practice in the social

sciences and LIS. One aspect of method that some of the natural
sciences do share is the possibility to construct a closed system;
that is, the opportunity exists to isolate certain variables and
eliminate others so that effects of changing conditions or intro-
duction of a particular variable can be observed. Not all sciences
are able to construct closed systems, but vo social science can. As
Andrew Sayer explains, “Human actions characteristically modify
the configuration of systems, thereby violating the extrinsic
conditions for closure, while our capacity for learning and self-
change violates the intrinsic condition” (Sayer, 1992, 123).
At this point it may seem as though I am constructing a straw
man, that no social scientists embody the characteristics dis-
cussed so far. To be sure, not all in the social sciences and LIS
operate according to the aforementioned assumptions. Many may
agree with Michael Scriven, who draws an important distinction
between two visions for the future of the social sciences: “First,
there is the thesis that it will be possible to improve predictions
and explanations indefinitely. Second, there is the thesis that it
will be possible to improve predictions and explanation in every
case, and to an indefinitely high degree [emphasis in original] of
approximation” (Scriven, 1966, 76). Scriven agrees with the first
thesis, but not the second, because of the elusiveness of data and
the improbability of solving specific social problems. However,
even someone as committed to the variability of human behavior
and social action as Robert Merton can envision that sociologists
may

begin to ask: is a science of society really possible unless we

institute a total system of sociology? But this perspective
ignores the fact that between twentieth-century physics and
twentieth-century sociology stands billions of man-hours of
sustained, disciplined, and cumulative research. Perhaps
sociology is not yet ready for its Einstein because it has not yet
found its Kepler—to say nothing of its Newton, Laplace, Gibbs,
Maxwell, or Planck. (Merton, 1967, 47)

At a fundamental level, Merton expresses a belief that unity of

science is possible and desirable.
158 Chapter Four

The points made so far in this chapter cry for evidence. We

will now turn our attention to particular examples of the embodi-
ment of the assumptions and practices mentioned above. The
first examples are taken from the social sciences; they are not
obscure instances but substantive and influential works. Next we
will examine some examples from LIS. As we will see, LIS thought
and work are consistent with other social sciences. The purpose
of these examinations is not to rail against opposing views of
theory and method; in fact, in each case there are many positive
elements, just as there were positive elements of logical empiri-
cism. Also, the purpose is not to denigrate the efforts of others.
This book is intended to instruct, and instruction depends to a
considerable extent on learning from the mistakes of the past.
That said, there are some serious flaws inherent in the examples
addressed. The falseness of the starts and the deadness of the
ends will become apparent.

Skinner’s Behaviorism

Just as it would be foolish to reject determinism in every

sense, so too would it be foolish to say that we've learned nothing
over the years from behaviorist psychology. We also must
remember that, just as positivism does not mean one thing only,
behaviorism is not a single, unified theory and research program.
Behavior theorists such as John B. Watson, Edward C. Tolman,
and Clark Hull were not entirely in agreement as to the causes of
human behavior and where behaviorism should go in the future.
As is the case with positivism, though, there are some theses or
tenets that, while not held in their entirety by everyone who
would claim to be a behaviorist, are common to the thinking of
many. For the purpose of analysis, the focus here will be on the
behaviorist claims of B. F. Skinner, particularly as stated in his
Science and Human Behavior (all of the quotes from Skinner will be
to this text (Skinner, 1965 [1953]); page numbers will be noted).
Our attention will be on Skinner because his behaviorism was
more radical than most and because he has had such a broad and
deep influence.
 False Starts and Dead Ends 159

There is another reason for focusing on Skinner that is

appropriate to this book. Not only did he mount an extensive
research program based on his behaviorist thought, but he also
sought to develop a cogent epistemology. Suresh Kanekar sums
up Skinner’s position: “Knowledge is behavior and valid knowl-
edge is effective behavior” (Kanekar, 1992, 132). Skinner did
indeed contemplate what constitutes knowledge, but what passes
for epistemology is actually a pragmatic philosophical stance that
negates the possibility of epistemology. Why does his stance
negate epistemology? Epistemology is defined by normative
characteristics, including justification for knowledge and some
approximation of truth. His stance is strictly empiricist; only the
observation of demonstrable behavior has any validity. Skinner’s
empiricism begs comparison with the scientistic strain that is
conventionally labeled positivism. His link with this school of
thought is not based in logical positivism (or logical empiricism),
though. For one thing, he was loath to seek or impose rules of
logic on human behavior; behavior simply manifests itself with
only biological rules to guide it. Another point of departure was
Skinner’s dismissal of the importance of language as either a
synthetic or an analytic tool.
Skinner’s affinity for positivism had its foundation in an
earlier version, as propounded by Ernst Mach. In a previous
chapter we got a taste of Mach’s thinking, which is characterized
by reductionism and phenomenalism. Skinner wrote his doctoral
dissertation on the extension of the phenomenon of physical
reflex to human behavior, using Mach’s idea of history as a means
of revealing the physicalist foundation of reality shorn of
metaphysical obfuscation. Mach had taken his intellectual and
methodological cues from Bacon. His empiricism was inductivist,
he put little stock in theory or hypothesis. And even that
empiricism, for Skinner, was instrumental; hypotheses and
theories were avoided because they led the psychologist to
“ineffective” behavior. We’ve already seen some of the serious
flaws of inductivism; it is no more productive for Skinner and
behaviorism. His operationalism and instrumentalism are further
evidence that his position did not conform to most epistemolo-
gists’ ideas of knowledge. Not only did he not see a correspon-
160 Chapter Four

dence between knowledge and truth, but he also did not see any
correspondence between knowledge and meaning. As Laurence
Smith says, “For Skinner, what is traditionally spoken of as the
‘meaning’ or ‘reference’ of a term was to be found only in its
actual use. In this radically naturalized account of meaning, there
could be no relation of correspondence between a term and its
referent, much less between a mentalistic ‘idea’ and some object
that it stands for” (Smith, 1986, 285). Smith’s interpretation of
Skinner’s instrumentalism illustrates a problem with such
instrumentalism generally. Skinner is not alone in avoiding, even
denying, any meaning of a word or term that exists a priori to a
person’s use of it. If that were so, humans would be speechless.
Imagine trying to find a way to express a thought, emotion, or
action if you were unaware of previously established or agreed
upon meanings of words. Imagine the existence of a dictionary if
such meanings didn’t exist.
Skinner’s own words provide the most conclusive evidence of
scientism and determinism. His scientism was also instrumental
in its reductionism. All human behavior could be reduced to
simple biological causes, causes that are no different from those
that lead to certain behavior in animals. “Human behavior is
distinguished by its complexity, its variety, and its greater
accomplishments, but the basic processes are not therefore
necessarily different. . . . We study the behavior of animals
because it is simpler” (38). The latter statement is indicative of
an operational leap that Skinner makes from the former. One
problem is that he does not provide sufficient empirical ground-
ing to make either statement. The examples that are rife through-
out the book are of birds that are “conditioned” to peck at a
button in order to effect a particular outcome. The leap occurs
when the behavior of the bird is not distinguished from human
behavior which, as many researchers have shown, is nowhere near
so regular. Moreover, Skinner himself is engaged in something
that no animal is remotely capable of—the explanation of
behavior. Is this not different in kind from animal behavior?
Skinner’s determinism is absolute and works in two ways. First,
all human behavior is determined by physical causes. Second,
behavior, once its cause is understood, can be controlled. “We
 False Starts and Dead Ends 161

must expect to discover that what a man does is the result of

specifiable conditions and that once these conditions have been
discovered, we can anticipate and to some extent determine his
actions” (6). Even intellectual activity is purportedly included by
Skinner’s behaviorism: “We cannot rigorously account for the
origin of important ideas in the history of science because many
relevant facts have long since become unavailable” (255). The
assumption is that there are identifiable facts that determine
thought and that they can be available, thus allowing explanation
and prediction. The inability of behaviorists to explain contempo-
rary thought didn’t seem to affect Skinner’s claim.
These shortcomings are closely related to limitations that
have been detailed in earlier chapters. There is another failing
that has also been discussed and that depends on a willful denial
of the actual language of Skinner’s. Throughout Science and
Human Behavior are assertions of value neutrality; the researcher
neither imposes value through theory or method nor assumes
value in the behavior being examined. This assertion is a fiction;
value judgments pervade the book. Skinner spoke of improving
the efficiency of behavior; a criterion such as efficiency is
ineluctably based on some assessment of value. Equating human
behavior with animal behavior is also a value judgment. Perhaps
most importantly, Skinner’s program of controlling behavior can
only be seen as an expression of value. Skinner tried to muddy
this issue, but his denials of value judgment ring hollow. He
wrote that reinforcement such as an edict to love one’s neighbor
“may also be used, of course, to coerce an individual into
behaving in a fashion which resembles loving his neighbor, and
indeed is probably most often used for this reason, but again this
is not what is meant by a value judgment” (429). Barry Schwartz
and Hugh Lacey, using the behaviorist’s analysis of factory work,
sum up a major source of behaviorism’s dead end:

Behavior theory may tell us why behavior in the factory looks

the way it does. But it does not tell us how there came to be
factories, or what work was like before them, or how factory
organization might have changed the nature of work. By
treating the factory as a general model of behavior, behavior
162 Chapter Four

theory ignores social and historical influences that help make

factory work intelligible. By ignoring those other influences,
behavior theory mistakenly claims to have discovered princi-
ples that are comprehensive. (Schwartz and Lacey, 1982, 257)

Whether Skinner accepted it or not, behaviorism was

founded on a fairly elaborate theoretical construct. His book
demonstrated quite clearly that his empiricism was not entirely
inductivist, but was based on a set of hypotheses that are
indicated by the assumptions mentioned above. The assumptions,
over time, were shown by the behaviorist program to be inade-
quate. As was the case with logical positivism, behaviorism wrote
its own obituary: its findings could not support its premises. It
was, as Larry Briskman observes,

a degenerating research programme. That is, specific theories

developed within the programme were continuously refuted and
constantly replaced with weaker, more trivial, and more ad hoc
ones; fundamental notions such as ‘stimulus’ and ‘reinforce-
ment’ became vaguer and vaguer, until virtually anything could
qualify; and awkward, refuting results came to be explained in
terms of assumptions which broke the internal constraints of
the research programme itself. In other words, I want to suggest
that the poverty of Behaviourism’s achievements in helping us
to understand behaviour was the result of its false theoretical
assumptions. (Briskman, 1984, 110)

Behaviorism, however, is not dead and gone. A search of

contemporary social science literature (including, but not limited
to, psychology) yields numerous citations to contributions that
address behaviorism in some way. Many of the publications
indicate sympathy with, even acceptance of, the behaviorist
program. One example will suffice to show that some of the
fundamental ideas expressed by Skinner are embraced by some
today. Kanekar, who takes issue with some of Skinner’s positions,
is nonetheless an apologist for strong behaviorism, going so far as
to claim that an individual’s beliefs are absolutely determined by
the individual’s past (Kanekar, 1992). Kanekar’s stance is
problematic for several reasons, not the least of which is his
 False Starts and Dead Ends 163

insistence on the efficacy of a scientific study of behavior while

simultaneously adopting a strong anti-realist position (that is,
there is no correspondence, for instance, between knowledge
claims and external reality or truth) and claiming that empirical
examination of behavior in the purely physical sense is the only
path to knowledge. In short, Kanekar exhibits many of the
practical and epistemological contradictions that Skinner did.
The social sciences and LIS must examine their positions to see
if similar contradictions are present.

Herrnstein and Murray on

Intelligence and Race
It’s not often that an ostensibly scholarly book results in
massive sales, talk-show appearances, and raging controversy, but
such has been the case with The Bell Curve. It may be one of those
books that everyone talks about but few actually read. On the
face of it, this is a massive study, based on large sets of available
data, of the heritability of intelligence and the social implications
of that possibility. The authors present every semblance of
objectivity, completeness, and lack of a priori bias as part of what
purports to be a serious examination of a serious subject. In fact,
however, the authors are highly selective in their background
information, slipshod in their presentation of statistical data, and
contentious in their conclusions. A number of commentators have
accused Herrnstein and Murray of abuse and misuse of data.
Also, there are explicit political links between this book and work
that has been funded by the Pioneer Fund, which has a history of
supporting eugenics and, according to its charter, is connected to
promoting “race betterment” (Lane, 1995, 127-28). If we accept,
as I believe we must, that all inquiry is theory laden, then the
theory (defined broadly as the conceptual foundation of study or
thought) is certainly not only fair game for investigation, but
essential to any understanding of inquiry.
As was just mentioned, The Bell Curve is massive; it is
impossible (and unnecessary) to examine every detail. It is more
fruitful to look at the premises, methods, and central conclusions
164 Chapter Four

of the work as they betray a decidedly scientistic determinism. At

the very outset of the book the authors present perhaps the most
fundamental assumption: “that intelligence is a reasonably well-
understood construct, measured with accuracy and fairness by
any number of standardized mental tests” (Herrnstein and
Murray, 1994, 1; future page references will be to this edition].
Intelligence is by no means an agreed upon concept; scholars
disagree as to the definition of intelligence and how to assess it.
It is not uncommon, nor is it a cause of concern, for research to
be based on a controversial assumption; it is, however, disingenu-
ous for researchers to deny the controversy or to make claims for
consensus that are not warranted. Herrnstein and Murray
consistently assert that a particular measure of intelligence is
necessarily accurate and comprehensive. They sum up their
claims in six points:

1. There is such a thing as a general factor of cognitive ability

on which human beings differ.
2. All standardized tests of academic aptitude or achievement
measure this general factor to some degree, but IQ tests
expressly designed for that purpose measure it most accurately.
3. IQ scores match, to a first degree, whatever it is that people
mean when they use the word intelligent or smart [emphasis in
original] in ordinary language.
4. IQ scores are stable, although not perfectly so, over much of
a person’s life.
5. Properly administered IQ tests are not demonstrably biased
against social, economic, ethnic, or racial groups.
6. Cognitive ability is substantially heritable, apparently no less
than 40 percent and no more than 80 percent. (22-23)

The last point is crucial; their entire program rests on the

assumption that intelligence is substantially heritable. They
further operate on the premise that a midpoint, 60 percent, is a
conservative estimate of the proportion of heritability. The claim
is made without substantive support, though. Other scholars have
conducted a careful and large-scale examination of studies of
heritability, and take issue with the authors’ claim. The scholars
found that narrow-sense heritability, which they say is the
measure used by Herrnstein and Murray, is approximately 34
 False Starts and Dead Ends 165

percent (Daniels, Devlin, and Roeder, 1997, 58). This figure is

very different from the mark used in The Bell Curve; if the schol-
ars’ estimate is a reasonable one, then heritability is not nearly so
strong a predictive element of intelligence as Herrnstein and
Murray claim. But the authors persist in conveying “the impres-
sion that one’s intelligence simply exists as an innate fact of
life—unanalyzed and unanalyzable—as if it were hidden in a
black box. Inside the box there is a single number, IQ, which
determines vast social consequences” (Gardner, 1995, 66). Such
a conclusion is warranted by statements made by Herrnstein and
Murray themselves, such as, “In reality, what most interventions
accomplish is to move children from awful environments to ones
that are merely below average, and such changes are limited in
their potential consequences when heritability so constrains the
limits of environmental effects” (109). Two aspects of this
statement cry for examination (and these are my points, not
theirs):

A. Heritability is the determining factor when it comes to

intelligence.
B. Environmental aspects are linear in effect; that is, movement
from poor to better environments results in a clear linear
improvement.

There is no evidence that leads us to concede either of these

points.
Operating on these faulty premises, Herrnstein and Murray
employ statistical methods to examine data and to affirm their
assumptions. One point cannot be emphasized enough
here—there is nothing inherently wrong with using quantitative
methods to study social phenomena. To the contrary, statistical
analysis is a powerful and extremely useful research tool.
However, neither is quantitative analysis inherently correct. This
is a point that will be reiterated later. It is not that Herrnstein
and Murray falsify data, but they tend to report findings in such
a way as to fortify their conclusions. For instance, on page 73
they present a table on the validity of the General Aptitude Test
Battery. They claim the correlations presented are strong, but the
figures range from .23 to .58 in rating proficiency. It is likely that
166 Chapter Four

few statisticians would make an unequivocal statement that the

numbers represent strong correlations. In their appendix the
authors note briefly that squaring the correlation coefficient
yields an important number (564). This measure is usually
referred to as the coefficient of determination and is taken to
mean that the independent variable explains a certain percentage
of variation in the dependent variable. (Of course the explana-
tory power is limited; there is no way for the statistical analysis
to lead us to a clear understanding of why covariance occurs, for
instance.) As a coarse example, if a researcher finds a correlation
of .6 between library instruction and changes in students’ grade
point averages, then a conclusion might be that library instruc-
tion explains 36 percent (1°=.36) of the change in grade point
average. (There is, of course, much more to such research, but the
example illustrates computation of the coefficient of determina-
tion, .) Herrnstein and Murray do not report the r* figure in the
table on page 73 or, by and large, in subsequent tables.
In another appendix the authors present all of the correlation
data, a total of sixty-one measures. Here they do report the
coefficient of determination, which contradicts their strong claims
that border on statements of causation. At one point they state,
“For most of the worst social problems of our time, the people
who have the problem are heavily concentrated in the lower
portion of the cognitive ability distribution. Any practical
solution must therefore be capable of succeeding with such
people” (369). This implies that low cognitive ability causes
social problems. At another point they present more data that
seem to show that IQ is the reason for lower earnings. We should
take a closer look at the data they present in the appendix. (And
we should ask why they do not report the coefficient of determi-
nation in the text, especially given the importance they attach to
their findings.) For ease of reading, the coefficients of determina-
tion (translated as percentages) are shown in table 4.1. The table
indicates how many of the sixty-one measures fall into each range
of values.
 False Starts and Dead Ends 167

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Table 4.1
r Values (as Percentages)

Range: 0<10% 10-20% 20-30% 30-40% >40%

Number: 43 8 3 5 22

Range of r’ values: .12% to 45.17%

Briefly stated, the data in the table show that in forty-three out
of sixty-one cases, the independent variable explained less than
10 percent of variation in the dependent variable. These are
indeed interesting findings, but the body of the book does not tell
us why they’re interesting. The obfuscation represents a major
failing of The Bell Curve. In the last chapter I quoted Alvin
Goldman, who provides the most effective response to the
constructivist claim that facts are negotiated. He says that it is
understanding, not facts, that is negotiated; to say otherwise is
false. Herrnstein and Murray make the opposite of the
constructivist claim, asserting that facts are simply there waiting
to be discovered and then they conflate the stated understanding
with the fact. Goldman’s admonition still stands; Herrnstein and
Murray do present an argument for understanding (an argument
that is fatally flawed) and they take their argument to be a
statement of fact.
In addition to Herrnstein and Murray’s claim of heritability
being much stronger than the data support, so is their
unequivocal statement that there is a single, agreed upon measure
of intelligence, the g factor. This is at the heart of the first of their
six points which, they say, is “by now beyond significant technical
dispute” (22). In a work such as The Bell Curve this sort of claim
can only be taken as being unforgivably incompetent or willfully
misleading. There certainly are psychologists who would agree
with the authors, but, just as certainly, there are those who
disagree. As David Layzer points out, Cyril Burt, an avowed
hereditarian (and fraud) was convinced that intelligence cannot
be directly measured (Layzer, 1995, 666). (Burt’s work has been
168 Chapter Four

discredited as fabricated, but Herrnstein ‘and Murray offer a

defense of Burt’s work.)

The case of Cyril Burt refuses to go away. It is still

debated in psychology journals and in popular maga-
zines. While Burt has a number of defenders, there is no
doubt that he manipulated data. Further, he manufac-
tured two collaborators who, if they existed at all, had no
role in his research. The support of Burt’s work flies in
the face of the supposed objectivity of data analysis.

The authors barely acknowledge dissenters from their view,

referring to some, such as Robert Sternberg, as revisionist, and
some, such as Howard Gardner, as radicals. Such intellectual
gerrymandering is irresponsible at the least.
While Herrnstein and Murray dismiss scholars who disagree
with them, they do rely on a couple of individuals whose motives
might be questioned. One is Richard Lynn, who stated in an
article, “Who can doubt that Caucasoids and the Mongoloids are
the only two races that have made any significant contribution to
civilization?” (quoted in Giroux and Searls, 1996, 80). Leon
Kamin has examined some of Lynn’s work and has found that
Lynn at times selectively reports the results of other research.
Lynn has noted the results of a test of Zambian copper miners
and derives an average IQ of 75 (based on an average of thirty-
four correct responses on the Progressive Matrices test). He does
not include, from the same study, the results of some Soweto
students, who averaged forty-five correct responses on the same
test (the average number of correct responses by white students
at that time was forty-four) (amin, 1995, 85). More problem-
atic is the reliance of Herrnstein and Murray on the work of J.
Philippe Rushton. Rushton’s reputation and scholarship has been
defended by the likes of Irving Louis Horowitz, a widely re-
spected sociologist. Rushton’s work does, however, have strong
physicalist elements that lead to conclusions that have been
 False Starts and Dead Ends 169

questioned. Some of his work has involved the measurement of

cranial capacity, brain size, and penis size and has led him to the
conclusion that there is an inverse relationship between some
physical characteristics (penis size and sex drive) and intelligence.
The Bell Curve illustrates well that, regardless of the subject of
inquiry, human understanding works out through language.
Human behavior is, by and large, rational, but behavior also may
involve rationalization. Herrnstein and Murray appear to have a
specific political agenda; this is evident in the sections of the
book dealing with public policy (for instance, they say their
results support the policy of school choice, including vouchers).
The language used by Herrnstein and Murray, especially in light
of the serious methodological shortcomings of the book, may be
seen as ideological; that is, the language used is an expression of
domination and legitimation. Regarding the assertion in The Bell
Curve that poverty is due to bad luck and genetics (130), Joyce
King counters, “Suggesting that bad luck and bad blood explain
societal inequity in this way represents just one instance of the
‘oppressive language’ in The Bell Curve that serves to legitimate
the status quo by obscuring the relations of power that are largely
responsible for it” (King, 1996, 183). Herrnstein and Murray
essentially reify IQ; they take one measure of intelligence and use
that measure to mean cognitive ability. Further, they take
cognitive ability and use that to mean the cause of social ills.
Stephen J. Gould sums up the only possible assessment of The
Bell Curve: it is “biological determinism as a social philosophy.
. . . The book is a rhetorical masterpiece of scientism, and it
benefits from the particular kind of fear that numbers impose on
nonprofessional commentators” (Gould, 1995, 5, 7).
Even in light of these criticisms, The Bell Curve still has its
supporters. In a recent issue of the magazine Commentary,
Christopher Chabris comes to the defense of the book. Some of
his points are cogent and should be acknowledged here. It is
possible to arrive at some measure of achievement; further,
heredity does have something to do with the ability of each
individual. No one would dispute these claims, but they are banal
in their simplicity. The most sophisticated research warns us not
to succumb to temptations of determinism when it comes to
170 Chapter Four

heredity and intelligence. Chabris faults political liberals for

twisting the conclusions of Herrnstein and Murray. | gladly
confess to being a political liberal, but my liberalism is not what
informs my assessment of the methods employed by Herrnstein
and Murray and the bias that is evident in their presentation.
Chabris concludes by saying, “The most basic claim put forth by
Herrnstein and Murray was that smart people do better than
dumb people. What is so troubling about that?” (Chabris, 1998,
40). What is troubling is that their real claims focus on public
policy and do so by ignoring the possible influences on intelli-
gence and the social context in which we measure, report on, and
act on the concept of intelligence. Scientistic determinism is, in
large part, a denial of the social and the mental in favor of the
exigency of facile reductionism.

Wilson and the Unity of Knowledge

This section is a bit of a departure in that it is not about
practice in a social science. It is about a vision for the social
sciences. Edward O. Wilson, renowned entomologist, has been
working on his idea of the unity of knowledge for a number of
years. For some time he has maintained that sociobiology is at the
heart of the sciences and of life itself. In his most recent book,
Consilience, he tries to articulate a complete argument for the
unifying essence of knowledge. Of course other people have
attempted this kind of ambitious program before, but Wilson’s
work has been very influential in the past and Consilience is
receiving considerable attention in the popular and the scholarly
press.
Wilson includes a brief and highly idiosyncratic history of the
Enlightenment by relating a naively optimistic version of the
period. He intends to focus on the Enlightenment aim of unifying
all knowledge, but he neglects to tell us of the goal to be achieved
by subsuming everything into some idea of what science should
be. Wilson willingly acknowledges that the Enlightenment
provided us with the deep roots of modernism, but he does not
admit that eighteenth-century science was also a product of the
 False Starts and Dead Ends 171

culture and political economy of the day. He concludes his

history of the Enlightenment with a jab at postmodernism, failing
to understand two essential aspects of the postmodern: (1) it is
not one simple, clear, definable, agreed-upon thing; (2) it is, in
many important ways, an extension of modernism. He then
acknowledges that Michel Foucault grasped that there is a power
struggle between extremes—skeptics who see no grand narrative
and no ultimate truth, no teleology at work, and materialists who
admit to nothing at all but the physical. Wilson then dismisses
Foucault completely, as though Foucault has said nothing worth
listening to. One may disagree with Foucault (and others), but a
serious attempt to understand the world and humans in it should
address the kinds of concerns Foucault raised. Wilson’s facade of
tolerance appears to be shallow.
Wilson’s materialism is most evident in his chapter on the
mind. He begins it by asserting, “Belief in the intrinsic unity of
knowledge—the reality of the labyrinth—rides ultimately on the
hypothesis that every mental process has a physical grounding
and is consistent with the natural sciences. .. . All that has been
learned empirically about evolution in general and mental process
in particular suggests that the brain is a machine assembled not
to understand itself, but to service” (Wilson, 1998, 96; further
references will be to this text). The latter statement is at the heart
of a theoretical premise that defines Wilson’s idea of socio-
biology, as well as the strong adaptationist notions of Richard
Dawkins and others. This adaptationist stance is anchored by the
staunch Darwinian belief that, if something (some species of
plant, insect, animal, or human) has survived, then its survival
is due to its having adapted itself more effectively than have other
species. Of course there’s something to that idea. Many species
have apparently adapted to take advantage of changes in the
environment and have thrived. Many others have perished. The
materialist thought of Wilson has it that the same biological
determinism that may be witnessed with regard to, say, insect
species, also applies to humans. This kind of biological determin-
ism leads Wilson to proclaim, “The brain and its satellite glands
have now been probed to the point where no particular site
remains that can reasonably be supposed to harbor a nonphysical
172 Chapter Four

mind” (99). It may be that there is no nonphysical mind, but

Wilson’s statement is no proof of that assertion. If the premise is
that there is no nonphysical mind, then a search for it in physical
matter would be pointless; its existence could be neither proved
nor disproved. While it is completely understandable to say, “I
am skeptical of the existence of a nonphysical mind because I can
find no evidence of it,” it borders on the scientifically irresponsi-
ble (according to Wilson’s own rules) to say, “I have found no
evidence of a nonphysical mind, therefore it doesn’t exist.” The
latter claim is not science; it is ideology. Also, it’s the kind of
faulty logic that advances neither science nor the social sciences.
Since Wilson is aiming at a kind of Theory of Everything, he
eventually sets his sights squarely on the social sciences. He says,
“People expect from the social sciences . . . the knowledge to
understand their lives and control their futures. They want the
power to predict, not the preordained unfolding of events, which
does not exist, but what will happen if society selects one course
of action over another” (181). At various points in his life Wilson
has urged us not to confuse “ought” with “is.” His notion of vox
populi regarding the social sciences can be seen as the “is.” Many
social scientists for generations have tried counter with “ought”;
the social sciences are not tools for control, but aids to under-
standing. With the social sciences Wilson is not exactly forgetting
his rule of thumb, but he is rewriting “ought” to be the goal of
prediction and control. Moreover, prediction and control are
rendered possible if all is biologically determined. To Wilson, the
social science with the greatest potentiality for achieving the
deterministic end is economics, especially because it resembles
the sciences “in style and self-confidence” and is “fortified with
mathematical models” (195). Wilson doesn’t bother to recount
the failures of economics over the years, which may be due in
large part to the creation of a model based on a closed system
(which may be effective in some scientific fields, as we’ve seen,
because the closed system adequately approximates some aspects
of the natural world). A closed system, however, is a poor model
of human behavior, and the rule of parsimony (Occam’s Razor)
that Wilson is so fond of is not very effective in the extreme in
the social sciences. Further, as Theodore Porter aptly points out,
 False Starts and Dead Ends 173

“Mapping mathematics onto the world is always difficult and

problematical. Critics of quantification in the natural sciences as
well as in social and humanistic fields have often felt that reliance
on numbers simply evades the deep and important issues”
(Porter, 1995, 5).
Very early in Consilience Wilson says, “The unification agenda
does not sit well with a few professional philosophers. The subject
I address they consider their own, to be expressed in their
language, their framework of formal thought. They will draw this
indictment: conflation, simplism, ontological reductionism, scientism
[emphasis in original], and other sins made official by the hissing
suffix. To which I plead guilty, guilty, guilty. Now let us move on,
thus” (11). His dismissal is not sufficient; reductionism and
scientism, as we have seen, are intensely problematic. The
problems are rife throughout sociobiology generally and through
this book in particular. Lewontin, Rose, and Kamin turn a critical
eye to biological determinism and provide a cogent analysis that
points out flaws. For one thing, this determinism is not apolitical,
and Wilson must know this (the list of people he includes in his
book as having influenced his thought includes Newt Gingrich).
More to the point, Lewontin, Rose, and Kamin emphasize that
“the relation between gene, environment, organism, and society
is complex in a way not encompassed by simple reductionist
argument” (Lewontin, Rose, and Kamin, 1984, 266). Tzvetan
Todorov, in a review of Consilience, expressed agreement with their
assessment:

Surely the nature of knowledge differs with the object of knowledge.

The laws of living organisms and the ‘laws’ of human history are
differently known, with different standards of evidence and
certainty. The qualities that are demanded of scientists and scholars
in one realm are not the qualities that are demanded of scientists in
another realm, beyond the common requirement of rigor. (Todorov,
10330)

These notions maintain that more than one way of thinking is

needed to understand human phenomena. Wilson, for his part,
seems to interpret this pluralism as antagonistic to science. He
says, the Standard Social Science Model “sees culture as an
174 Chapter Four

independent phenomenon irreducible to elements of biology and

psychology, thus the product of environment and historical
antecedents” (188). Here Wilson makes a serious error in his leap
of reasoning: the claim that the social is not reducible to the
physical is not a denial that the social is strongly influenced by
the physical.
The major difficulties with Wilson’s program center on what
his science can’t explain. If, for instance, postmodernism (or his
version of it) is bankrupt, then how would people have conceived
of it and why do people cling to it? If humans are rational
creatures pointed toward survival of the species, then why have
there been such devastating wars, the buildup of weapons of mass
destruction, the destruction of rain forests, etc.? If Darwinism is
an appropriate model for the study of humans and other species,
how did social Darwinism and eugenics come to be? At one point
Wilson claims, “Behavioral scientists from another planet would
notice immediately the semiotic resemblance between animal
submissive behavior on the one hand and human obeisance to
religious and civil authority on the other. They would point out
that the most elaborate rites of obeisance are directed at the gods,
the hyperdominant if invisible members of the human group”
(259). This thought experiment is absurd; the fundamentals of
“obeisance” are different. Plus, how would Wilson explain
atheism, civil disobedience, and even crime? If these are patholo-
gies, why are they so widespread? He further claims that
Western philosophy’s “involuted exercises and professional
timidity have left modern culture bankrupt of meaning” (269),
but how did this come to be if humans are rational and striving
for survival? To denounce all of philosophy with a wave of the
hand is intellectually irresponsible.
Wilson’s program is basically a severely strained tautology.
Biological determinism is responsible for the present state of the
human species; if certain behaviors are common to humans, then
the deterministic state explains that behavior. He denies genetic
determinism at one point in Consilience, but if he is true to that
denial, then his program falls apart. The program depends on
reductionism. As I’ve said before, some reductionism is essential
to the study of a question; if we didn’t reduce aspects of problems
 False Starts and Dead Ends WHS

we would have no way of studying them. Wilson’s reductionism

is extreme, and therein is the dilemma. Lewontin, Rose, and
Kamin examine Wilson’s reductionism in sociobiology:

Sociobiology is a reductionist, biological deterministic explana-

tion of human existence. Its adherents claim, first, that the
details of present and past social arrangements are the inevita-
ble manifestations of the specific action of genes. Second, they
argue that the particular genes that lie at the basis of human
society have been selected in evolution because the traits they
determine result in higher reproductive fitness of the individuals
that carry them. (Lewontin, Rose, and Kamin, 1984, 236)

Where reductionism goes wrong is when it breaks things down,

selects certain attributes, then conflates those attributes with the
thing itself. The result is reification. For example, researchers
inquiring into use patterns in public libraries may reduce the
many potential variables to gender, personal income, and place of
residence. Looking at the variables, they may find that library
users tend to be upper-middle-class women who live less than a
mile from a library branch. Based on that they may influence
libraries to define the population of users as the community,
develop collections, access, and services aimed at that population,
thus turning the library into a mechanism geared to serve only a
small portion of the community.
The principal message of Consilience is that science is the
answer (“The only way either to establish or to refute consilience
is by methods developed in the natural sciences” [9]). There is
only one way to think about human and social phenomena. The
determinism that guides and constrains the individual applies to
society as well. A generous appraisal of Wilson’s program would
be that it is naive optimism. A more critical assessment would
have to focus on the matter of control legitimated by determin-
ism.
176 Chapter Four

A Few More Examples in Brief

The three cases just discussed illustrate flaws in method, but,
more importantly, illustrate conceptual flaws. The mistakes are
misconceptions of human behavior, confusion regarding the
nature of intention and will, and a physicalist or materialist bias
that confounds most aspects of inquiry. One consistency in these
cases is the narrowing of vision that results in a focus on only a
few aspects of behavior or society or on a few variables. When,
for instance, a small set of variables seems to be able to explain a
phenomenon, albeit in rather shallow terms, then there may be
a tendency to look no further for understanding. Other examples
also illustrate this point. Let’s take a quick look at a few more.

Gary Becker’s Economics

Economics is an interesting, challenging discipline. Among

the social sciences economics is probably the most quantitative.
Its use of sophisticated mathematical models has drawn admira-
tion from, among others, Edward O. Wilson. The work of one
economist in particular demonstrates the false start of a specific
way of thinking—rational choice theory. Gary Becker was
awarded the Nobel Prize in economics in 1992, in large part for
his economic analysis of human behavior. He has analyzed
education, marriage, and the family in economic terms. Using
rational choice theory, his analysis has focused on behavior as
utility maximization. As we will see, rational choice theory is
highly reductive; it reduces the reasons people have for the
decisions they make to a formulation (conscious or not) of
advantage and utility. When one alternative demonstrates greater
promise of utility, then that alternative is overwhelmingly
preferred. Becker says, “All human behavior can be viewed as
involving participants who maximize their utility for a stable set
of preferences and accumulate an optimal amount of information
and other inputs in a variety of markets” (Becker, 1976, 14).
Becker turns his attention to education. Employing rational
choice theory, he maintains that educational choice is based on
the prospect for material gain. As evidence for his claim he states,
 False Starts and Dead Ends Wap

“high school and college education in the United States greatly

raise a person’s income, even after netting out direct and indirect
costs of schooling, and after adjusting for the better family
backgrounds and greater abilities of more educated people”
(Becker, 1993, 17). As is the case with some of the other claims
examined here, Becker’s assessment of the benefits of education
is banal; it certainly comes as no surprise and is certainly not a
revelation. He suggests further evidence for the material gain
based on education: “women progressed most rapidly under the
Reagan administration, which was opposed to affirmative action
and did not have an active Civil Rights Commission” (Becker,
1993, 19). He attributes the gains to increasing divorce rates,
declining birthrates, and growth in the service sector. He does not
acknowledge underlying factors that might be influencing
birthrates and divorce rates. For instance, he does not mention
the recession that occurred during those years which may have
led to tensions in homes and the need for a second income. In
other words, it is possible that the dynamics of women entering
the workforce have been complex; Becker reduces that complexity
to a simple answer, but that answer doesn’t enhance an under-
standing of the phenomenon. Further, he doesn’t explain what he
means by “progress.”
His reductionism is perhaps most evident when he addresses
matters related to marriage and the family. His program depends
on an assumption of equality; everyone goes through the same
stages of life in the same way. Or, more importantly, everyone has
the same opportunity to live in the same way. “We also assume
that everyone is identical and lives for two periods, childhood and
adulthood, works T hours as an adult, and spends all his or her
childhood time investing in human capital” (Becker, 1993, 331).
The two stages affect not only the life of the individual, but also
the life of the family. With regard to marriage Becker says, “A
person decides to marry when the expected utility from marriage
exceeds that expected from remaining single or from the addi-
tional search for a more compatible mate” (Becker, 1976, 10). As
James Bohman points out, this analysis is vacuous; it amounts to
an a posteriori imposition of reasons on what is also a complex
phenomenon (Bohman, 1991, 74). No doubt some marriage
178 Chapter Four

decisions are made on the basis of expected material gain, but

conversely, many marriages result in material hardship. Becker's
facile answer is empirically simplistic and theoretically impover-
ished.

Rational Choice Theory

The impoverishment can be placed on the shoulders of

rational choice theory. The assumptions that characterize the
theory are: utility maximization governs choice; consistency
requirements are part of the definition of rationality; every
individual maximizes the expected value of a choice, measured on
some sort of utility scale; individuals, not society, are the units
under investigation; and the models used apply equally well to all
individuals and the models are stable over time (Green and
Shapiro, 1994, 14-17). The fundamental reliance on rationality
is probably the most questionable assumption. Alexander
Rosenberg contends that people do sometimes behave irratio-
nally; since they do behave that way, then the ordinal theory of
preference (if Iprefer a to b, and b to c, then I prefer a to c) is
disconfirmed. Further, some defenders of rational choice counter
that what seems to be irrationality is actually change in taste. But
if taste can change daily, how is that different from irrationality
(Rosenberg, 1995, 79)? There is a record of rational choice
theorists, including Becker, to glibly explain away anomalies by
redefining rationality or otherwise fudging data:

The frequency with which rational choice theorists have

explained away anomalies by manipulating the meaning of
rationality, restricted arbitrarily the domain in which the theory
applies so as to avoid discordant facts, constructed tests that
adduce only confirming facts, or ignored competing explana-
tions belies the suggestion that when employed as empirical
science rational choice explanations are free from mercurial
invention. (Green and Shapiro, 1994, 187)

Becker, as Bohman states, demonstrates “that the generalization

of rational choice models of explanation can be done only by
abandoning the idea that the theory was supposed to give an
 False Starts and Dead Ends 179

account of how reasons cause actions. Instead, the theory

searches” for unconscious maximizing motives and market
mechanisms, making the rationality of actors themselves less and
less important as an explanatory condition” (Bohman, 1991, 75).
According to the theory, rationality leads to the expression of
preferences. The notion of preference, however, is problematic.
There are a couple of recognized ways to conceive of prefer-
ence—one is to see it as a choice between or among options; the
other is to see it as a process of matching, in which the decision
maker adjusts one option to match another. Tversky, Slovin, and
Sattuth demonstrate empirically that these two conceptions are
inconsistent and are frequently divergent. That is, different
elicitation means can lead to different expressions of preferences.
They write, “In the absence of well-defined preferences, the
foundations of choice theory and decision analysis are called into
question” (Tversky, Slovin, and Sattuth, 1988, 384). Becker does
address some important questions and there is no doubt that the
behavior of an individual does have material consequences, but
he is unable to explain the complexity of human behavior solely
in economic terms, and the empirical research conducted on the
matter calls into question whether such a program is even
possible.

Deterministic History

Another example combines the disciplines of economics and

history. The application of quantitative methods to history,
which has gained popularity in the last few decades, is frequently
referred to as cliometrics. Employing multiple methods, including
quantitative methods, has been a boon to historical research,
increasing the breadth and depth of analysis. The particular work
examined here, however, exhibits some of the same scientistic
tendencies we’ve seen before. Also, the method used (along with
the way it is used) seems to determine the results. In the 1970s,
Robert Fogel (also a Nobel laureate in economics) and Stanley
Engerman used quantitative economic analysis to study material
aspects of slavery as a mode of production in the American
South. (Their full study was published in two volumes, one
180 Chapter Four

narrative and one presenting data; the one-volume version of

Time on the Cross will be cited here.) At the outset, Fogel and
Engerman state that their research will correct some misconcep-
tions of the slave economy; among their corrections are that
“Slavery was not a system irrationally kept in existence by
plantation owners who failed to perceive or were indifferent to
their best economic interests” and “The slave system was not
economically moribund on the event of the Civil War” (Fogel and
Engerman, 1974, 4-5). In fact, the import of their conclusions,
they say, rests on the corrections they claim to make. Although
they say the misconceptions are pervasive, it is difficult to find
many who hold the positions they wish to correct. As Oscar
Handlin says, “Fogel and Engerman erected a straw man the more
easily to demolish him: that tactic of controversy attracted
attention; it did not win converts” (Handlin, 1979, 209).
Other corrections Fogel and Engerman try to assert are:
“Slave agriculture was not inefficient compared with free agricul-
ture,” and “The material (not psychological) conditions of the
lives of slaves compared favorably with those of free industrial
workers” (Fogel and Engerman, 1974, 5). These corrections are
dependent on some further assumptions (or perhaps obfuscations
may be a better word). Slave economy was not inefficient if we
remember that labor costs were extremely low, so there was little
need or incentive for large-scale investment in mechanization.
The cost of one acre’s yield looks favorable, but only if the
human cost is ignored. ‘The claim that the conditions under which
slaves worked compared favorably with those of industrial
workers hides the reality of nineteenth-century industrial labor
which, at its worst, was not particularly discernible from slavery.
The claims, then, are couched in terms that render objection
futile, unless the totality of the claims is critiqued. One doesn’t
have to object to the method to object to the claims. Handlin
perhaps overstates his case, but he makes a cogent point when he
cautions, “The new computer-driven techniques extend the ability
to mobilize and use large amounts of information. But in
themselves they solve no problems; and precisely because their
power is greater than those of the weapons earlier historians
commanded, their use requires more care. Those who disregard
 False Starts and Dead Ends 181

any but their own experience will be condemned to mistakes

others have learned to avoid” (Handlin, 1979, 213).
Particulars of the data analysis of Fogel and Engerman should
be scrutinized closely. To their credit they sought all available
sources of data, including census records, sales and probate data,
and records from plantations. However, these sources of data are
incomplete—census records of the nineteenth century were less
accurate even than today’s; not all sales transactions were
formally recorded; not all slave trade constituted sale in the strict
sense; plantation records were seldom accurate. Just about all
quantitative studies of complex human and social phenomena
must tolerate limitations on the data available; this in itself does
not render quantitative studies invalid. It does, however, necessi-
tate the moderation of claims. It is impossible to make absolute
statements on the basis of incomplete data. The authors tend to
be extreme in their statements, as though they were able to have
access to every possible data point. For instance, Novick relates
that, when asked by other historians about their assessment of
the exploitation of slaves, Fogel and Engerman’s reply would be
a mathematical formula (Novick, 1988, 588). The equation is
only as good as the data that can be entered. Fogel and Engerman
were also guilty of a sin against quantitative analysis—they did
not always analyze comparable data. At times they use data on
slavery from 1850 and data on the general population from 1870.
The difference in the twenty-year period is not one that can be
ignored.
Part of their correction depends on their demonstrating that
the South was not behind in industrialization. The index they
created built on previous work done by Fogel and relies heavily
on railroad mileage per capita. They found, “In railroad mileage
per capita she was virtually tied with the North, and both were
far ahead of their nearest competitor” (Fogel and Engerman,
1974, 255). The railroad mileage is a very problematic index of
industrialization. The index for the South is calculated as the
standard, equal to 100; the index for Great Britain is reported to
be 43. Fogel and Engerman do not, however, normalize these
data for population density, geographic area, and other physical
and demographic variables. The index is a primitive and mislead-
182 Chapter Four

ing (at best) indicator of industrialization. Fogel and Engerman

also tended to use counterfactuals to “prove” points. That is, they
might say that if modes of transportation other than rail had been
developed in the late nineteenth century, then there would have
been specific economic results. Many of their conclusions (and
the conclusions of Fogel’s studies of the impact of railroads)
depend on these kinds of counterfactuals. As Clayton Roberts
warns, “Whether a counterfactual is given a negative or a positive
expression, its truth depends upon the truth of the covering law,”
which may demonstrate scientistic leanings, and “Since it is
undeniably true that the longer a chain of counterfactuals, the
greater the chance of a mistaken conclusion at the end, Fogel has
taken a dangerous path” (Roberts, 1996, 81, 255-56).
As was just stated, quantitative analysis has the potential to
enrich research in all disciplines, but not if it is assumed to be the
only viable means of examination. Fogel and Engerman, besides
making some serious methodological errors, also erred in their
claim for the method. Handlin’s response, then, is not out of line:
“The authors further fanned the flames of acrimony by stating
their thesis in exaggerated and provocative terms. They trum-
peted the book as a triumphant vindication of the pretensions of
quantitative techniques and as a total revision of all previous
interpretations of American slavery. On both counts Fogel and
Engerman were wrong and misleading” (Handlin, 1979, 208).

Determinism and Organizational Theory

The next example from the social sciences is an unabashed

adoption of scientistic and deterministic principles. Lex
Donaldson asserts confidently that positivism is the soundest
theoretical grounding for the study of organizations. By that he
means, “That theory holds that organizations are to be explained
by scientific laws in which the shape taken by organizations is
determined by material factors such as their size. These laws hold
generally across organizations of all types and national cultures”
(Donaldson, 1996, 1). His definition of positivism is similar to
those we've already seen: it is nomothetic (it seeks covering laws);
it is empirical in method; it is materialist; it is determinist; and it
 False Starts and Dead Ends 183

emulates the natural sciences (Donaldson, 1996, 3). The tenets

of scientism have already been examined and their problems
detailed; there’s little reason to reiterate those points here.
Donaldson does differ from some of the other individuals already
dealt with, such as Becker, in that he denies that players have any
choice, rational or not. In this he comes closer to anyone we’ve
seen to being absolutely deterministic. (One reason for the
inclusion of Donaldson’s thinking here is that readers may be
tempted to assume that such a position doesn’t exist in the
world.) He does briefly acknowledge some of the counters to
positivism, including the existence of political concerns, uncer-
tainty, conflict, and sensitivity to context. He then ignores these
factors and reduces anti-positivist thought regarding organiza-
tions to a limited set of ideal types, none of which embodies the
kind of alternative propositions he previously acknowledged.
Since Donaldson’s version of anti-positivism constitutes
reduction to a set of straw men, it is easy to dismiss his program.
He doesn’t address the serious and formidable objections to
positivism. The alternative he discusses is not far removed from
his own ideal type. A large body of research in organizational
theory has stressed the variable matters of context, including both
external and internal cultures. His positivism may make Wilson
smile, because there is an element of biological determinism in it.
The positivist organization thrives through the process of
adaptation, in the same way every successful species thrives.
“There is extrapolation from successes in the past. The learning
is within the organization rather than depending on comparison
with radically different organizations somewhere else”
(Donaldson, 1996, 170). How, then, would he explain organiza-
tions that perpetuate mistakes and still survive? If Donaldson
intends his idea to be a strictly normative one (that is, a theory
of how organizations should operate, not just a study of how they
do operate), then he falls into the trap of defining factors solely in
terms that fit his theory. The culture in which the organization
works is irrelevant, but the positivist organization adapts itself
according to a determinist imperative based on materialist
elements. This amounts to facile side-stepping of important
contextual issues. It also amounts to his theory constituting the
184 Chapter Four

error he sees other theories succumbing to—ideology: “The

influence of ideologies shows the way that ideas have their effect.
Ideas affect other ideas. A believer in an ideology consciously or
unconsciously seeks out ideas that buttress that ideology”
(Donaldson, 1996, 164). This statement demonstrates a simplis-
tic notion of ideology. More than anything, Donaldson’s idea is
reductionist; he takes the complexity of the organization and the
environment in which it works, and then tries to make it fit into
a body of laws that are ultimately devoid of meaning.

Constructivism

It may seem to some that the examples offered here are

criticized from a leftist perspective. Earlier I did admit to an
affinity for the political left, and it’s true that some of what has
been discussed (The Bell Curve most prominently) takes on a
right-leaning political agenda. However, the substance of the
discussion here is grounded in the premise and methods put forth
by their proponents—and they are found wanting. The last
example is taken from a body of thought that is fundamentally
different, on the face of it, from the examples discussed previ-
ously. Throughout this century an educational theory has gained
currency, and its foremost champion, Jean Piaget, has gained
fame. Constructivism is not universally accepted in education,
but many agree with its central theme. I'll focus on one articula-
tion, Ernst von Glasersfeld’s Radical Constructivism. Right off the
bat von Glasersfeld denies that the constructivist stance consti-
tutes solipsism (the easily refutable view that the only thing that
exists is own’s one mind and thought), but his premises suggest
a substantially solipsistic tendency. He says constructivism “starts
from the assumption that knowledge, no matter how it is defined,
is in the heads of persons, and that the thinking subject has no
alternative but to construct what he or she knows on the basis of
his or her own experience” (von Glasersfeld, 1995, 1). At the
outset this position is on shaky ground, and von Glasersfeld does
little to firm it up.
He offers what may be taken as a first principle: “Radical
constructivism is uninhibitedly instrumentalist. It replaces the
 False Starts and Dead Ends 185

notion of ‘truth’ (as true representation of an independent

reality) with the notion of ‘viability’ within the subjects’ experien-
tial world. Consequently it refuses all metaphysical commitments
and claims to be no more than one possible model of thinking
about the only world we can come to know, the world we
construct as living subjects” (von Glasersfeld, 1995, 22). The
problem here is the one we saw in the last chapter in the section
on realism and relativism. As was shown, both positions, as
extremes, are untenable. Von Glasersfeld’s position is that of the
extreme relativist. He uses, at one point, what he sees as the
incommensurability of translation as support for constructivism.
The absolute stance is flawed, though; if the only thing that exists
is an individual’s experience, then how is communication possible
at all? If the answer is that there is something that subjects
experience together, what is that something? He maintains that
this position rejects metaphysics, but if there is a reality that can
be shared and can be experienced by many, then the rejection of
metaphysics doesn’t work. He says, “Constructivism, as I
explained earlier, has nothing to say about what may or may not
exist [emphasis in original]. It is intended as a theory of knowing,
not as a theory of being” and “knowledge does not constitute a
‘picture’ of the world. It does not represent the world at all—it
comprises action schemes, concepts, and thoughts, and it
distinguishes the ones that are considered advantageous from
those that are not” (von Glasersfeld, 1995, 113-14). On the first
point, this seems to be a neopragmatist rejection of epistemology
(a la Richard Rorty, whom we'll talk about in the next chapter).
That view is reinforced by the second point; this isn’t a theory of
knowing, but of doing. Also, according to the second point, it
seems there is an affinity for rational choice theory, a notion
supported by a later statement: “Empirical facts, from the
constructivist perspective, are constructs based on regularities in
a subject’s experience. They are viable if they maintain their
usefulness and serve their purposes in the pursuit of goals” (von
Glasersfeld, 1995, 128).
The poverty of extreme constructivism is obvious; if it were
to hold, then there would be no such thing as “misunderstand-
ing.” Every understanding, in the context of the individual
186 Chapter Four

cognizer, is valid. Further, nothing that is taught need be accepted,

since what is taught is nothing more than the construct of the
speaker. This stance is reductionist (in the sense we've seen
previously) in that all can be reduced to the experience of the
individual and nothing else matters. Again, the connection
between extreme relativism and scientism is clear. As we've
already discussed, some element of relativism, especially as it is
manifest through discourse, exists. But some element of ontologi-
cal reality also exists. The mediated stance is the only way to go.
The extreme (in either direction) collapses under its own weight,
as is the case with radical constructivism.

Examples from LIS

Acceptance of Scientism

The kinds of problems that can occur in the social sciences,

such as those just mentioned, may also crop up in LIS. Commen-
tators in our field have most often criticized method and applica-
tion of method. Others, including Michael Harris, have found
cause for concern with regard to the conceptual basis of inquiry
and practice. Some have disagreed, at least in part, with Harris on
the grounds that positivism prevails. For instance, Nancy Van
House writes, “the positivist method remains the most widely
accepted in the social sciences and LIS. The issue addressed here
is not whether the positivist method is appropriate, but whether
LIS researchers who have adopted it are using it capably and
appropriately” (Van House, 1991, 87). This statement misses the
point made by Harris and, I hope, by me. The broadly scientistic
tradition that is imbedded in our past is not simply one of a
number of legitimate approaches to inquiry. It is a failed, albeit
mostly well-intentioned, program that has fatal conceptual flaws.
The flaws obscure the kinds of questions that need to be ad-
dressed, the means for addressing questions effectively, and the
practice that benefits from inquiry.
The kind of confusion that has seemed to plague LIS is also
evident in Van House’s thought. She says that two basic criteria
 False Starts and Dead Ends 187

can be used to assess the quality of research: “One has to do with

the conduct of research: Its underlying logic and methodology,
and the validity and robustness of its conclusions. The other has
to do with the topic of the research: Does it address questions
that are useful, interesting, or important?” She then adds,
“Research cannot be of good quality in the second sense and not
the first” (Van House, 1991, 90). Her reasoning is that if results
are not valid, then the question asked is irrelevant. She conflates
question and method in a manner that may tend to dismiss the
importance of the question asked. The identification of questions
or issues that should be addressed is essential and, to an extent,
is a matter separate from method. That is, inquiry should begin
with the conceptual issue before there is thought given to the
method that might be applied. The discourse evident in the
genealogy examined here is replete with essential questions.
However, as we've seen, there are problems with subsequent
conceptual contextualization of the questions (they are usually
couched in terms that fit with scientism) and with approaches to
answers to the questions (seeking answers on the basis of purely
materialist and determinist assumptions).

Economics and Information

Most of the examples that follow do ask important questions.

Difficulties arise with regard to the assumptions that are made
and applications of method (though not necessarily the method
itself). There has been something of an increase in recent years of
applying economic methods to LIS problems and concerns. ‘This
effort should be applauded; despite the previous examples of
Becker and Fogel and Engerman, economic analysis has the
capability of enhancing our understanding. On the other hand,
those instances dealt with above indicate that the method must
be applied with caution (a warning that applies to all methods).
In LIS, Bruce Kingma has written widely on the efficacy of
economic analysis. Early in his book, The Economics of Information,
he approvingly cites Becker. He writes, “The cornerstone of
economic models of human behavior is the assumption that
individuals behave rationally in ways they believe give them the
188 Chapter Four

most net benefit” (Kingma, 1996, 10). The illustrations used by

Kingma in his book are based mainly on assumptions, especially
assumptions of linearity. For instance, the quantity of books sold
declines in a linear fashion relative to increases in price. Further,
benefits exhibit the same linear pattern.
One of the most problematic elements of Kingma’s book,
which is intended to be something of a primer for information
professionals, is the seeming equation of the economic aspects of
libraries and information with consumer goods, such as used cars.
The equation leads to some statements about benefit, such as,
“Because the actual consumers of the good or service do not
receive . . . external benefits, they are not expressed in the
consumer’s demand or willingness to pay for the good or service”
(Kingma, 1996, 65-66). This statement is probably accurate for
most consumer goods; does that mean it’s accurate with regard to
libraries and information? It may be descriptive of the attitudes
of some, but others may see public good in individual action.
Later IGngma states, “Books sold at a bookstore, newspapers sold
on the street corner, computer software for individual use,
individual journal subscriptions, and individual phone service are
all examples of information goods or services as commodities”
(Kingma, 1996, 114). These definitely are commodities and are
part of a commodity market, but that doesn’t mean they can’t
also function as public goods. Teachers purchase packages of
information, but then use those items to disseminate information,
to facilitate learning. I belong to some professional associations
in large part for the personal benefits that accrue to me, but also
because I receive journal subscriptions along with the member-
ship. I can use the contents of those journals in courses I teach,
and I can incorporate the contents into my own inquiry that may
be communicated widely. Perhaps more importantly, books,
journals, etc. may be inherently different from many commodities
in that they may convey meaning to those who use them. That
meaning might affect behavior in a public sense by having an
impact on voting patterns, altruistic behavior, and other public
manifestations of action. We must be careful not to reduce
information to nothing more than a commodity; while the
 False Starts and Dead Ends 189

package may be bought and sold, information is more than just

the package. We should heed the words of Georg Lukacs:

The commodity can only be understood in its undistorted

essence when it becomes the universal category of society as a
whole. Only in this context does the reification produced by
commodity relations assume decisive importance both for the
objective evolution of society and for the stance adopted by
men towards it. Only then does the commodity become crucial
for the subjugation of men’s consciousness to the forms in
which this reification finds expression and for their attempts
to comprehend the process or to rebel against its disastrous
effects and liberate themselves from servitude to the “second
nature” created. (Lukacs, 1971, 86)

Lukacs is warning against the reduction of things that may be

complex in themselves and in their use to nothing more than the
commodity.
At one point IGngma, in a discussion of fines for overdue
library materials, mentions that prices can serve to finance the
production of a thing. The implicit link is that fines can operate
in the same way that prices do. In some organizations, such as
corporate libraries, the link may be evident. In other libraries the
analogy between fees/fines and movie tickets doesn’t hold. In
public organizations, for instance, the good is paid for by public
funds, such as tax levies. Fines are particularly problematic
because their primary purpose is to affect behavior, viz., the
return of overdue materials. Kingma claims that fines prevent or
lessen the incidence of overdue materials. Other evidence suggests
that fines are not much of an incentive to return materials. Joy
Greiner reports the experiences of several libraries, including one
that eliminated fines, but blocked the borrowing of items until
overdue items were returned. That library saw an increase in the
return of items (Greiner, 1990). It seems that there may be a
dynamic at work that is substantially different from typical retail
transactions.
In another publication Kingma, with Gillian McCombs, turns
attention to the opportunity costs of faculty status. The specific
object of study is a group of catalogers in an academic library.
190 Chapter Four

Some questions arise as they begin to define the study. For one
thing, they state that there are also real costs of faculty status,
such as travel expenses to attend conferences and resources to
engage in some kinds of inquiry. The authors admit that some of
these costs may be incurred by libraries without faculty status,
but imply that the costs are greater for the libraries with faculty
status. The question of whether one group of libraries incurs
higher costs could itself be subjected to empirical inquiry, but the
assumption is not substantiated. In the example the authors give,
the work of four catalogers is detailed. One is on sabbatical and,
of the remaining three librarians, a total of sixteen hours a week
is spent in professional development. The authors calculate the
cost in lost productivity and in replacement of the lost time: “If
replacement catalogers are paid $15 per hour (or $525 per week),
then faculty status results in a real cost to the library of $765 per
week” (Kingma and McCombs, 1995, 259).
They also calculate an opportunity cost of $1,000 to the
university community if replacements are not hired and some
items do not get cataloged. They assume a productivity rate of
four books cataloged per hour. The professional development of
the three librarians, plus the one on sabbatical, results in 204
books not cataloged in a given week. Their implication is that the
costs of faculty status may outweigh the benefits. A closer look at
some underlying assumptions is called for. First, the example
includes the anomaly of a librarian on sabbatical. If sabbaticals
are not common, then this assumption inflates costs. Also, a
constant and uniform rate of productivity is assumed (four books
cataloged per hour). Many in libraries may question this level of
output; it is not (apparently) based on empirical evidence, so the
costs could be further inflated. And it assumed that professional
development carries no benefit that might affect productivity.
The unstated assumption is that a cataloger can work at nothing
but cataloging for thirty-five hours a week and retain a constant
level of productivity. Finally, the authors assume that each
uncataloged book would be in demand immediately. All of the
assumptions inflate costs, and some run counter to evidence (for
instance, there is research that shows that some books acquired
by libraries never circulate). The questions raised here are not
 False Starts and Dead Ends 191

intended to suggest that there are no costs to faculty status, but

that the estimates provided by Kingma and McCombs are
suspect, given the dubious nature of their assumptions.

Deterministic Management

IGngma is not alone in applying economic analysis to LIS

questions. Malcolm Getz has examined some library management
issues in economic terms. Regarding the potential impact of
economic analysis he has stated, “The criterion for success is
whether a change in library operation has increased the value of
library services to the people who pay for them, net of the costs
they incur. . . . The act of decision then requires that the decision
maker assign a dollar value to the change in use or outcomes”
(Getz, 1990, 192). A not inconsequential difficulty in such
analysis is the assigning of a dollar value for certain actions. For
instance, what is the cost to a person to search for an item in the
library? There is no doubt that if a library can facilitate searching
(such as implementing a system that offers more options in
structuring a search), then the user may become more efficient at
the task. However, what is required to make all users more
efficient may be a number of actions, each aimed at a particular
segment of the community. When a library chooses to facilitate
use by one segment rather than another, the library is placing a
higher value on one group. This may occur frequently in libraries,
but the outcomes of decisions are social and political as well as
financial; a purely economic analysis may fail to apprehend non-
economic outcomes. Even in economic terms, value is an elusive
variable. For one individual, the use of information sources or a
library may have varying value. If a person goes to a public library
to find a specific mystery novel, that person may place one value
on the action. If the same person consults sources in advance of
purchasing an automobile, the individual may place a different
value on that search. As we saw with Kingma, library use may
have benefits beyond the individual. How is that to be calcu-
lated?
Getz assumes that it is possible to estimate the probability of
search success or failure, but he doesn’t detail a means to reach
192 Chapter Four

such an estimate. These criticisms of economic analysis are not

meant to denigrate the method, but to show the challenges in
applying it well. Getz and Kingma tend to reduce their analysis
to exchange value—what the action is worth in a commodity
market. Exchange value in itself is very difficult to estimate in
information transactions; use value is even more difficult to
estimate, and it is all too frequently ignored. This view differs
from others we've seen in that it is, in some important ways, a
denial of materialism. Specifically, it eschews the material in
favor of the symbolic. David Hawkes says, “In consumer societies
of the late twentieth century, exchange-value (a purely symbolic
form) has become more real, more objective, than use-value (a
material phenomenon). Objects are conceived, designed and
produced for the purpose of making money by selling them,
rather than by practical utility” (Hawkes, 1996, 169). The view
is reductionist, but the reduction is to the symbolic, rather than
to the physical.

Conceptions of Customer

With the above examples it is not the quantitative aspect that

is questioned; it is the conceptual aspect. This questioning seems
to be consistently applicable. At times, perhaps, the attractiveness
of quantification may affect the basic conception of a question
and its possible solutions. In her book on customer service (itself
a questionable concept in LIS; see Budd, 1997, 310-21), Darlene
Weingand asks, “How can the library create and maintain
excellence in a changing environment where responding to customer
needs and focusing on customer satisfaction determines survival and
prosperity?” [emphasis in original] (Weingand, 1997, 8). The
question does have some validity, even in the face of some
problematic elements. She goes further, though, and says that
this challenge can be expressed as an equation (Weingand, 1997,
8):
 False Starts and Dead Ends 193

Equation Denoting Factors Determining

Survival (S) and Prosperity (P)

Ex X@

CN
+ CS

Nowhere are these variables defined in such a way that they can
be conceptualized in ways that allow such a formulation. The
equation, then, is meaningless. This view of libraries and cus-
tomer service is fundamentally reductionist; the collections and
services of a library mean only what can be expressed as instru-
mental satisfaction, which may mean nothing more than surface
gratification. According to Weingand, the idea of information and
libraries as public goods should be abandoned in favor of
operation in a market economy. This reduces one organizational
type to another without considering all implications of the
change.

Deterministic Evaluation

The importance of a sound idea cannot be overstated. We've

seen some criteria of assessment, but to sum up, the soundness of
an idea should be judged according to logic (the proposition
should be reasonable, internally consistent, and in concert with
external constraints), completeness (the idea should encompass
all necessary components and not simply defer to unsubstantiated
assumptions), and clarity (all aspects of the idea should be clearly
defined). These may not be the only applicable criteria, but they
can provide benchmarks to assess any concept that is suggested
in LIS (or the social sciences, or any discipline). Further, these
criteria apply both to inquiry and to practice. In some instances
in our literature, as we’ve seen, it is evident that there are some
conceptual problems. In addition to those already discussed,
other examples can be noted. In Measuring Academic Library
194 Chapter Four

Performance, Nancy Van House, Beth Weil, and Charles McClure

intend to provide academic librarians with a model for evaluation
of services and operations. Such a purpose is necessary to the
advancement of LIS. This manual, however, falls short according
to some of the above criteria, especially completeness and clarity,
which are closely related. Early on, the authors try to tackle the
thorny matter of effectiveness since, after all, every library should
strive to be effective. The authors write, “Effectiveness has been
defined in many ways, including goal attainment, success in
acquiring needed resources, satisfaction of key constituent groups’
preferences, and internal health of the organization. This manual
defines an effective library as one that achieves its goals” (Van
House, Weil, and McClure, 1990, 12).
This provides no help in analyzing the internal and external
factors that influence effectiveness; rather, it glosses over this
essential element. In The Public Library Effectiveness Study Nancy
Van House and Thomas Childers also address the matter of
effectiveness (naturally), acknowledging its complexity and noting
four approaches to defining it. Unfortunately, these approaches
are no clearer; for instance, the goal model echoes Measuring
Academic Library Performance: “Effectiveness is measured by goal
achievement” (Van House and Childers, 1993, 1). Wan House
and Childers, though, do attempt to arrive at a set of indicators
of effectiveness. One potential dilemma is that librarians, in
seeking to assess the effectiveness of their libraries, will treat the
indicators as a deterministic set of criteria, the absence of any of
which may signal lack of effectiveness.
Measuring Academic Library Performance contains other prob-
lematic passages. The authors state, “The outcome of the
reference transaction has three components: relevance of the
information provided, satisfaction with the amount of informa-
tion provided, and the completeness of the answer received” (Van
House, Weil, and McClure, 1990, 96). At various points the
authors emphasize that some measures, for instance most user-
centered approaches to evaluation, are time intensive and so of
questionable worth. The concept of “relevance,” however, is one
of the most charged, not only in LIS, but in communication and
philosophy as well. The authors rely here, and throughout the
 False Starts and Dead Ends 195

manual, on a purely instrumental means of measurement. Such

things as relevance and satisfaction are not defined; questions are
to be asked of users whether they are satisfied and whether
information and services are relevant. One of the difficulties of
the instrumentalism of the manual is the inherent political
position that is hidden behind the ostensible conceptual one. If
“satisfaction” is defined by the responses by users to a simple
question or set of questions, then, explicitly, the library’s strategy
should be to maximize expressed satisfaction. Such a goal should
be scrutinized carefully according to the criteria noted above. The
dicey goal of satisfaction may open libraries to the critique offered
by Jean-Francois Lyotard, who said, “The question (overt or
implied) now asked .. . is no longer ‘Is it true?’ but “What use is
it?’ In the context of the mercantilization of knowledge, more
often than not this question is equivalent to: ‘Is it salable?’ And
in the context of power-growth: ‘Is it efficient?’”(Lyotard, 1984,
51)
Others appear to be on the same page as the authors of the
manual. Peter Hernon and Ellen Altman codify an instrumental
approach to what they refer to as customer service in academic
libraries. They advocate that librarians assess contributions to the
institution’s mission by creating a checklist that includes such
items as:

The percentage of courses using the reserve reading room, .. .

The percentage of courses requiring term papers based on
materials from the library;
The number of students involved in those courses;
The percentage of students who checked out library materials;
The percentage of faculty who checked out library materials;
The percentage of courses using reading packets based on
materials photocopied from the library’s collection. (Hernon
and Altman, 1996, 1-2)

Of course these are data that any library might find useful, but
they are not in themselves pertinent to an academic mission. The
suggestions of Hernon and Altman share the focus on outputs
that Van House, Weil, and McClure provide. In Measuring
Academic Library Performance a repeated theme is the measurement
196 Chapter Four

of “use,” but use is also defined only in instrumental

terms—items circulated, items requested via interlibrary loan,
items removed from shelves. There is no mention of
outcomes—what differences do these resources make to the user?
That is the kind of hard question the authors of the manual
dismiss at the outset. These instrumental focal points illustrate an
affinity for some elements of the genealogy. Specifically, they
tend to be physicalist (actions that are taken by the library or by
users), deterministic (the services and the structure of the library
will lead to certain kinds of use by certain segments of the
community), and are exemplary of the kind of discursive practice
observed by Foucault (aimed at exclusion and power, and also
descriptive of a fundamentally capitalist superstructure).
Another problem with the above examples is that they appear
to be normative, but are not. Now this may sound like academic-
speak, but it is a statement of a very important aspect of the
thought and practice of any discipline. The examples purport to
have established guidelines for action in libraries. I’m not
quibbling with that goal; as I said earlier, it is an essential
purpose. The guidelines, though, are reactive; they depend on
first finding out what will serve an immediate and instrumental
end, and then adjusting policy and action to foster that end. This
is probably most evident, as has already been noted, with regard
to user satisfaction. The dictum is to ask what leads to
satisfaction and then to do more of that. The outcome that is
achieved is a higher level of expressed satisfaction with some
particular things by a set of people who are already positioned to
respond to the question. Of course there are reasons, political
among them, to enhance the good will of some segments of the
library’s community; if this becomes the driving force in policy
and action, however, then there is no substantive foundation for
the library.

Corporatizing the Library

Perhaps the extreme articulation of instrumentalism appeared

recently in the pages of American Libraries. Steve Coffman
suggests, without a hint of irony, that public libraries be run like
 False Starts and Dead Ends 197

bookstores (Coffman, 1998, 40-46). He says that superstores

contain more titles and a more inviting ambience than most
libraries. Also, bookstores have lower staff costs than libraries.
This may be true, but it is true because the bookstore and the
library are fundamentally different entities. The money to finance
the construction and operation of a bookstore comes from the
corporation, which finances itself through, primarily, sales and
equity capitalization. The library doesn’t have this opportunity
to draw from a source of capital. The bookstore, Coffman says,
features services that used to be the province of libraries, such as
book talks and author signings. Most of these events are held
with a particular end in mind—the sale of merchandise. It may be
that an author appears at a bookstore through the support of the
publisher, who foots the bill in anticipation of increased sales.
Some things are not mentioned by Coffman: (1) bookstore chains
tend not to build outlets in small towns; (2) the chains tend to
build stores in certain parts of cities, and other areas are ignored
by the corporation (but not necessarily by the library); (3)
bookstores do not offer the range of services that libraries do; and
(4) bookstores stock items with sales potential, and if the sales
don’t materialize, the stock disappears. The most basic difference
between bookstores and libraries is the simplest—bookstores exist
to sell; libraries exist to serve the community.
Again, what appears to be normative is actually what Lyotard
calls “performative” (Lyotard, 1984). What is important is the
performance of a system (like a bookstore or a library), and that
performance is self-determined. This means that, for instance, the
bookstore itself decides what is essential to effective or improved
performance. If the bookstore establishes profit as the principal
measure of performance, then the actions that are taken to
optimize performance are, themselves, irrelevant except insofar as
they affect performance. If a bookstore tries to reach out to, say,
disadvantaged children, it does so as a means of improving
performance, not necessarily because of altruism. On the other
hand, a library reaching out to disadvantaged children tends to
do so because that is essential to its purpose. While Coffman’s
suggestion is an extreme case, the previous examples are also
expressions of performativity. I do believe that we should be
198 Chapter Four

seeking a normative basis for inquiry and practice, and in the

next chapter I will explore what that might be.

Problematic Quantitative Analysis

Some other examples in the LIS literature show shortcomings
with regard to the three criteria of judgment. Clarity is one of the
criteria that may not be met. For instance, Robert V. Williams
presents an analysis of data on libraries from 1850, 1860, and
1870 census records (Williams, 1986, 177-201). He presents
some of this analysis in tables. The first table includes data from
each census. While it is inadequately labeled, the table presents
mean numbers of public, school, college, and Sunday school and
church libraries. For example, there was an average of 402.23
school libraries per state in 1850. The standard deviation,
though, was 1,969.48, indicating a very wide range (but the range
is not reported). Further, no median data are reported. Similar
patterns are indicated for other data on libraries (such as number
of volumes), other types of libraries, and other years. These
descriptive data are not particularly illuminating, since only
selected measures of central tendency are reported. Williams then
executes correlation and regression tests on the library data along
with a set of social indicators, focusing on economics, education,
and other factors. There appears to be nothing wrong with the
statistical tests, but all of the variables are problematic to varying
degrees. The data may vary in reliability and the relationships are
probably very complex. The applied statistical tests are not
sufficient to help us understand the complexity. In short, it is not
clear what is being examined and what the results tell us.
Another example illustrates a technically competent, but
conceptually unclear, application of quantitative analysis. Syed
Saad Andaleeb and Patience Simmonds purport to explain user
satisfaction with academic libraries (Andaleeb and Simmonds,
1998, 156-67). They formulate five hypotheses about satisfaction
and, in expressing the hypotheses, muddy the picture a bit. The
hypotheses are not so much relationships between variables as
tautologies. The first is, “The higher the perceived quality of the
library’s resources, the greater the level of user satisfaction”
 False Starts and Dead Ends 199

(Andaleeb and Simmonds, 1998, 158). The subsequent

hypotheses deal with staff responsiveness, staff competence, staff
demeanor, and the library’s appearance. If these factors are
accepted as determining satisfaction, then when they are highly
regarded, satisfaction will be high. This doesn’t allow for other
potential factors influencing satisfaction. The results of the study
are a bit unclear; there seems to be a disconnect between the
descriptive results and the inferences. Assessment is difficult
because the questions asked are not provided. Also, there are
problems with sample size and questionnaire distribution.
Ultimately, the authors find that the five independent variables
explain 64 percent of the variation in the dependent variable of
satisfaction. Given the tautology, the results are not surprising.
One thing that is unclear is what might be responsible for 36
percent of the variation in satisfaction. The authors don’t
speculate on this matter. They then urge librarians to manage
libraries to maximize the five variables and, so, maximize
satisfaction. The problems with this notion—its instrumentalism
and its performativity—have already been discussed.
Some conceptual problems plague information science as well
as librarianship. For decades researchers have pondered what has
been termed bibliometric “laws.” The very notion that there are
laws that govern communication is scientistic to the core. In
physics, for example, it is recognized (although it is still a
challenging and challenged idea) that some physical phenomena
are the way they are because of a set of constraining or even
determining forces. The statement of a bibliometric law such as
Lotka’s Law would require that a set of forces constrain or
determine patterns of author productivity. There are two
concerns with Lotka’s Law (that apply in some form to other
bibliometric laws as well): (1) there is no absolute, or nearly
absolute, statistical regularity of author productivity, and (2) the
law doesn’t state why patterns of author productivity are the way
they are. Moreover, the bibliometric laws may provide interesting
evidence of tendencies in populations of information items,
authors, etc., but they provide no help in predicting or explaining
the behavior of any individual case in the population. Bradford’s
law may help us comprehend some gross patterns of scatter ex
200 Chapter Four

post facto, but it doesn’t help us predict, for instance, the use
patterns of a particular journal in a particular setting. In 1981 a
Library Trends issue was devoted to bibliometrics. A recurrent
theme in the articles was that more time and effort might yield a
clearer link between empirical data and theory. In other words,
some place faith in the inherent power of a law and think
bibliometric laws might someday be as powerful as physical laws.
The link between this belief and the thought of Comte (and
others) is evident. In content and discourse, thinking about
bibliometrics is connected to elements of the genealogy.
Some work in information has focused on particular ways to
analyze and assess information retrieval. Again, this is a necessary
task. One of the focal points, measurement of precision and
recall, has proved problematic as has been recognized by Michael
Buckland and Frederic Gey (Buckland and Gey, 1994, 12-19),
among others. Still, some adhere to precision (defined as the
number of relevant items retrieved divided by the number of
items retrieved) and recall (defined as the number of relevant
items retrieved divided by the total number of relevant items in
the database). Both measures depend on the assessment of
relevance, which is not fixed either temporally or spatially. Also,
the measures mean little unless they are examined completely.
For instance, if a search retrieves only one item, and that item is
somehow determined to be relevant, then the precision measure
is 1, or perfect precision. While the search may be precise, it may
be largely useless to a user who is seeking to retrieve a body of
relevant information. Louise Su (Su, 1994, 207-17) tried to study
the efficacy of the measures of information retrieval. She claimed
that precision is an easy measure to apply, but it is easy only
insofar as the user designates a particular item as relevant, which
is a complex and problematic process. Her claim for the ease of
measuring precision is deterministic and dependent on the
assignment of points on a scale. She examined mediated searches
for forty users and then asked a set of questions about the
retrieved information. One of her findings was that users rated
precision lower than satisfaction with the precision of the search,
on a seven-point Likert scale. It is not clear what the difference
between these two categories might be and how they might be
 False Starts and Dead Ends 201

differently designated. The complexity of relevance is ignored,

and Su concludes, “Precision is not a good indicator of success
although it may be the most widely used or easily applied
measure” (Su, 1994, 217). This conclusion is not warranted by
this study, given the ambiguity of the assessment mechanism and
the difficulty of making absolute statements about relevance.
Through the above examples I hope to have shown that the
most basic challenges we face are conceptual ones. There is no
favored method, necessarily, and no inappropriate method,
necessarily. Not all in LIS seem to agree with that assessment.
Charles Davis issued a plea for the use of quantitative methods,
claiming superiority for them. He writes, “The best hypotheses
are general and quantifiable” (Davis, 1990, 328). This is a kind
of tautology, since hypotheses are usually testable in some way.
Davis does urge researchers to become competent in multiple
methods, but he also implies that there is a political cost to
choosing qualitative over quantitative methods: “If qualitative
research becomes the norm, a soft field will look even softer.
Library schools will be thought inferior to other academic units,
and they will seem increasingly expendable” (Davis, 1990, 328).
Again, the Foucauldian genealogy helps us understand Davis’s
statements. They are assertions of power and exclusion, and seek
to institutionalize that power in formal educational settings.
What is missing from his plea is a conceptual foundation for the
selection of an appropriate method.
This and the preceding three chapters have presented a
detailed critical background and assessment of the current state
of work in the social sciences and LIS. All this matter sets the
stage for the next part of the challenge I set for myself in this
book—search for a normative foundation for thought and practice
that can apply not only to LIS, but to the social sciences
generally. The search begins with the next chapter, which is an
examination of ideas, primarily from philosophy, that can help us
conceive of purpose and product of inquiry and action.
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 Chapter Five

Knowledge and Knowing in LIS

The social sciences, including LIS, claim to be about knowing

something about human beings and human behavior. In LIS
there has been frequent mention of refocusing on knowledge
management, and even renaming professionals knowledge
specialists. However, there has been precious little discussion
about what knowledge management is, or even what constitutes
knowledge. Can we afford, conceptually and practically, to ignore
these issues? If we do ignore them, what is the cost?
This journey centers on that one particular philosophical idea
(some might call it a dilemma)—knowledge. Several questions
have been asked over the centuries regarding the theory of
knowledge: Is knowledge possible? What constitutes knowledge?
How do we know that we know? It would be impossible to
address all questions regarding knowledge here, but we must
delve into the fundamental issues relating to knowledge since this
book is built on the premise that we can know something about
the human elements of libraries and information. Moreover, this
book is an argument in favor of our profession thinking seriously
about what constitutes knowledge in LIS. Charles Davis, in
suggesting what future research in LIS should focus on, says that,

203
204 Knowledge and Knowing

while some may ponder epistemological questions, the field will

progress if we get down to the business of research (Anon.,
Editorial, 1997, 210). I maintain that attempting to conduct
inquiry in LIS is meaningless if we haven’t asked those epistemo-
logical questions. How else would we know what the business of
research is, and how would we be able to evaluate the results of
research. In this chapter we'll explore what epistemology is and
why it’s so important to us. In this respect LIS is no different
from all other serious disciplines. We take the same generic
approach as all other fields. Following Jacques Maritain, all
disciplines, all “sciences,” seek answers to two basic questions:
“first, the question, AN EST—whether the things exists; and then
the question QUID EST—what is its nature” (Maritain, 1995,
57). His simple statement provides us with a fundamental goal.
In order to accomplish this goal, we'll have to answer those who
claim that knowledge is not possible and that epistemology is an
empty exercise.
This is not mainly a textbook on epistemology (which is an
extremely large subject), so there’s no need to seek answers to all
of the questions relating to the theory of knowledge. There are,
however, some very important points to cover before we explore
knowledge in LIS. The first point is that we are talking about
theories of knowledge. What that means is that we are examining
sets of postulates that can be tested, either empirically or
logically, to see if they hold. A major challenge for us rests on the
recognition that knowledge is so complex, so imbedded in our
assumptions, that it is extremely difficult to analyze fully a
phenomenon that is such a part of ourselves. We have to ask if
we can separate ourselves from the idea of knowledge to a
sufficient extent that we can, ultimately, know something about
knowledge. Why am I bringing up such a seemingly esoteric
question? If we are to comprehend fully why someone bothers to
formulate a query, why people seek “information,” then we have
to understand what it is we can know about the process of
structuring a query aimed at finding a meaningful answer, and
about the process of responding to the query. In other words, it
is knowledge that defines the activities that take place in libraries
and other, similar, environments. As Keith Lehrer says, “It is
 Chapter Five 205

information that we recognize to be genuine that yields the

characteristically human sort of knowledge that distinguishes us
as adult cognizers from machines, other animals, and even our
childhood selves” (Lehrer, 1990, 4).
All this may seem so specialized as to be useless to us in LIS.
On the contrary (and to reinforce the statement above), we in LIS
must be concerned with knowledge, both in the critical examina-
tion of our profession and in the daily workings of those who ask
questions, seek information, and read. The pervasiveness of the
place of knowledge in our work leads me to agree with Alvin
Goldman, who, while stressing that epistemology deals with
intellectual activities, says, “I mean the whole range of efforts to
know and understand the world, including the unrefined,
workaday practices of the layman as well as the refined, special-
ized methods of the scientist or scholar” (Goldman, 1986, 13). If
we heed his words we quickly apprehend how the processes of
organization of information, designing retrieval systems, and
mediation between the user and the record are grounded in
knowledge. I should also hasten to add that my view of episte-
mology, in keeping with the views of a number of prominent
philosophers, is that the most effective idea of human knowledge
is that it is fallible. That is, our beliefs are based in the best
justification, or the closest approach to truth, that we can muster,
given our own imperfect cognitive apparatus. Some might say
that this stance is not related to knowledge. For example,
Jonathan Kvanvig, after defining knowledge as a perfectible ideal,
claims that epistemology is not necessary to study cognition
(Kvanvig, 1998). I would hold that such a position is based on a
straw man, an unrealistic ideal that few thinkers would seriously
adhere to. Joseph Owens pleads the case that epistemology, as a
study of knowledge, depends on the knowing subject’s awareness,
through cognition, of the world (and, further, understanding the
world in the process of cognitive activity) (Owens, 1992). His
case seems compelling. So now the stage is set to examine some
core issues of epistemology.
206 Knowledge and Knowing

What Constitutes Knowledge?

The traditional approach to epistemology is individualistic;
the focus is on the individual knower and how knowledge is
possible for the individual. In fact, we could say that we really
can’t even conceive of knowledge unless we can come to grips
with the ability of an individual to make claims of knowledge. As
we will see eventually, though, we need not stop there. Regarding
the individual, I will draw from some of the foremost epistemolo-
gists to describe some fundamentals of knowledge. Perhaps the
best place to begin would be to consider what conditions must be
realized for us to claim to know something. Jonathan Dancy
suggests two essential conditions for knowledge, which can be
stated as the following: S believes that p and if p were not true, S
would not believe p (Dancy, 1985, 37). (S, in this case is a
symbol for any knowing subject, and p symbolizes some proposi-
tion that we can assess as a knowledge claim.) This gives us a
partial beginning and stresses the individualistic element of
epistemology. The conditions, in short, are belief and truth. Before
we examine these aspects more closely, let’s take a look at Keith
Lehrer’s expansion of these conditions. Instead of only two,
Lehrer proposes four conditions: truth, acceptance, justification,
and justification without falsity. The four conditions enable an
analysis of knowledge, which he states as: “S knows that p if and
only if (i) it is true that p, (ii) S accepts thatp (iii) S is completely
justified in accepting that p, and (iv) S is completely justified in
accepting p in some way that does not depend on any false
statement” (Lehrer, 1990, 18). The question might arise why
include the fourth item; isn’t it subsumed in the third? Suppose
we can construct a justificatory argument that points to the
acceptance of p, but our argument, while accurate and cohesive
as far as it goes, omits some contradictory points. The contradic-
tory points would render the argument false. We can think about
language used in, for example, political campaigns. A candidate
may list points that support a position, but the list is incomplete.
We can agree that, because of the omissions, the candidate is not
making a justified knowledge claim. The fourth item, then, is an
essential one.
 Chapter Five 207

We might equate Lehrer’s acceptance condition with Dancy’s

belief condition. Both concepts accomplish a very important goal:
the knowing subject must have some awareness, some cognition,
of the thing in question, and must acknowledge it to be true. If
there is no acceptance (or no belief), there can be nothing we
could call knowledge. The correspondence to truth condition,
shared by Dancy and Lehrer, is a fundamentally realist position.
For something to be true it first has to be, and for it to be true, its
truth has to be something separate and apart from our apprehen-
sion of it. In other words, anyone who believes that knowledge is
possible must accept metaphysical realism. For there to be
knowledge, there must be knowledge of something; there is an
ontological being to the world. As was discussed earlier, there can
be variations on realism (and problems with realism). The
strongest version holds that we can describe reality referentially,
that the language we use to speak about something genuinely
refers to that thing as it is (independent of our minds). We’ve
already seen the problems of the strong version, but rejection of
that version need not involve rejection of realism entirely.
Frederick Schmitt indicates how realism can work on a metaphys-
ical level while not being absolutely referential. An automobile,
we can agree, exists independently of our minds; the shape and
substance of the automobile does not depend on, nor are they
created by, our representation of them. However, the design and
function of the automobile are human representations; what
makes the object an automobile (that is, something that humans
can use for transportation) is extraontological—it is more than
just its physical structure; it has a function imposed upon it by
us. Here is an important difference between the physical (such as
an automobile) and what I’ll call the textual. Schmitt uses the
example of Hamlet. The character Hamlet exists by virtue of
being represented in the play Hamlet. There is no physical thing
Hamlet (it is a character, an object of imagination), although
there is a physical thing Hamlet (the text) (Schmitt, 1995, 13).
This distinction is not a fine one; it is a difference between
physical being and mental being. A thought, an idea, does not
have physical substance (if we reject the reductionist
neurophilosophical claim that thought is completely reducible to
208 Knowledge and Knowing

physical events in the brain). I do not mean to suggest that the

physical and the mental are absolutely separate and independent,
such a claim would be ridiculous. What I do mean is that, while
the two are related, there are some fundamental differences in the
natures of the physical and the mental. The differences are
sufficiently essential that we need to examine different ways to
gain knowledge of them. A bit later in this chapter we'll explore
the possibility of knowledge of the mental. In fact, that discussion
will be most important for us in LIS, because what we deal with
most is the mental—texts (in the broad sense), expressions, and
queries. If knowledge of the mental is possible, it has to be
conceived of somewhat differently from knowledge of the
physical. The different conception has implications for the means
used to gain knowledge. As should be clear from the exploration
of the genealogy, the received tradition in LIS and the social
sciences has been to emulate the physical sciences to the point of
assuming that the phenomena of the natural sciences and those
of the human sciences are identical in nature. This is a mistake.
Maritain explains the mistake by saying that “the central error of
modern philosophy in the domain of the knowledge of nature has
been to give the value of an ontological explanation to the type
of mechanist attraction immanent in physico-mathematical
knowledge, and to take the latter for a philosophy of nature. It is
not a philosophy of nature” (Maritain, 1995, 196). In other
words, we have mistakenly taken the methods of the natural
sciences, which are necessarily physicalist, to be the sole ground-
ing for knowledge of all phenomena. Knowledge is not reducible
to a method, although there are methods that help us to gain
knowledge.

Foundationalism

To return to Lehrer, there are challenges pertaining to the

element of justification. In the past, justification was frequently
based in some form of foundationalism: “some beliefs, basic
beliefs, are completely justified in themselves and constitute the
foundation for the justification of everything else” (Lehrer, 1990,
39). The major question that arises is: What constitutes a
 Chapter Five 209

foundational claim? One of the basic tenets of deterministic

scientism (especially in its strongest empiricist form) is phenom-
enalism, the belief that sensory experience is the soundest
grounding for knowledge. The aspects of the genealogy that
adhere to phenomenalism are, in effect, statements of
foundationalism. The assumption underlying phenomenalism is
that our sensory experiences are directly received from the world
as it is and so provide us with accurate meaning of the external
world. Philosophers have offered two convincing objections to
phenomenalism: (1) sensory data are not always accurate, so the
data we receive are not necessarily indicative of the external
world, and (2) sensory data are expressed through language aimed
at explaining the sensory data, but there is no way to reduce
language to a foundational claim, a claim that does not depend
on another claim for justification. Some others have stated that
logical reasoning can provide a foundation for beliefs. Such a
claim was espoused earlier this century by many logical empiri-
cists (logical positivists), who sought verification through logical
analysis. Popper, Quine, and others successfully pointed out the
impossibility of this goal. The critiques of foundationalism expose
fatal errors in such a line of thinking.

The logical empiricists had to employ a kind of

foundationalism for their program of verification to have
any chance of succeeding. Sensory observation was
important to them, but linguistic analysis was even more
important. Building on early writings by Wittgenstein,
they took to heart his claim regarding representation
(that language, especially naming, is a true representation
of what is referred to, of what is named). Wittgenstein
writes: “The proposition is a picture of reality, for | know
the state of affairs presented by it, if I understand the
proposition. And I understand the proposition without
its sense having been explained to me. The proposition
shows its sense. The proposition shows how things stand,
ifit is true. And it says, that they do so stand” [emphasis
in original] (Wittgenstein, 1990, 67). Popper challenged
210 Knowledge and Knowing

the ends of verification by stating that verification can’t

be achieved; only falsification (showing a statement to be
untrue) is possible. Quine more directly attacked the
means employed by logicial empiricists. Analytical
language, or meaning that is independent of particular
matters of fact, can’t be separated from synthetic lan-
guage, or meaning that is grounded in fact. The logical
empiricists’ separation of the two amounts to what Quine
calls a “metaphysical article of faith” (Quine, 1980, 37),
which demolishes the roots of logical empiricism.

In short, as Dancy argues, “the main objection to classical

foundationalism is that there are no infallible beliefs. The
fallibilist holds, correctly in my opinion, that we are nowhere
entirely immune from the possibility of error” (Dancy, 1985, 58).
The foregoing concentrates on the strongest claims of
foundationalism. As we see repeatedly, there are weaker versions
that can hold some interest and can have some validity. It is
almost certainly the case that dependence on foundational
statements for the sole grounding of truth is misguided. But,
following Robert Audi, when we formulate beliefs and make
claims to knowledge, do we do so by examining sets of related
propositions? Audi’s “moderate foundationalism” is a recognition
that thought, and knowledge that emerges from thought and
experience, is in part inferential (that is, we build one proposition
from another by inferring from the earlier proposition) and is part
noninferential. The noninferential element

does not imply that such foundational beliefs are, e.g.,

epistemically certain, or not themselves grounded in something
else, such as perceptual experience. Thus, it is left open that,
psychologically, the presence of these elements can be ex-
plained, and, epistemically, an answer can often be given to the
question of what justifies them. What is ruled out is simply that
they are justified, inferentially, by other beliefs. (Audi, 1993, 3)
 Knowledge and Knowing Zbl

Furthermore, Audi stresses that, in reaching some kind of

justification for beliefs, we employ reason and arrive at justifica-
tion through rational means. Audi’s position is that this kind of
foundationalism is fallibilist, is always subject to correction. As he
writes, “One can insist that what is not precisely true is simply
not known. But we could also say that what is approximately true
may be an object of approximate knowledge, and that beliefs of
such propositions are both fallible and typically held with an
openness to their revision in the light of new discoveries. I prefer
the latter way of speaking” (Audi, 1998, 255). This is an impor-
tant point, our knowledge is both contingent (upon methods for
seeking and assessing evidence and the evidence available to us)
and corrigible (it may be corrected as we develop more effective
methods or find more complete evidence).

Coherentism

Even if we are able to accept some moderate foundationalism

(pace Audi), it seems this stance is not sufficient for justification.
What else can serve to justify knowledge? One answer sug-
gested by many is called coherentism. Lehrer is a key proponent
of coherence as justification for knowledge. If one’s belief
is considered consistent—logically, rationally, and (perhaps)
experientially—with a body of beliefs, then that first belief is
considered coherent, given the existing system of beliefs. One
objection to this stance is that the system of beliefs may be
internally consistent, but consistently erroneous, so a belief that
fits into that system is likewise erroneous, since it may be false.
According to Lehrer, this kind of coherence tells only half the
tale. Agreement or consistency may help us decide what to accept,
but it may not help us determine what is true. What is required
is the twofold concept of coherence, just described, so that
justification cannot be defeated (Lehrer, 1990, 132-52).
Donald Davidson agrees with Lehrer in that coherence, for
him, rests on the veridical nature (or truth-relatedness) of belief.
In stressing the relationship to truth, Davidson realizes that truth
is not epistemic; it is independent of our (or anyone’s) knowledge
of it. That said, he also recognizes that truth is not absolutely
IR Chapter Five

disconnected from belief; it becomes seen as truth through

someone holding a belief. The complexity of the relationship
results in coherence signaling a convergence of meaning, truth,
and belief (Davidson, 1990, 135-36). A coherentist stance is also
shared by BonJour, who connects coherence to justification.
Justification, he says, depends on four stages of argument:

(1) The inferability of that particular belief from other particu-

lar beliefs and further relations among particular empirical
beliefs.
(2) The coherence of the overall system of empirical beliefs.
(3) The justification of the overall system of empirical beliefs.
(4) The justification of the particular belief in question, by
virtue of its membership in the system. (BonJour, 1985, 92)

Coherence also succeeds, according to Bonjour, because it

embodies a system of belief that holds over the long run, not just
for that one moment in time. One difference between Davidson
and BonJour is that, for Davidson, coherence is largely
externalist; that is, the system of beliefs must not only be
internally consistent, but also must cohere with truth (which is
not determined by an individual). BonJour’s stance is primarily
internalist; of principal importance is the relationships among
beliefs. BonJour doesn’t ignore the external element, but it seems
to be less important to him than it is to Davidson.
Coherentism, like foundationalism, may not be sufficient for
knowledge. Haack and Goldman point out some shortcomings of
coherentism—consistency of belief can’t account for a departure
from truth, for instance, and the charitable idea that beliefs are
generally true can have too many counterexamples. Haack’s
response is to combine what she sees as the most efficacious
elements of foundationalism and coherentism, such as the insight
introspection gives us into our own mental workings plus the
information that sensory experience gives us about the world
around us (Haack, 1993, 213). Haack’s position appears to be at
least somewhat similar to William Alston’s. Alston speaks of the
“grounding” for knowledge, which he defines as including
experiences and reasons (Alston, 1989, 176). (Alston, however,
claims that each grounding may not be necessary for knowledge;
 Knowledge and Knowing £48)

instead he emphasizes reliability, which is of primary importance

to Goldman.) According to Goldman, something is reliable “if
and only if (1) it is a sort of thing that tends to produce beliefs,
and (2) the proportion of true beliefs among the beliefs it
produces meets some threshold, or criterion, value. Reliability,
then, consists in a tendency to produce a high truth ratio of
beliefs” (Goldman, 1986, 26). Reliability has more than one
form; there can be causal reliability, which has as its focus the
causes for the beliefs we hold, and reliable causes tend to yield
consistent beliefs. Also of importance, though, are the processes
by which we arrive at beliefs and their reliability with regard to
the generation of consistent beliefs and beliefs that are connected
to truth (Goldman, 1986, 43-45).
Schmitt more directly addresses these “processes [which] are
relevant [emphasis in original] in evaluating justified beliefs”
(Schmitt, 1992, 140). He takes issue with some of Goldman’s
ideas (although the difference between him and Goldman are not
drastic) and says that reliable processes may be supported by
intuition, without the requirement of each individual arriving at
a theoretical account of the relevance of processes to justification.
This relative freedom does not mean, however, that there is no
structure to the evaluation of relevant processes. Assessment is
based on some prior constraints that help guide us to the factors
that are important to evaluation. Schmitt identifies five such
constraints:

(1) The Salience Constraint: (a) Relevant processes are those in

terms of which evaluators think and talk; and (b) Ceteris
paribus, relevant processes are individuated so as to maximize
the accuracy of beliefs about whether subjects exercise reliable
relevant processes. .. .
(2) The Folk Process Constraint: Relevant processes are (with
extraordinary exceptions . . .) folk processes. . . .
(3) The Intrinsic Similarity Constraint: Ceteris paribus, relevant
processes are individuated so as to maximize the intrinsic
dissimilarity of the exercises of distinct relevant processes. . . .
(4) The Frequency Similarity Constraint: Ceteris paribus,
relevant processes are individuated so as to maximize the
similarity of the frequencies of true beliefs assigned stretches of
belief belonging to a single process and the dissimilarity of the
214 Chapter Five

frequencies of true beliefs assigned stretches of belief belonging

to distinct processes... .
(5) The Utility Constraint: Ceteris paribus, relevant processes
are individuated so as to maximize the utility of evaluating
beliefs, measured in number and proportion of true beliefs.
(Schmitt, 1992, 143-58)

These constraints are generally performed by all of us as we seek

justification for beliefs. Schmitt is attracted to these in particular
(with good reason) because they don’t require the imposition of
a “metaprocess,” a process governing processes. Instead, the five
constraints are enough for us to satisfy the condition of reliabil-
ity.

Criteria for Justification

Amidst all the apparent disagreement among these philoso-
phers, we can infer some elements that can help us assess
knowledge. If we agree that justification is essential, we have to
focus our attention on what justification is. Haack says that “The
concept of justification is an evaluative concept, one of a whole
mesh of concepts for the appraisal of a person’s epistemic state.
To say that a person is justified in some belief of his, is, in so far
forth, to make a favourable [sic] appraisal of his epistemic state.
So the task of explication here calls for a descriptive account of
an evaluative concept” (Haack, 1993, 12). What, then, can
provide us with adequate justification for knowledge? It appears
that the best answer to that question, an answer that satisfies
Haack’s evaluative criterion, is a combination of the elements
already discussed. As Audi suggests, we really can’t escape some
kind of foundational assumptions (not foundations based on logical
analysis, perhaps, but some melding of empirical and rational
foundations that provides us with a starting point both for
cognition and for knowledge). We also need some coherence within
our systems of belief to ensure that we are not ignoring unavoid-
able falsifications for our beliefs (remember Lehrer’s fourth
condition for knowledge). And the causes for our beliefs, along
 Knowledge and Knowing 215

with the processes by which we come to believe, must be reliable

indicators of truth. At this point I have to disagree with Alston. His
concept of grounding based in the experiences and reasons that
lead to beliefs is necessary, but alone it is not sufficient. A
combination of all of the above seems to suggest necessary and
sufficient conditions for justification and, so, for knowledge.
Justification is not provided accidentally by a single bit of
information, although information (in the sense of intentional
data that is not knowingly false) is necessary for justification.
This idea also implies that not every belief is a justified true
belief, even in the fallibilist sense. An example might serve to
illustrate this point. Suppose you read in a respectable LIS
journal a study that concludes that faculty on college and
university campuses prefer to use electronic journals over print
journals, and that libraries should cancel print journal subscrip-
tions in favor of electronic access to journal literature. Do you
know something about faculty use of journal literature on the
basis of this conclusion? The quick answer is no; you would have
to evaluate the justificatory power of the claim first. In this case
there is not likely to be any foundational belief that will help you
with the evaluation. Perhaps you can turn to coherence and
reliability. Those elements are not hostile to empiricism, so one
means of evaluation is to examine the claim in the context of
what you already know (always keeping in mind the fallible
nature of our knowledge). Suppose you have examined the
question locally, trying to find out from faculty at your institution
(a university that emphasizes science and technology) which
medium they prefer. Your findings agree with those of the
published article. Now do you know something about the matter?
Again, it depends on what you're assessing. If the claim you're
evaluating regards the preference of faculty at your institution,
the study can provide a statement that coheres with the beliefs
you hold about the local faculty. The investigation you’ve done
indicates that 80 percent of the faculty express a marked prefer-
ence for electronic literature. Taking a probabilistic (rather than
an absolutist) view of knowledge of such human behavior, you
may see your belief as knowledge. There appears to be ample
justification. To suppose further, let’s say faculty expressions of
216 Chapter Five

preference have been accurate in the past. The belief about

electronic journals may well be reliable; the belief is not false. But
suppose you're evaluating the global claim—faculty everywhere
prefer electronic journals. The article reports studying the
preferences of faculty at three universities, all with emphases on
science and technology. The three universities, at the time the
study was conducted, had already canceled a number of print
subscriptions and replaced them with electronic access. Now
suppose you are affiliated with an institution that focuses on the
humanities and social sciences. The findings of the article may
not cohere with your system of beliefs. Moreover, the findings
may not be reliable: given what you already know, the conclusion,
in the global sense, may be false.
The example illustrates that knowledge is not easy to come
by; the criteria of justification are not easy to meet. While
difficult, however, knowledge is not impossible. Some philoso-
phers do maintain, though, that knowledge, as we've been
discussing it, is indeed impossible.

Denial of Epistemology
Perhaps because knowledge is not easy to arrive at, some
philosophers assert that there really is no such thing as knowl-
edge. The rationales for the claim are not entirely consistent,
although there is something of a unifying thread running through
their arguments. To begin, Stephen Stich tells us that we are
mistaken to put any stock at all in what he refers to as “folk
psychology,” the stance that behavior can be explained, at least
in part, by beliefs and desires and that explanatory theory can be
grounded in such things as beliefs and desires. Stich advocates a
principle called psychological autonomy, which suggests that
psychological states or properties are part of physical states or
properties. This suggestion should sound familiar; a principle of
scientism is reduction to the physical. Stich presents some cases
that, he claims, demonstrates the weakness of the premise that
beliefs can help explain psychological states. His cases involve
what can only be seen as deception, though. For instance, he
 Knowledge and Knowing 217

posits that at the present time he believes he lives in the twenti-

eth century (he is writing in 1978) and that strawberry fields are
nearby. Then he is frozen, transported to Iceland, and left there
for more than a century. Upon his being awakened, he still
believes it is the twentieth century and that strawberry fields are
nearby. These beliefs are false, so they are not tokens of the same
type of beliefs as those he held before he was frozen. His explana-
tion ignores what he could have known and, so, could believe
when he was unfrozen. The case exemplifies a kind of delu-
sion—that the physical is the only explanation for psychological
states, so when the physical changes, psychological states
necessarily change, and are independent of the mental (of beliefs
or desires) (Stich, 1990, 345-61). In other words, Stich first
assumes that psychological states are supervenient upon physical
states (that is, the properties of the psychological are determined
by the physical). Again, the thinking that underlies Stich’s
position has been examined critically earlier in this book. The key
assumption by Stich is that beliefs are, or must be, grounded only
in the physical. If that assumption is not true, then his position
is seriously undermined.

Eliminative Materialism

This position (as is frequently the case in philosophy) has a

name: eliminative materialism: Paul Churchland provides us with
a definition: “the prospect we face is that a detailed neurophysio-
logical conception of ourselves might simply displace our
mentalistic self-conception in much the same way that oxidation
theory (and modern chemistry generally) simply displaced the
older phlogiston theory of matter transformation” (Paul
Churchland, 1979, 5). Eliminative materialism indicates that our
mentalistic psychological framework is a misleading idea of the
causes of behavior. Another stance, reductive materialism, is the
reduction of the concepts we hold as part of our “common-sense,”
or folk, psychology to neuroscience, the explanation of neurologi-
cal events in physical terms. Or, stated more simply, “Mental
states are physical states of the brain. That is, each type of mental
state or process is numerically identical with (is one and the very
218 Chapter Five

same thing as) some type of physical state or process within the
brain or central nervous system (Paul Churchland, 1988, 26).
Churchland opts for the eliminative materialist position, as does
Patricia Churchland, who asserts that sentential attitudes are
irrelevant to any examination of cognitive activity. What that
means is that, to the Churchlands, any theory that is based in a
language of thought, or internal cognitive states that are identi-
fied by sentences, must be found wanting (Patricia Churchland,
1986, 386-99). They see eliminative materialism as having an
explanatory advantage. Paul Churchland says,

there are vastly many more ways of being an explanatorily

successful neuroscience while not mirroring the structure of folk
psychology, than there are ways of being an explanatorily
successful neuroscience while also mirroring the very specific
structure of folk psychology. Accordingly, the a priori probabil-
ity of eliminative materialism is not lower, but substantially
higher than that of either of its competitors. One’s initial
intuitions here are simply mistaken. (Paul Churchland, 1988,
47)

As is the case with Stich, Churchland seems to be reducing

not only the event of the mental, but also the content of the
mental. People conceive not just the physical elements of
existence, such as time (what time of day it is, what year it is,
what age we live in) and place (the town we live in, the address
of our house, the scene of the garden next door). People also
conceive of some contingent elements of existence, such as the
willingness to act in a particular way, the defendability of a
political stance, the kinds of ideas that connect one thought with
another. While eliminativism seems to describe, and maybe even
to explain, some simple actions and their rationales, it doesn’t (in
fact it can’t) describe or explain them all. As Jerry Fodor says, for
eliminative materialism to hold generally, we would also have to
eliminate intentionality (something we'll return to shortly). The
neuroscience (or neurophilosophical) position leaves no room for
knowledge; the conditions for knowledge that we’ve addressed
here are not sufficiently reducible to neurological states to make
sense in that theory. This is a position argued against by Fodor,
 Knowledge and Knowing 219

who states, “Content is constituted externally, by causal relations

between mental symbols and the world. Often enough, internal-
ized theories mediate these causal relations” (Fodor, 1994, 98).
Of course, in keeping with what the Churchlands claim, the
neuroscience explanation is itself determined by physical events
in the brain. If that is so, why have not many other brains
experienced similar enough events to have arrived at the same
sort of eliminative materialism? The answer to that may be the
following: the neurophilosophical approach is an extension of the
scientistic version of Enlightenment thought that has been
subjected to critique in earlier chapters.

Rorty’s Pragmatism

A more interesting, but not necessarily more plausible, denial

of epistemology is offered by Richard Rorty. Part of the interest
of Rorty’s thought lies in the seeming tensions between his
propositions and his conclusions. In fact, his conclusions do not
necessarily follow his propositions and arguments. In keeping
with some of his conclusions, he would see nothing wrong with
this tension; it is simply the product of a language that is
incapable of representation (in the sense Wittgenstein espoused
in his early writings) and, perhaps, even expression. For example,
in part he is sympathetic to realism; he recognizes that it is
reasonable to accept that the world is not our creation, that
things exist apart from our mental representations of them.
However, he separates the physical reality of the world from
truth: “Truth cannot be out there—cannot exist independently of
the human mind—because sentences cannot so exist, or be out
there. The world is out there, but descriptions of the world are
not” (Rorty, 1989, 5). There is no doubt that language presents
challenges, but in some areas, such as mathematics, our symbolic
codes appear to be referential (the code seems to refer to the
world, or at least to properties of the world). I’m not suggesting
that mathematics can provide a universal code than can apply to
all of human behavior and human thought; language is far too
complicated for such a reductionist cop-out. More fundamentally,
Rorty assumes that truth and our expressions of what we hold to
220 Chapter Five

be true are the same. He denies that our expressions might

approximately refer to something that exists independent of our
representation.
What Rorty is not sympathetic to is the idea of truth as I’ve
been using it here. To Rorty, true means “what you can defend
against all comers” (Rorty, 1979, 308). Further, he translates a
person knowing something into a statement about the status of
that person’s claim among peers (Rorty, 1979, 175). In short,
according to Rorty, epistemology has no purpose; the traditional
notions of knowledge have no meaning. In particular, individual-
ist epistemology should be forgotten: “we need to turn outward
rather than inward, toward the social context of justification
rather than to the relations between inner representations”
(Rorty, 1979, 210). Without any possibility of even approximate
reference there is, of course, no defense against all comers, since
a detractor can attack any idea on any grounds. Such a notion
borders on anarchism. Throughout his career Rorty has denied
being a relativist, but it’s difficult to read him in any other way.
Peter Munz says that Rorty denies justification and replaces it
with a relativism in which claims are accepted because they have
the consensus of the community (Munz, 1987, 360). Rorty’s
relativism, in Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature, takes the form of
epistemological behaviorism, which entails, “Explaining rational-
ity and epistemic authority by reference to what society lets us
say, rather than the latter by the former” (Rorty, 1979, 174). I
mention Rorty’s challenge to epistemology because, for one thing,
it is heeded by a number of philosophers, but also (and this is
more important to our purposes in LIS) because on the face of it
the dismissal of truth and rationality seems attractive. It appears
to offer us in LIS a way to ignore some difficult questions by
allowing a substantive denial of anything apart from ourselves.
Rorty, in fact, goes so far as to say that “there is nothing deep
down inside us except what we have put there ourselves, no
criterion that we have not created in the course of creating a
practice, no standard of rationality that is not an appeal to such
a criterion, no rigorous argumentation that is not obedience to
our own conventions” (Rorty, 1982, xlii). I’ve tried to show how
a belief such as the one Rorty expresses can be used as an excuse
 Knowledge and Knowing Pap

for some knowledge claims; I’ll revisit this notion in the next
chapter.
Much more could be said about Rorty’s dismissal of episte-
mology, but let me conclude by pointing out two errors in his
thought. C. G. Prado observes that Rorty’s attack on a correspon-
dence theory of truth presumes an unlimited imaginative
capacity. If there is no objective world that might correspond to
our linguistic representations of it, then each of us has to have
the capacity to imagine the world, so that we can find the words
to speak of it (Prado, 1988). Every person has to have the ability
to conceive of the world and (here’s the real trick) we somehow
reach a general agreement on what to say about the world. Also,
as Alvin Goldman notes, Rorty mistakenly (or intentionally)
reduces epistemology to infallible foundationalism (Goldman,
1999, 27). We've already seen the problems of foundationalism.
I've also suggested that we have to adopt a fallibilist, but
corrigible, stance regarding knowledge. To revisit what I said in
the introduction, Rorty’s version of pragmatism ignores the
pragmatic intention and uses of epistemology by distorting what
constitutes knowledge and its importance. In summary, Rorty
appears to be seeking confirmation of his relativist position, while
ignoring much contemporary thought on epistemology. He has
not successfully confounded the theory of knowledge.
Rorty is indeed correct, though, in stating that language does
present some difficulties for us, that our linguistic representations
of the world are not perfect. This does not mean that they are
solely our own creation and have nothing to do with the world
around us. Instead it presents a particular challenge to us in our
search for knowledge—a challenge that is rooted in the epistemic
and in the social. That’s what we'll take up next.

Where Does Information Fit In

Some readers may notice that, so far, I’ve made little mention
of information in connection with theories of knowledge, and the
omission is intentional. While the following section does discuss
a conception of epistemology that has its origins in LIS, on the
222 Chapter Five

whole I see information as something that supports, but is

separate from, knowledge. There is a bit of historical grounding
for my view. More than half a century ago, when Claude
Shannon postulated his information theory, information was, at
least in some constructs, divorced from knowledge (Shannon
went so far as distinguish information from meaning). I'll admit
that I think Shannon’s information theory, while appropriate in
some technical applications, has little import for most of LIS.
This is not to say that there is no one in LIS that does connect
knowledge and information. Perhaps the most noteworthy writer
on the subject is Michael Buckland. In observing that being
informed involves a change in beliefs he says that, “In this use of
the term, information is an increment in knowledge, and, as such,
it shares the characteristics of knowledge” (Buckland, 1991, 41).
Unfortunately, Buckland does not expand on this idea.
I don’t want to leave anyone with the impression that I see
information as inferior to knowledge. To reiterate (and this will
become clearer with the discussion of social epistemology),
information is integral to knowledge. Aspects of information, such
as relevance, organization, and discourse, must be linked in some
way to what counts as knowledge and knowing, with how we
think about justification. In the last chapter I'll present some of
the most effective thought in LIS and hope the relationship
between knowledge and information becomes crystal clear.

Social Epistemology—Jesse Shera

At first glance the term “social epistemology” may seem to be
a contradiction. As we will see, though, there are social connec-
tions to justification and truth. But first a little background. As
near as I can tell, the first conception of social epistemology (SE)
comes from LIS. Jesse Shera, as early as 1953, was touting SE as
the genuine purpose of librarianship. With Margaret Egan he
distinguished SE from sociology and defined SE as “the study of
those processes by which society as a whole [emphasis in original]
seeks to achieve a perceptive or understanding relation to the
total environment—physical, psychological, and intellectual”
 Knowledge and Knowing 223

(Egan and Shera, 1952, 132). They then outlined four underlying
assumptions of SE:

1. That it is possible for the individual to enter into a relation-

ship of “knowing” with respect to his own immediate environ-
ment or that part of the entirety of his environment with which
he has personal contact.
2. That the instruments of communication which mankind has
developed enable the individual to come into approximately
the same kind of relationship with that of his total environment
that is beyond his immediate personal experience but which he
is able to comprehend because the symbols of communication
relate this vicarious experience to his own immediate experi-
ence. In short, one must assume that man can achieve an
intellectual synthesis with his environment and that environ-
ment, through our present mediums of communication,
includes remote and vicarious as well as immediate and direct
experience.
3. That, by co-ordinating the differing knowledge of many
individuals, the society as a whole may transcend the knowl-
edge of the individual.
4, That social action, reflecting integrated intellectual action,
transcends individual action. (Egan and Shera, 1952, 132-33)

His conception, while putatively distinguished from sociology,

evidently seems to have some connection to the sociology of
knowledge.
Later Shera attempted to clarify what he meant by SE. He
said it should be “a study of the ways in which society as a whole
achieves a perceptive relation to its total environment. It should
lift the study of intellectual life from that of a scrutiny of the
individual to an inquiry into the means by which a society,
nation, or culture achieves understanding of the totality of stimuli
which act upon it” (Shera, 1972, 112). The last sentence sounds
almost behavioristic, although it is doubtful that Shera intended
such an interpretation. He also took some care to distinguish
knowledge from information, which is an essential epistemologi-
cal distinction. Despite his care, some conflation is apparent.
Knowledge, to Shera, can be recorded and preserved, and the
librarian “must also concern himself with the knowledge he
224 Chapter Five

communicates and the importance of the knowledge to the

individual and to society” (Shera, 1970, 84). At one point he
departed dramatically from traditional epistemology and asserted
that knowledge “has nothing to do with truth or falsehood.
Knowledge may be false knowledge, or it may be true knowledge.
It is still knowledge, it is knowable and known” (Shera, 1970,
97). He seems to be confusing belief and knowledge and further
magnifies the confusion by borrowing Fritz Machlup’s classifica-
tion of knowledge (Machlup, 1962): practical knowledge,
intellectual knowledge, spiritual knowledge, pastime knowledge,
and unwanted knowledge. I dare say epistemologists would take
issue with this classification, especially with spiritual and
unwanted knowledge.
Perhaps the most serious difficulty with Shera’s conception
of SE is his view of the relationship between knowledge and
society. “Social epistemology is almost the reverse [of sociology
of knowledge]: it deals with the impact of knowledge upon
society—not the influence of society upon knowledge, but the
influence of knowledge upon society” (Shera, 1970, 107-8).
Perhaps this brief examination is less than fair to Shera. For the
most part he was breaking new ground; at the time he wrote
about SE, traditional, individualist epistemology ruled the day
(and it still is dominant, although, as we'll soon see, there is an
important challenge to the dominance). Shera was undoubtedly
correct to emphasize the impact of knowledge upon society, even
if he did not recognize that society has an impact on knowledge.
He was also correct to point out that SE is fundamentally an
interdisciplinary project and that LIS can learn from the disci-
plines that contribute to SE. The strengths of his idea were
eventually discovered by some philosophers who today are
developing programs based on SE (although they have, for the
most part, been unaware of Shera’s work).
Shera’s SE has gone almost unnoticed in LIS. And when the
idea of SE has been mentioned, it has tended to be problematic.
Patrick Wilson claimed that his Second-Hand Knowledge was a
work of social epistemology (Wilson, 1983). What he actually
seemed to be asserting, however, was that knowledge is socially
constructed and is relative to whatever set of social determinants
 Knowledge and Knowing 225

happen to be present at the time. In fact, he drew most heavily

from Rorty’s Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature for his book. In
particular, he took social interaction and social structure to most
clearly define what is taken to be knowledge. Wilson earlier
stated his position in Public Knowledge, Private Ignorance. He
wrote,“ The historian must construct his story, on the basis of the
sources; and this is an act of invention. The reviewer of the state
of knowledge is in an analogous position” (Wilson, 1977, 12).
Rather than an act of invention, history is an act of interpreta-
tion, which should be inclusive in order to be justified. Wilson
also departs from Shera’s position by openly using the terms
“information” and “knowledge” interchangeably throughout the
book. Wilson’s stance, then, is unabashedly relativistic, which
creates a problem for any study of knowledge. While it is
undeniable that the flow of information is indeed relative to
individual abilities, group attachments, political dynamics, and
other social factors, knowledge is normative. This does not mean
that knowledge is separate from the social; rather, social elements
inevitably contribute to knowledge, in a normative way.
One other writer from LIS who addresses social epistemology,
though not in great depth, has been S. D. Neill, in his Dilemmas
in the Study of Information. Neill expressed some skepticism
regarding a seemingly inherent element of Shera’s SE—society
can know. He adopted a more individualist view of epistemology,
but he did see that, beyond individual experience, there is a
communicative aspect to knowledge growth. In developing his
thought regarding that communicative aspect he drew heavily
from Karl Popper, especially Popper’s idea of objective knowl-
edge. Popper’s World 3, the record of knowledge (including, for
instance, books and libraries), presents several problems, as we've
seen, insofar as there can be knowledge without a knowing
subject. Epistemology, whether individualist or social, is founded
on the opposite premise, that there must be a knower for there to
be knowledge. As I mentioned above, some contemporary
philosophers have found the notion of social epistemology
attractive. What do they have to say on the matter?
226 Chapter Five

Social Epistemology—Philosophers
It may surprise readers to hear that social epistemology has
not, until quite recently, captured the attention of philosophers.
That realization alone should excite us in LIS; it points to the
potential of this discipline and the possibilities presented by the
study of libraries and information. It should also provide us with
a warning, though, that we need to share ideas with inquirers in
other disciplines.

A recent posting to a listserv asserted that there is little

or nothing worth researching with regard to libraries.
Obviously I heartily disagree with such a narrow-minded
pronouncement; the author of the message could only be
seen as correct if we limit our vision of fruitful inquiry to
the simplest tasks that are executed in libraries. If we
broaden our vision to the effective organization of
information, the information-seeking behavior of users,
and the mediation between users and the graphic record,
we can readily see the feasibility of inquiry.

Just because philosophers have recently turned to SE does not

mean that they have altogether ignored the social, but connec-
tions between knowledge and the social are not exactly common.
Steve Fuller has written a considerable amount on SE. Perhaps
the most notable thing in his writings that should be emphasized
here is that the project of epistemology is a normative one. That
is, it doesn’t merely describe what is, it seeks to discover what
should be. (It should be noted that the stance of epistemology as
normative is a realist stance. Norms imply something that can
exist independent of our representation of it.) In his earlier work
he tried to distinguish SE from the sociology of knowledge,
pointing especially to the shortcomings in social constructivist
thought. These shortcomings uncover the naiveté of
constructivists’ work, which is founded on the assumption that
 Knowledge and Knowing a2]

“an account of knowledge production, as might appear in a book

or a journal article, represents how knowledge is actually [empha-
sis in original] produced” (Fuller, 1988, 13).
Fuller, however, is certainly sympathetic to the sociological
approach, even if he finds fault with some specific applications
(and his sympathy seems to have increased in more recent years).
Knowledge, in its social manifestation, is not purely individualist;
in fact, for Fuller, knowledge depends not just on individual
acceptance, but also on some form of collective acceptance.

A producer “has knowledge’ if enough of his fellow producers

either devote their resources to following up his research (even
for purposes of refutation) or cite his research as background
material for their own. The producer continues to ‘have
knowledge’ only as long as these investments by his fellows pay
off for them [emphasis in original]. (Fuller, 1988, 30)

There are some serious problems with this conception. For one
thing, it assumes that the producer’s knowledge is inextricably
associated with the acceptance of his claims by others. This
means that the producer’s idea is not dependent on truth or
justification, except as determined by the acceptance of others.
For another thing, it assumes that acceptance counts as knowl-
edge, even if the idea of the producer is false. As we'll see shortly,
there must be more than acceptance for an idea to count as
knowledge. In his more recent writings Fuller has further stressed
the social aspect of knowledge: “A necessary (though not suffi-
cient) condition for the appropriateness of a norm is that the
people to whom the norm would apply find it in their interest to
abide by the norm” (Fuller, 1993, 32). There seems to be little to
distinguish an epistemic norm from ideology. Some have taken
issue with Fuller’s version of SE, finding gaps in his program. For
instance, J. Angelo Corlett observes that Fuller does not ask what
social belief or social epistemic truth is; Fuller doesn’t specify
possible subjects of social knowledge (Corlett, 1996, 15). Not all
philosophers fall prey to these kinds of shortcomings.
Other philosophers acknowledge that accounting for the
social in any conception of epistemology is essential. Most
maintain the break with social constructivism, though. If one
228 Chapter Five

aspect of constructivism is that no a priori order inheres in the

world—that order is imposed by us—then, according to Hilary
Kornblith, knowledge would not be possible; there would be no
object of knowledge (Kornblith, 1994, 95-96). For a naturalized
epistemology, there must also be the realization that “human
psychology must be richly structured as well, and structured in a
way which dovetails with the structure of the world” (Kornblith,
1994, 96). Such a notion might be seen as a conservative sort of
SE (more radical types tend to employ a stronger rejection of
traditional, individualist epistemology along with a stronger
acceptance of the social construction of beliefs, taken to be
knowledge). The rather conservative approach favors the norma-
tive goal of SE. That approach may take the primary epistemolog-
ical project, as Philip Kitcher does, as consisting

in the investigation of the reliability of various types of social

processes. Once we have recognized that individuals form
beliefs by relying on information supplied by others, there are
serious issues about the conditions that should be met if the
community is to form a consensus on a_ particular
issue—questions about the division of opinion and of cognitive
effort within the community, and issues about the proper
attribution of authority. (Kitcher, 1994, 114)

The ideas mentioned here are somewhat useful for us in LIS, but
they still need development if they are to contribute to a fruitful
intellectual foundation for us.

Social Epistemology—Alvin Goldman

Fortunately, there is a much more well-developed social
epistemological program. I will draw heavily here on the recent
work of Alvin Goldman. As we'll see, Goldman (although he was
not aware of Shera’s work at the time he wrote his book) owes an
intellectual debt to Shera. Perhaps it is telling that two thoughtful
individuals could arrive at similar conceptions independently,
conceptions that offer a framework for thinking about how we
 Knowledge and Knowing fps)

come to know. He asserts that we need to move beyond individu-

alist epistemology:

But concentration on the individual to the exclusion of the

social is inappropriate. The bulk of an adult’s world-view is
deeply indebted to her social world. It can largely be traced to
social interactions, to influences exerted by other knowers,
primarily through the vehicle of language. It is imperative, then,
for epistemology to have a social dimension. (Goldman, 1987,
109)

In several of his works Goldman has described what he takes to

define knowledge and to describe how we may gain knowledge.
Knowledge, Goldman says, is true belief, that is, knowledge as
contrasted with error or ignorance. The means by which we
produce knowledge that may be correct and which replaces
ignorance is by reliable mechanisms. Reliable mechanisms are
those that, much more often than not, produce results that are
not prone to error. I mention Goldman’s definition because, first,
he refers to his program as veritistic social epistemology (collec-
tive true belief) and, second, his definition and description appear
to differ from some offered earlier in this chapter. Actually they
are not that different. For example, one way that we might reach
true belief is by some kind of justification. My point is that the
differences between Goldman and other philosophers are
sufficiently subtle that, for the purposes of understanding LIS’s
relation to knowledge, we can assume they are effectively the
same.
One very real difference between Goldman and the philoso-
phers discussed at the outset of this chapter is that he acknowl-
edges the social element of knowledge production. He has
recently written a book that fleshes out his idea of SE. Early in
his book he tells us what is social about SE:

First, it focuses on social paths or routes to knowledge. That is,

considering believers taken one at a time, it looks at the many
routes to belief that feature interactions with other agents, as
contrasted with private or asocial routes to belief acquisition.
. . . Second, social epistemology does not restrict itself to
believers taken singly. It often focuses on some sort of group
230 Chapter Five

entity. ... Third, instead of restricting knowers to individuals,

social epistemology may consider collective or corporate
entities. (Goldman, 1999, 4)

There are connections between these three points and Shera’s

conception. Shera’s four assumptions of SE (see p. 233) could be
seen to follow from (or precede, in the case of his first assump-
tion) Goldman’s points. In both cases there is a reliance, more
explicit with Shera, on the records of thought and communication
both as expressions of what is known and as evidence that could
be used in the formation of true belief.
In examining how we arrive at true belief, Goldman responds
to the constructivist criterion that is grounded in relativism. He
turns to John Searle, who provides a cogent rejoinder to the
relativism of Nelson Goodman and others: “we do not make
‘worlds’; we make descriptions [emphasis in original] that the
actual world may fit or fail to fit. But all this implies that there is
a reality that exists independently of our system of concepts.
Without such a reality, there is nothing to apply the concept to”
(Searle, 1995, 166). The importance of the distinction Searle
draws cannot be overstated. There is a world that exists apart
from our representations of it. As we struggle to represent the
world we inevitably employ individual and collective experience,
individual and collective cognition, and language (which is
indubitably a social construct). The tale of the seven blind men
attempting to identify an elephant by feeling different parts
illustrates how our experiences and our cognition can seem
correct given the particular, and be erroneous given the whole.
The tale points out the limitations to individual knowledge.
Collectively, people can correct inferences, or at least eliminate
false inferences. This matter was also recognized by Shera, who
urged us to look beyond individual experience to the totality of
the experiences of the group.
The realism that courses through the thought of Searle and
Goldman implies that something can be true; that is, it can be
unchanging insofar as it exists in the dimensions that are
accessible to us (including time). If something can be true, it can
be known. This element of realism makes possible the extension
 Knowledge and Knowing Zo

of belief to true belief. “Since knowledge involves belief, and

belief is in contents that are [human constructs], there is merit to
claim that knowledge is (partly) a social construct. But since
knowledge is true [emphasis in original] belief, knowledge also
involves truth; and what is true, as we have seen, is not a human
construct as opposed to being of the world” (Goldman, 1999,
21). I should emphasize here that knowledge is not a necessary
consequence of collective experience or collective belief. Lan-
guage, agreed-upon description, assumptions, can all be shared
(can even be consensual), but can also be erroneous. If, in some
culture, there is the shared belief that the earth is stationary in
space and everything revolves around it, the sharing does not
create truth. Suppose, on the other hand, there is an individual
who looks at the sky and surmises that everything revolves
around the earth, and then that individual studies physics and
astronomy by reading published works and listening to teachers.
That individual then abandons the prior belief in the light of the
evidence that is offered. This example illustrates Goldman’s first
point—that people take many routes to knowledge, some of
which can involve interaction with others.
Another criticism that constructivists, or postmodernists
generally, submit is that claims of knowledge amount to the
privileging of some beliefs in the less malignant sense, and are
used as instruments of domination in the more malignant.
Goldman successfully answers both versions of this criticism.
True belief is indeed privileged, but not by means of politics or
ideology. Certainly politics, ideology, and other factors affect
belief and can be employed in the privileging of some positions
and even the exercise of domination (and it is essential that we
recognize these possibilities), but they do not affect truth. It is
incumbent, then, upon those who seek knowledge to work
through nonepistemic rationales for belief en route to true belief.

It is possible for us to employ epistemic (truth-seeking)

means to study those beliefs that are based in, say,
ideology. Ideology, at least in some usages of the word,
distorts truth as a means of persuasion or domination. An
252 Chapter Five

inquirer, or group of inquirers, can, however, study

ideological discourse, can set out to arrive at true
beliefs—normative, epistemic beliefs—about the non-
epistemic beliefs that people also hold.

With regard to the second version, two things can be said: (1) the
uses to which knowledge is put is, in a very real sense, indepen-
dent of the knowledge itself (Einstein’s theories contributed to
the manufacture of the first atomic weapon, but the use does not
denigrate Einstein or his theories); (2) much of the stuff that is
used for the purpose of domination is, in fact, false (in Goldman’s
sense in that it is erroneous, albeit purposefully so, or it is
intended to perpetuate ignorance). It must be reiterated that the
nonepistemic beliefs are legitimate subjects for examination and,
further, we can add to our social epistemic knowledge by
understanding them more clearly.
If we accept that SE offers us a fruitful framework for
examining knowledge in LIS, there is an important question that
remains. How do we arrive at knowledge through social interac-
tion? Goldman offers three means by which we can reach true
belief (Goldman, 1999, 103-88). I won’t go into great detail here;
instead, I recommend Goldman’s book to readers. Some summary
of the processes by which we can attain knowledge is necessary,
though. One path to veritistic knowledge is through (1) testimony,
or the communicative sharing of discoveries. At the most basic
level testimony denotes a means by which we can become aware
of things. Of course knowledge necessitates much more than
awareness; testimony leading to knowledge depends at least on
what Goldman refers to as “good veritistic intent” (Goldman,
1999, 107), or the speaker’s own knowledge plus the desire to
communicate it to an audience that cares about it. Goldman’s
idea of reliabilism (the reliability of a process leading to, or
yielding, truth) also enters here. The hearer should be able to
assess the reliability of the speaker; this is one way to justify
belief in what the speaker says.
 Knowledge and Knowing 2o5

A second mechanism that can be employed in SE is (2)

argumentation. By argumentation Goldman does not mean heated
debate (necessarily) or forensic competition with winning as the
goal. He is referring to factual argumentation which involves
presenting a case for a particular point and then trying to respond
successfully to challenges to that point. There are conditions that
a discourse must satisfy for it to have the potential of leading to
knowledge. On the speaker’s side, that individual must believe in
what he or she is arguing in favor of and must also believe in all
the premises that lead to the conclusion. Further, the speaker is
justified in believing the premises and the premises, taken
together, support the conclusion. These conditions are normative
and rational, two elements that are necessary for knowledge. The
social aspect of argumentation lies in the dialogic nature of this
kind of communication. There is not only a speaker; there is also
a hearer. And the hearer can respond to or challenge the speaker’s
premises or conclusion. There are conditions that must be met on
the hearer’s side. Any rebuttal offered for a speaker’s point should
be accurate and it should directly address the speaker’s point. If
a speaker’s claim survives the challenges, if it is not defeated,
then it tends to be reliable. If a speaker’s claim is defeated by a
body of evidence that is contrary to the conclusion, then that
conclusion should be rejected. Throughout the process all
involved must be committed to finding truth.
Goldman’s third mechanism is the one that is of most interest
to us in LIS. There are modes of communication that are not
testimonial and are not dialogic (at least not in the sense of
dyadic communication); there are (3) mass media that are used for
the purpose of increasing and sharing knowledge. The collections
of libraries, the products of some information producers, the
contents of some databases, are intended to assist people with
knowledge growth. We should ask to what extent they meet the
goals of veritistic social epistemology. These kinds of formal
communication may not contribute to SE. There are, fundamen-
tally, four categories of individual communications. They may
contain errors or inaccuracies; they may be weakly argued and
may not respond to reasonable objections; they may not be
flawed, but they may add nothing new; or they may not only
234 Chapter Five

avoid flaws, but also present new findings or theories. If we are

committed to knowledge growth we should seek to maximize the
occurrences of the fourth category and minimize the occurrences
of the first three. Our communication mechanisms attempt to
achieve such an end by subjecting communications to peer
review. Another is to replicate work to ensure that results are
reliable. Such efforts are employed to produce academic or
research communications that are as veritistically sound as
possible. Success certainly isn’t automatic, though. Mass commu-
nication tends to use fewer epistemic gatekeeping approaches and
more economic ones. Goldman argues in favor of some regulatory
mechanisms that do not rely solely on market forces to deter-
mine success. More broadly, Goldman speaks of the role of the
gatekeeper:

Given the importance of gatekeepers, especially in mass

communication, social epistemology must inquire into the
practices available to gatekeepers and the veritistic conse-
quences that might flow from these practices. Casting our net
more widely, we should examine not only the practices of
individual gatekeepers, but the fundamental institutional
arrangements or frameworks that influence the dissemination
of thought and ideas. (Goldman, 1999, 189)

In a subsequent chapter I will review some work and some

questions in LIS and will examine actual and potential applica-
tions of SE to inquiry and practice in LIS. This later examination
will be conducted in the context of what Goldman calls the
“mental infosphere”—the states of beliefs of everyone in the
world at a given time.

If we are lucky, a goodly proportion of the mental infosphere

consists of true beliefs, or knowledge. This, then, is the totality
of human knowledge at the time in question. However impres-
sive this totality may be, it can undoubtedly be enlarged. First,
many truths are initially known by only a single person, or only
a select few. . . . Second, entirely new truths may be acquired by
society, items of knowledge that no individual previously
possessed. These new truths may be acquired by either inde-
pendent or collaborative inquiry. Communication can play a
 Knowledge and Knowing 235

critical role in both old knowledge dissemination and new

knowledge acquisition. . . . In general, the social advance of
knowledge hinges on communication. (Goldman, 1999, 161)

Goldman could have been writing about LIS.

Related Ideas of Knowledge—

Feminist Epistemology
The program of social epistemology, just outlined, can also
serve as an effective response to some who criticize aspects of
traditional epistemology. One critique in particular will be
addressed here—feminist epistemology—because the elements
that form part of the critique offer some very cogent points about
knowledge. In short, the feminist critique argues that what has
passed for knowledge at times has been grounded in a privileged
androcentric framework that has eliminated or subverted other
epistemological stances. The principal point of this argument,
first of all, assumes that there is a social aspect to knowledge and
knowledge growth. Secondly, the argument, with the social aspect
in mind, asserts that some knowledge claims have ignored
substantial and essential elements of society. Feminist epistemol-
ogy frequently makes an explicit connection with the social.
Naomi Scheman argues that “neither the descriptive nor the
normative task [of epistemology] can be adequately accomplished
by abstracting knowers and knowledge from their concrete,
historically specific incarnations” (Scheman, 1995, 179).
At times the connection is made clear as part of articulations
of the feminist epistemological position. Elizabeth Anderson says,
“An adequate feminist epistemology must explain how research
projects with such moral and political commitments can produce
knowledge that meets such epistemic standards as empirical
adequacy and fruitfulness” (Anderson, 1995, 54). Anderson’s idea
of the social aspect of epistemology adds to Goldman’s by
incorporating nonepistemic behaviors that may impinge upon
knowledge. She also adds that the social elements do not preclude
236 Chapter Five

meeting epistemic criteria, including empirical adequacy. If we

think about the means of communication that Goldman speaks
of, the stance of Anderson makes a great deal of sense. The
mechanisms, such as academic or mass media, undoubtedly
include degrees of openness and exclusion; understanding the
dynamics of the media is essential to understanding of the social
aspects of knowledge.
Although it doesn’t analyze knowledge in the same way that
epistemologists do, the landmark study, Women’s Ways of Know-
ing, provides us with some insight into the social dynamics of
such factors as acceptance, justification, and authority (Belensky,
Clinchy, Goldberger, and Tarule, 1997). The study demonstrates
that there are different manners of deciding upon accepting
received views, different ways of connecting between knowing
what and knowing that, and different ways of assessing cognitive
authority. The principal lesson the book offers us is that there are
more ways of examining justification and truth than we may tend
to be taught. This is indeed a valuable lesson, especially insofar
as it can lead us to a clearer understanding of what should be
included as part of a program of social epistemology. The authors
do at times tend to try to legitimize a constructivist approach to
knowledge. This attempt may lead to a confusion of social
epistemology with social constructivism; the difference between
the two is essential, though. At the risk of being repetitive, the
epistemic approach is normative; the social epistemic approach
helps us more accurately to conceive of the norms that should be
applied to the evaluation of knowledge claims. The constructivist
approach, in denying a normative aspect, effectively denies the
possibility of knowledge. I don’t think this latter effect is
intended by the authors of Women’s Ways of Knowing, but it is a
fairly easy trap to be captured in. This criticism aside, the book
can be read in a positive light; it can help to clarify the norms by
which knowledge is to be assessed.
As we can see, while feminist epistemology can help us
appreciate social epistemology, we have to take care to evaluate
specific statements. For instance, Lynn Hankinson Nelson offers
some reasoned support for feminist epistemology, but she tends
to group alternative theories of knowledge together. There
 Knowledge and Knowing Zou

certainly are alternative theories (several have been discussed so

far in this chapter). The alternatives tend to treat the question of
how we justify, how we identify reliable processes, and how we
arrive at truth. Far fewer theories differ on what justification and
truth are (Nelson, 1995). In part, Nelson’s stance almost
advocates replacing one kind of privileging with another; she also
seems to be speaking of belief and not necessarily of knowledge.
In other words, we have to be careful to distinguish between
sociology and epistemology, especially with regard to the differ-
ence between belief and true belief.
If readers wish to find out more about feminist epistemology,
perhaps the single source I could recommend is Sandra Harding’s
Whose Science? Whose Knowledge? She provides a clear explication
of standpoint epistemology, and the fundamental elements of her
position are grounded in the mixture of the social with knowl-
edge. She makes the very valuable point that epistemology should
offer a theory about how we perceive and how we reach under-
standing of the world. She writes, “it is not the experiences or the
speech that provides the grounds for feminist claims; it is rather
the subsequently articulated observations of and theory about the
rest of nature and social relations—observations and theory that
start out from, that look at the world from the perspective of,
women’s lives” (Harding, 1991, 124). Goldman makes particular
reference to Harding’s thought and acknowledges the affinity
with SE. He especially notes Harding’s point that standpoint
epistemology necessitates, not only acceptance of social situation,
but also critical evaluation of those social situations that lead to
objective knowledge claims (Goldman, 1999, 35).
It probably won’t surprise readers to learn that some dispute
the claims of feminist epistemology (and, by extension, those of
social epistemology). I will treat only one objection, mainly
because it has received a considerable amount of attention and
because the argument actually supports feminist and social
epistemology. Paul Gross and Norman Levitt see Harding as
emblematic of an antiscience bias perpetrated by the political left.
The very ascription of this bias to a competing political group
demonstrates that social factors do indeed have an impact on the
process of belief formation. Gross and Levitt reduce Harding's
238 Chapter Five

work to an argument whose sole claim is that multicultural

participation in science will alter the results of scientific work
(Gross and Levitt, 1994, 126-32). Their own bias is apparent in
their polemic: “The propositions of science, by and large, escape
humiliation, while those of the humanities, including venerable
philosophic areas as ethics and aesthetics, emphatically do not”
(Gross and Levitt, 1994, 87). In a more recent work Harding
argues that scientific work tends to occur in localized communi-
ties, with limited social interaction (Harding, 1998). Again, this
reinforces Goldman’s point that knowledge grows along social, as
well as rational, lines. A feminist examination of science and its
epistemic claims does not necessarily negate the content of
scientific knowledge; it does explore how that knowledge is
arrived at and what veritistic means are used to do science. Gross
and Levitt undoubtedly do not suspect it, but they provide some
of the strongest evidence in favor of social epistemology.

Epistemology and the Philosophy of

Social Science
We've seen the philosophers’ conception of knowledge,
including the less abstract idea of social epistemology. A question
that may come to mind at this point is: Are the social sciences
sensitive to the criteria and the import of epistemology? A
principal feature of epistemology is that it is normative. One
thing needs to be pointed out here. Just because theories of
knowledge maintain that the criteria for what counts as knowl-
edge are normative, that doesn’t mean that all of our actions and
beliefs are normative, that they are all rational. So when I say
normative I do not mean that human behavior is completely, or
even predominately, generated by norms. Human behavior is too
individualistic, variable, and sometimes idiosyncratic to be said
to be determined by universal norms. On the other hand, the
study of human behavior, thought, and interaction can be guided
by norms. The foregoing illustrates the difficulty of knowledge
acquisition and knowledge growth—there are rational processes
and we are capable of rationality, but we do not always behave
 Knowledge and Knowing Zoo

rationally. This glitch affects both the object of study (human

behavior and action) and the means of inquiry (our own
knowledge-seeking actions).
Observers of the social sciences most frequently see evidence
for, or suggest the efficacy of, norms in the methods applied to
inquiry. This activity is certainly legitimate, but, alone, however,
the focus or method is not sufficient; it must be accompanied by
an examination of norms pertinent to the way we think about
theory and practice and agreement on what constitutes knowl-
edge in the social sciences and LIS. Conflict has a potential
impact on knowledge; let’s see what some have to say about
epistemology in the social sciences. (We have already seen some
positions that are less than sympathetic to epistemology; let’s use
this limited space to see if there are any who do believe that there
is a connection between social science and knowledge.) The ideas
presented here are those that have the most to say to us in LIS.
The most useful of social science philosophy demonstrate the
flaws of deterministic scientism. It’s not sufficient to deny
determinism or to ignore that there are influences on thought and
action, but it is necessary to examine determinism to see where
it falls short. As I just mentioned, we certainly must recognize
that there are factors, natural and social, that influence what we
do and how we think. Does that mean those factors determine
our responses? Brian Fay offers an explanation of influences that
we can find helpful:

But if by “make” you mean “determine” then our culture and

society do not make us what we are: in the process of encultur-
ation and socialization we are not passive entities upon which
cultural imperatives and social rules are impressed as if we were
a wax tablet (though we must be careful not to picture our
appropriative activity as unconstrained or as possible absent the
resources provided by our culture and society). (Fay, 1996, 69)

Our consciousness enables us to become aware of the impact of

surroundings on us, including self-awareness. Consciousness also
enables our affective and rational responses to that impact. James
Bohman affirms the acknowledgment of self and consciousness:
“the indeterminacy of social action requires that explanations in
240 Chapter Five

the social sciences take into account the fact that knowledgeable
social agents are not mere bearers of social forces or norms, but
can change themselves and alter their circumstances” (Bohman,
199.1233)s
Realization of indeterminacy is not new with Fay and
Bohman. In 1958 Peter Winch noted that discovery of laws
depends on accurate representation of initial conditions but, even
with such a representation, “even given a specific set of initial
conditions, one will still not be able to predict any determinate
outcome to a historical trend because the continuation or
breaking off of that trend involves human decisions which are not
determined by their antecedent conditions in the context of
which the sense of calling them ‘decisions’ lies” (Winch, 1958,
92-93). Even before Winch, Max Weber, in 1904, addressed one
particular element of determinism—objectivity. If human
behavior or thought can be determined, then there must be a way
to identify those criteria or ideals that will allow us to derive
precisely what can direct action. Weber shows how such ideals do
not exist, so “An empirical science cannot tell anyone what he
should do—but rather what he can [emphasis in original] do—and
under certain circumstances—what he wishes to do” (Weber,
1949, 54).
Perhaps most importantly, these social science philosophers
recognize that human and social phenomena are based in
language. This recognition implies that our behavior and actions,
as well as our thought, are linguistic. Of course this has method-
ological consequences, since we frequently rely on what people
say, even if they are describing what they do. Language helps us
to construct what we believe, how we act, and what we know. It
permeates justification, conclusions regarding truth, and identifi-
cation of reliable mechanisms. If much of our knowledge is
propositional knowledge (statements about how things are,
relationships among factors, etc.), the import of language is
obvious. Also, the challenges introduced by language become
obvious. As Andrew Sayer reminds us, the phenomena we deal
with are “concept-dependent [emphasis in original]. Unlike natural
(i.e. non-social) objects they are not impervious to the meanings
ascribed to them. What the practices, institutions, rules, roles or
 Knowledge and Knowing 241

relationships are depends on what they mean in society to its

members” (Sayer, 1992, 30).
Awareness of indeterminacy, of the effects of consciousness
on the processes of both the knower and the known, reinforce a
fallibilistic conception of knowledge. Add language to the mix and
we can see clearly how knowledge claims are fallible and corrigi-
ble. I would submit that there is no alternative for us but to
accept a fallibilist stance regarding knowledge. It does not mean
that knowledge isn’t possible, but it is a realization that our
knowledge is not complete and absolute. Neither, however, is
what we call knowledge arbitrary. We examine evidence—call this
action justification or reliabilism—in order to develop reasons for
our beliefs. The justificatory process separates knowledge from
doxa (opinion). Fallibilism also implies a particular usage of
“objectivity.” Fay says it “suggests an alternative account of
objectivity, one which construes objectivity not as a property of
the results of inquiry but as a property of the process of inquiry itself.
To fallibilists the method [emphasis in original] of scientific
analysis, not its conclusions, is what is or is not objective.”
Further, he asks,

What makes a process of inquiry objective? In a word, that it

be fair [emphasis in original] in the sense that its procedures
and the judgments it underwrites be responsive to the evidence
as best it can be determined, and responsive to other possible
interpretations of this evidence. To be objective, an investiga-
tion must require its practitioners to seek out facts which
appear relevant to the preconceptions or commitments, to put
their explanations up against other explanations to show that
theirs are superior, and to be willing to revise or abandon their
conclusions if later work warrants it. (Fay, 1996, 212)

For us in LIS, and for all engaged in the work of the social
sciences, we have to grasp a fundamental difference between
knowledge of social phenomena and knowledge of natural
phenomena. We have to resist scientism and comprehend the
difference. In other words, we must adhere to Sayer’s admonition;
we must not “think of knowledge as a product or thing which
exists outside of us, which we can ‘possess’ and which is stored in
242 - Chapter Five

finished form in our heads or in libraries,” and we must “think in

terms of knowing, which is in the process of becoming, ‘in solu-
tion’, as consciousness” or “consider the production of knowledge
as a social activity [emphasis in original]” (Sayer, 1992, 16). This
admonition is consistent with social epistemology. Now that we
have this framework we have to turn our attention to how we
might come to true belief.
 Chapter Six

Paths to Knowledge

If a principal purpose of LIS practice and inquiry is the growth of

knowledge, then one task for us is to examine ways by which we
might come to knowledge. I should emphasize that I’m not
speaking of particular methodologies of research or practice (in
fact this book is not about methodology). Instead, I’m exploring
possible approaches, ways of thinking about both the questions
that are central to LIS and the thinking that guides our quest for
answers. In part, the importance of the approach is rooted in the
way we tend to do things anyway. While I have disagreed with
Karl Popper on some matters, he really does put his finger on the
need for considering the intellectual approach we adopt. He says,
“I contend there is no such thing as instruction from without the
structure [emphasis in original], or the passive reception of a flow
of information which impresses itself on our sense organs”
(Popper, 1994, 8). In other words, everything we do is theory
dependent. I don’t mean that each of us has some elaborate
theoretical construct in mind every time we handle an informa-

243
244 Chapter Six

tion organization or retrieval problem. What I do mean is that we

frame our observations and our actions according to a set of
assumptions and connections that are consciously formulated.
The notion that theory precedes action may encounter some
resistance in LIS. The ostensible debate between theory and
practice has been evident in the professional literature for several
decades. The dichotomy is a false one, though. What we do as
part of the fulfillment of professional responsibility is based on an
idea of the best way to accomplish our goals. Where criticism has
been most valid is the observation that there may have been
insufficient thought given to effective action. With regard to one
element of our discipline, Birger Hjorland writes, “We do not
have many explicit theories in IS. Actually it is difficult to name
just one good example. . . . Most work is of a pragmatic nature,
which resists scientific analysis and generalisation [sic]”
(Hjorland, 1998, 607). Hjorland’s statement implies another
challenge for us—defining theory. There are several ways to
examine theory, including developing or identifying specific
theories aimed at explanation and understanding of a particular
phenomenon (such as patron use of online public catalogs) and
proposing encompassing conceptual frameworks within which
particular phenomena can be addressed. Both definitions are
legitimate, but my focus will be on the latter idea. A successful
approach could inform the development of theories in the first
sense.
Recognition of the need for some far-reaching conceptual
framework is not new. Ian Cornelius says, “Without a clear and
conscious high-level theory, there is no basis for a clear under-
standing either of where the field presently stands or where it is
going” (Cornelius, 1996, 6). He further observes that “Senior
commentators in the field commonly skip over difficult questions
about the nature of the profession, and the most sophisticated
analyses rarely reach below the surface description of technical
performance” (Cornelius, 1996, 7). (Cornelius’s book is an
excellent attempt to propose a high-level theory; while I don’t
agree completely with his proposition, I will revisit his work later
in this chapter.) Rather than quibble over whether the concep-
tual framework should be empirical, nomological, or something
 Paths to Knowledge 245

else, we should attempt to construct an idea that will facilitate

knowledge growth. In addressing literary theory, Paisley
Livingston says the study of literature should be grounded in
what might constitute knowledge of literature and knowledge in
literature (Livingston, 1988). He suggests that “Only a theory,
the word being taken here in a very broad sense, specifies a
question that can be given anything like a precise result”
(Livingston, 1988, 205-6). We could borrow from Livingston: a
framework that could work for us should be an epistemological
one, leading to knowledge of LIS and knowledge in LIS. This
means developing a conceptual grounding that can help us know
more about our own actions and thoughts and also know more
about the outward focus of library and information work.
Moreover, as we’ll see, this framework should have individual,
social, historical, and textual elements.

Prelude

The title of this chapter is “Paths to Knowledge.” The plural

is not accidental; it would be either folly or arrogance (or both)
to suggest that there is a single means by which we gain knowl-
edge. As we saw in the last chapter, the most reasonable approach
to epistemology is to realize the social and the rational elements
of knowledge. If the social is to be a part of how we come to
know things, then there is no one method (empiricism, positiv-
ism, ethnography, etc.) that will provide the framework we need.
Specifically, what I’m proposing here is an epistemological
framework, a way to evaluate paths to knowledge and to select
the path, or set of paths, that makes the most sense at a given
time and for a given purpose.
In a recent article Archie Dick has argued for a kind of
epistemological pluralism. The grounding for what he refers.to as
holistic perspectivism (the recognition that knowledge claims are
based in particular contexts and that we should examine entire
systems of thought instead of individual hypotheses) is that we
do not apprehend reality per se; we structure our view of reality
according to sets of assumptions and propositions (and this is
246 Chapter Six
somewhat related to Searle’s distinction between social facts and
brute facts). He writes that “standpoint epistemology,
cognitivism, poststructuralism, phenomenology, positivism, and
so forth, do not offer radically different accounts of LIS realities
but instead account differently for the same LIS realities” (Dick,
1999, 319). (His argument may sound so reasonable as to be
obvious, but recall the false starts and dead ends in LIS.) While
there is considerable merit to his position, I have to differ with
him on a couple of key points. First, we do indeed interpret
reality from the point of view of differing theoretical perspectives,
but we need to evaluate these perspectives in a way that relates
to the reality they attempt to explain. Second, phenomenology is
not simply another perspective in the same way that, say,
positivism is.
Elsewhere I have suggested that the most efficacious frame-
work for LIS is hermeneutical phenomenology (Budd, 1996). I'll
detail what I mean by this momentarily, but I should explain at
this time that hermeneutical phenomenology is fundamental to
philosophy as a whole. The purpose of philosophy is ontological,
that is, the examination of being in the most basic sense. Phe-
nomenology is closely linked to ontology, as Martin Heidegger
says. Ontology and phenomenology “are not two distinct
philosophical disciplines among others. These terms characterize
philosophy itself with regard to its object and its way of treating
that object. Philosophy is the universal phenomenological
ontology” (Heidegger, 1962, 62). Admittedly, phenomenology
implies a method of examination, but it might be better seen as
a metamethod—an informing means by which we can inquire
into the nature of a vast variety of questions. As I’ve stated, “It is
a stance, a position—one that opens the inquirer to possibilities
instead of barricading avenues. It is also a vocabulary, a means of
expression, a way of describing and explaining” (Budd, 1995,
304).
Phenomenology is, as we'll see shortly, necessarily interpre-
tive. An inquiry into being has to be hermeneutical; it has to
include the formal and structured interpretation of the expression
of being (through behavior, text, speech, or other means). I
emphasize “formal and structured” interpretation because the
 Paths to Knowledge 247

interpretative act is not merely the occurrence of a chance

impression. It is the product of a process of examination into
history, context, language, reference, etc. In a sense the term
hermeneutical phenomenology is redundant, but it stresses both
the process of interpretation and what is being interpreted.
I’ll close this prelude by stating again that this framework is
not a disconnected intellectual exercise. It is intended to help us
understand the purpose of LIS and to practice in this profession.
It is a theoretical framework, but not simply for theory’s sake.
The goal is to provide us all with a way to look at LIS and a way
to act within LIS. In other words, the intent here is to help us not
only to think, but to live. To accomplish this goal, we have to
remain open to the possibilities that research and practice offer.
In presenting his opinion, anthropologist Richard Wilk says, “It’s
perfectly healthy when a theory prompts research activity, and
scholars then use the results to modify the theory. But when
theory becomes a rarefied domain .. . , theory has lost touch with
reality” (Wilk, 1999, A52). The framework that will be articu-
lated in the coming pages is admittedly somewhat eliminativist;
it does, through evaluation, turn us from paths (such as determin-
istic scientism) that lead nowhere. That said, the framework not
only allows, but necessitates, examination of the essential
elements of our work.

Phenomenology

There are a couple of questions that have to be answered

right away. First, what is phenomenology? Second, how does it
assist interpretation? The first question seems straightforward,
but, as is the case with many ways of thinking, there is no single
approach to phenomenology. There’s no need here for an
exhaustive account of all phenomenological thought, but some
description of this way of thinking will, I believe, give direction
to our research and practice. An early expression of phenomenol-
ogy by Hegel focused on the absolute self-awareness of mind.
That extreme ideal vision was not adopted by subsequent
philosophers—at least not nearly to the extent that Hegel did.
248 Chapter Six

That is not to say that others do not share any part of the idealist
stance. For example, a hallmark of Edmund Husserl’s phenome-
nology is the idea of the essence of Being that is manifested
through consciousness of some phenomenon. This means that,
through phenomenological investigation, it is possible to identify
the true essence of a thing. There are problems with this idea, as
we'll see. Others after Husserl attempted to move beyond
idealism. Heidegger stressed the importance of existence, which
can be complex. In order to reach understanding of existence we
have to examine the ways that we might apprehend Being. Paul
Ricoeur has emphasized that phenomena are evident to us largely
through action, and our studies should recognize the actions that
reach our consciousness and our own consciousness 4s action.
An examination of phenomenology has to begin by detailing
what is meant by a phenomenon. The simple description is that
a phenomenon is anything we experience, that we have conscious-
ness of. In fact, Husserl defined consciousness in terms of being
conscious of something; that is, consciousness entails both being
aware of or perceiving and the thing that is perceived. What one
is conscious of is not arbitrarily limited, as Michael Hammond
and his colleagues point out:

One important class of such experiences of things is percep-

tion—seeing, hearing, touching, and so on. But it is by no
means the only one. There are also phenomena such as believ-
ing, remembering, wishing, deciding, and imagining things;
feeling apprehensive, excited, or angry at things; judging and
evaluating things; the experiences involved in one’s bodily
actions, such as lifting or pulling things; and many others.
(Hammond, Howarth, and Keat, 1991, 2)

Phenomena are all those things we can be conscious of.

There remains the need to define phenomenology. Herbert
Spiegelberg offers one particular definition:

Phenomenology . . . is a cognitive approach to any field of

studies which aims at being rigorously scientific, i.e., to achieve
systematic and intersubjective knowledge; it does so by (a)
describing first what is subjectively experienced (“intuited”)
insofar as it is experienced, whether real or not (the “pure
 Paths to Knowledge 249

phenomenon”) in its typical structure and relations (“essences”

and “essential relations”), and by (b) paying special attention
to its modes of appearance and the ways in which it constitutes
itself in consciousness. (Spiegelberg, 1975, 112)

His definition focuses on the cognitive kind of experience, leaving

out emotions or other noncognitive kinds. This doesn’t present
a problem here; I also focus on cognitive experiences in LIS. As
a cognitive approach to phenomenology, our program here
recognizes that there are cognitive elements of experience:
(1) the ability of someone to comprehend the language used
in the source (the thing experienced);
(2) the ability to comprehend the structure of the source;
(3) the content-dependence of the source;
(4) the perceiver’s present cognitive state; and
(5) the perceiver’s store of knowledge.
The first element is self-explanatory. The second has to do with
an individual’s ability—whether innate or learned—to grasp the
intricacies of, say, a database of information, including search
protocols and the like. The third depends on the nature of the
content itself—whether it provides sufficient explanation and
background to be understood by a novice or is tacitly assuming
prior knowledge. The fourth takes into account the temporal
condition of the individual, including illness, emotional distress,
etc. The fifth is based in what the individual knows when
approaching a content source and how the knowledge facilitates
or impedes understanding of the source’s content.
There are some differences in the programs of the aforemen-
tioned (and other) thinkers; our attention here will be on those
elements that are most useful to us in LIS. One basic aspect of
phenomenology is that it tries to be presuppositionless. It may be
impossible to eliminate all assumptions and presuppositions, but
the goal is to perceive phenomena with as few barriers as possible
between the thing and the perceiver. If someone is adhering to a
particular theory, say, of relevance, then that person may try to
explain something only in terms of that theory, thus missing
other possibilities. For instance, an error of neurophilosophy is to
reduce cognition to the theoretically convenient ideas it espouses.
250 Chapter Six

Or, as J. N. Mohanty says, “A reduction of consciousness to states

of the body . . . loses sight of the very essence of consciousness,
ie., its intentionality. A reduction of morality to social and
psychological conditions would inevitably miss the very essence
of morality, i.e., its ‘ought’-character” (Mohanty, 1997, 3). Since
phenomenology is itself a theoretical stance, the way we seek
knowledge is accordingly influenced by that stance. Its strength,
though, is the awareness of the implications of the presupposi-
tions with which we may begin inquiry.
If we accept, as we must, that LIS is a complex discipline
(including, as it does, the collection of materials, the organization
of information, the design of organizational and technical
structures, the understanding of information-seeking behavior,
and the mediation between seekers and the graphic record), then
we must also be prepared to embrace a conceptual framework
that is complex. The framework that holds the most promise for
us should correct some of the problems that other philosophical
stances entail. Decades ago Husserl wrote that the philosophy of
the time threatened “to succumb to skepticism, irrationalism, and
mysticism” (Husserl, 1970, 3). Phenomenology requires close
investigation to understand what really comprises being. As
Husserl further says, “True being is everywhere an ideal goal, a
task of episteme or ‘reason,’ as opposed to being which through
doxa is merely thought to be, unquestioned and ‘obvious’”
(Husserl, 1970, 13). Going beyond doxa (opinion) is precisely
what LIS needs today. For instance, as we’ve seen, some in LIS
assert that science (which is a naive shorthand for the principles
of the physical sciences) provides the only conceptual and
methodological tools we need. This kind of assertion exemplifies
the presupposition that phenomenology warns us against. Max
Scheler tells us that “to presuppose the validity of science or of
any of its propositions is not to explain its essence but to obscure
it (Scheler, 1973, 139);
There is another difference between phenomenology and later
elements of the genealogy, such as the neurophilosophy posited
by Stich and the Churchlands. The scientistic view of ourselves,
and especially our consciousness, is that we are objects to be
studied in the same way any other physical phenomena should be
 Paths to Knowledge Zou

studied. This kind of thinking is represented in LIS in much of

the writing dealing with what are frequently referred to as
bibliometric laws (such as Bradford’s, Lotka’s, and Zipf’s Laws).
It is also represented in the practice of librarianship in the form
of objectifying selection (treating books as nothing more than
physical objects that are acquired) and information seeking
(treating the queries of users as objects). One of the most
common examples of objectification is the phenomenon referred
to as information retrieval. This term implies an outcome, rather
than the complex process that underlies search strategy, inference
of relevance, etc. Of course LIS practice does not consist entirely
of objectified reductions, but objectification is too common to
ignore. Borrowing from David Stewart and Algis Mickunas, the
difference can be stated succinctly as, “(1) consciousness itself is
not an object among other objects in nature, and (2) there are
conscious phenomena which cannot be dealt with adequately by
means of the quantitative methods of experimental science”
(Stewart and Mickunas, 1990, 4).
Avoiding falling prey to the temptation of objectification can
help us to accomplish some of our goals relating to knowledge.
Understanding that our beings, our consciousnesses, are not the
same as physical phenomena can aid in the process of interpret-
ing the phenomena that are most important to us. Once we can
grasp more completely the nature of being we will be able to
comprehend our own selves and how we interact with others. It
might be said that phenomenology can help us to understand
understanding. By that I mean that this framework can provide
us with the grounding we need to see how we come to understand
the complex events around us. Let’s now look at some of the
particulars of phenomenology.

Elements of Phenomenology

Even with the differences in individual conceptions of

phenomenology there are some central aspects that are included,
in some way, by all philosophers. Given the purpose of this book,
I'll focus on those aspects that can contribute the most to LIS. It
252 Chapter Six
may help to present a rather crude graphic sense of the aspects of
phenomenology.

Elements of Phenomenology

Being Essence

Interpretation

Perception Intentionality

Self and Other

The individual elements—being, essence, perception,

intentionality, and self and other—are related to one another.
Further, each element is necessary for, and contributes to,
interpretation. Let’s examine each element in turn.

Being

Many philosophers have tried to tackle the seemingly simple,

but actually complicated, problem of existence. Perhaps “problem
of existence” is not the correct way to refer to the challenge;
“problem of understanding existence” may be more descriptive.
In all accounts of phenomenology, being is closely related to
consciousness (i.e., there is no being, in the phenomenological
sense, without consciousness). Husserl expressed his view of being
by the term Lebenswelt, or life-world. For Husserl, the life-world is
something that exists a priori; it is there for us to experience.
Without going into great detail (and thus risking obscuring the
point), Husserl most fully described the life-world in The Crisis of
European Sciences, where he located the life-world as it relates to
physical science. The life-world “is always there, existing in
 Paths to Knowledge Z53

advance for us, the ‘ground’ of all praxis whether theoretical or

extrathéoretical” (Husserl, 1970, 142). The world, however, is
not a static thing. It exists for us in our experiencing of it. The
way we see objects in the world—our sciences of the world—is
founded on the experience we have of the world (we see through
our experience). Joseph Kockelmans explains the connection
between life-world and scientific theory:

The operations and procedures whose outgrowths and consti-

tuted correlates are objective theory and, generally speaking, the
objective world of science always imply those acts of conscious-
ness in and through which the life-world appears as always
present and pregiven, as existing in its own right prior to all
scientific endeavor. Therefore, for a really fundamental under-
standing of the world of science, we must return to the life-
world and elucidate the role it plays in several respects in the
constitution and development of science. (Kockelmans, 1994,
336-37)

Within LIS, we should pay attention to being, consciousness, and

experience before positing a theoretical position on the phenom-
ena of our discipline and profession.
Mohanty makes an observation that has particular pertinence
for us in LIS. As a profession centered on seeking and finding
information, LIS is a way of experiencing certain parts of the
world (and these parts help inform the way we experience the
totality of the world). So, as Mohanty says, “The lifeworld is a
world of practice (of action, making and doing) and praxis (of
social action, of production of goods, exchange of goods, and
distribution of goods) [emphasis in original]” (Mohanty, 1997,
60). There’s more to the experiencing than just acting, though.
We don’t simply absorb the world around us; we think about it,
ponder it. “It would also be a mistake to hold that the lifeworld
is not a cognitively apprehended world [emphasis in original]. . . .
There is a core of perceptual cognition at the heart of the
experience of the lifeworld—a perceptual cognition that is
inextricably linked with action and evaluation” (Mohanty, 1997,
60). Experience, as we may know it, involves a kind of theorizing
(if we take theory to signify a means to understanding).
254 Chapter Six

A somewhat different conception of being comes from Martin

Heidegger, who was Husserl’s student. Heidegger’s conception is
referred to as Dasein, or being-in-the-world. Heidegger’s idea
incorporates existentialism. Being, to Heidegger, exists both in
time and outside of time. Being is fundamentally always in the
process of happening. It is not simply historical, since there is a
sense of detachment that usually accompanies history. Being-in-
the-world embodies a view that each human being is participating
in the world. There is a tendency among some to interpret life-
world as being more akin to history (somewhat detached observa-
tion). For Heidegger, being is always the being of someone, in the
same way that consciousness is always consciousness of some-
thing. He is linking the idea of being to ourselves and our lives.
Also, for Heidegger being-in-the-world is that which has meaning:

Meaning is an existentiale of Dasein, not a property attaching to

entities, lying “behind” them, or floating somewhere as an
“intermediate domain”. Dasein only “has” meaning, so far as
the disclosedness of Being-in-the-world can be “filled in” by the
entities discoverable in that disclosedness. Hence only Dasein can
be meaningful or meaningless. That is to say, its own Being and the
entities disclosed with its Being can be appropriated in
understanding, or can remain relegated to non-understand-
ing [emphasis in original]. (Heidegger, 1962, 193)

Now no one said Heidegger was easy to understand, but this

statement of his deserves some contemplation. What he is urging
against is the thinking that objects have meaning inhering in
them. What has meaning is the experience of things and
events—understanding the meaning necessitates inquiring into
the thing oneself, and the temporal process of the event of
experiencing the thing. The experience is, in many instances, both
individual and collective. That is, we may, as a group or collec-
tive, examine common experience and reach common understand-
ing regarding meaning. As an example of what Heidegger is
talking about we can look at, say, an undergraduate student who
comes to the library to find background material for a paper. The
student does not simply absorb information from the books,
periodicals, or databases provided by the library. That student’s
 Paths to Knowledge 259

experience is shaped by the teacher’s assignment, the content of

the course (including readings), other courses the student is
taking/has taken, and the contents of the materials consulted.
Another way of approaching Heidegger’s point is to think about
what underlies an information seeker’s assessment of the rele-
vance of a set of documents. The assessment of the first docu-
ment is made in the context of what the individual knows and,
perhaps, what that person expects from the document. The
assessment of the second document includes the experience of
reading the first document. The evaluation of the documents is
not a series of independent judgments (it is not objectifiable), but
of interrelated and transforming experiences that are ongoing.
The articulations of Husserl and Heidegger are not really all
that different. Husserl did not completely disassociate the
observer from the experience; the observer participates in the life-
world. He did not, however, adopt a fully existentialist stance.
While Heidegger makes the necessary point that the event of
experiencing something is itself an integral part of the experience,
Husserl’s conception seems more amenable to us in LIS. The
reason for the attractiveness of his idea is the process of reflection
that accompanies observation. There is, of course, substantial
rhetoric advocating that LIS and other professions be based in
reflective practice. Husserl helps us to grasp what this might
entail: “reflexion [sic] . . . is an expression for acts in which the
stream of experience, with all its manifold events (phases of
experience, intentionalities) can be grasped and analyzed in the
light of its own evidence” (Husserl, 1962, 200). And as I’ve
written elsewhere, “One result of reflection is the moving of what
is past into the present in the sense that consciousness and
analysis of the past is a phenomenon of the present. As a
consciousness of the past, reflection is a means to knowing”
(Budd, 1995, 310). That is, after all, our goal.

Essence

As I mentioned earlier, the elements of phenomenology are

interrelated. As we proceed with each element in turn it may be
256 Chapter Six

useful to look for the connections among them all. For instance,
the concept of essence is closely related to being. Both are rooted
in ontological principles; they are expressions of what is real and
what really exists. In fact, one way to see essence is as the
fundamental components that constitute a thing. The concept of
essence is most closely tied to Husserl, and is seen as problematic
by a number of subsequent commentators. There is a tradition
that accompanies past definitions of essence that has mystical
and idealist overtones. At times this part of Husserl’s phenome-
nology is interpreted as being consonant with that idealist
tradition. His efforts to link essence with ontological being should
militate against such an interpretation, though. So what did
Husserl mean by essence?
There is no doubt that Husserl created some difficulties for
us with his use of the word essence. For him, essence was not
apprehended through empirical observation (although
observation may be a first step toward understanding the essence
of a thing). It is understood cognitively and intuitively. He argued
with positivism primarily on the grounds that positivism unneces-
sarily and unjustifiedly restricted what can be seen as given
(essential) to particular and limited data. Empiricism is not
necessarily incorrect, but it is circumscribed along prejudicial
conceptual and methodological lines. The idea of the essence of
a thing extends beyond the mundane limits of sensory observa-
tion. Understanding essence requires going beyond our particular
time and place, beyond our particular instance. Husserl tried to
delineate the difference between individual and essence:

The acts of cognition which underlie our experiencing posit the

Real in individual form, posit it as having spatio-temporal
existence, as something existing in this time-spot, having this
particular duration of its own and a real content which in its
essence could just as well have been present in any other time-
spot; posits it, moreover, as something which is present at this
place in this particular physical shape (or is there given united
to a body of this shape), where yet the same real being might
just as well, so far as its own essence is concerned, be present at
any other place, and in any other form, and might likewise
change whilst remaining in fact unchanged, or change otherwise
 Paths to Knowledge 257,

than_the way in which it actually does. Individual Being of

every kind is, to speak quite generally, “accidental.” It is so-and-
so, but essentially it could be other than it is [emphasis in
original]. (Husserl, 1962, 46-47)

Maurice Natanson helps us comprehend this difficult idea.

First, he speaks of essences rather than of essence; each thing is
comprised, at least potentially, of more than one essence. More
importantly, essences, as he says, are not hidden, are not myster-
ies to be divined; they are the intentional character of the thing
itself. Essences can reveal unities of meaning—one object can be
apprehended by the same person at different times or by different
people at different (or the same) times. Natanson offers the
following example:

The White House is essentially the same intentional object

whether viewed earlier or later in the day, remembered or
directly perceived or even imagined, today or last year. The
“real” White House was once burned by the British army and
the re-built White House is subject to fire, but the White-
House-as-intended cannot be destroyed, its essentiality cannot
be scorched. (Natanson, 1973, 14)

Given Natanson’s assistance, we can better comprehend

essences related to LIS. Information, for example, can be seen as
more than the individual cases of physical packaging, or even of
content. Information has an essential character that includes not
just words on a page or images in a screen. It includes the process
of reading and seeing, of argreeing and arguing, of evaluating and
dismissing, of contextualizing and compartmentalizing. Gary
Radford illustrates the essence of informing with the help of
Michel Foucault (Radford, 1992). Foucault likens informing to
the fantastic, but with real outcomes:

the visionary experience arises from the black and white

surface of printed signs, from the closed and dusty volume
that opens with a flight of forgotten words; fantasies are
carefully deployed in the hushed library, with its columns of
books, with its titles aligned on shelves to form a tight
258 Chapter Six

enclosure, but within confines that also liberate impossible

worlds. The imaginary now resides between the book and the
lamp. (Foucault, 1977, 90)

Foucault presents an idea of informing that goes beyond any one

specific experience.
LIS, and librarianship in particular, is, at the time of this
writing, grappling with essences of the profession. In 1999 the
American Library Association sponsored a Congress on Profes-
sional Education. Recommendations emanating from the
Congress include efforts aimed at identifying core values of the
profession and fundamental competencies for those entering the
profession. The phenomenological framework could be valuable
in guiding these processes. What we in LIS do not need at this
time is focus on specific, temporally fixed, solely empirically
defined, “facts” of the profession. Instead, we need to think about
essences, about those things that form the idea of librarianship.
For example, if one of the eventually identified core values is
“service,” then “service” cannot be defined in terms of particular
structures that occur in particular places. It should be defined in
terms of what everyone can recognize as responding to the kinds
of requests people may make and the reasons and purposes they
may have for making the requests. Further, the attention should
be on the character of responses to the requests, rather than on
the instrumental actions that are executed in retrieving specific
items or records. The task for us, in short, is to transcend time
and place in considering such things as values and competencies.

Perception
Just as the concept of essence is most frequently (though not
exclusively) linked to Husserl, the concept of perception is likely
(though not completely) linked to Maurice Merleau-Ponty. And
as did other phenomenologists, Merleau-Ponty took issue with
some contemporary views of how we perceive our selves and the
world around us. He found fault with what could be termed the
 Paths to Knowledge 29

associationist approach (an empiricist stance) and its physicalist

and scientistic limitations (perception, in that approach, was
based on stimulus and impression). He also found the intellectu-
alist approach wanting because it tended to see the world as a
construction created by a perceiving subject. Merleau-Ponty’s
stance is more of a unified one, in which our selves, including our
physical selves, are what connect us with the external world. He
tended to speak in terms of the lived world as a way of expressing
the unity of our selves and the world. He wrote,

The world is not what I think, but what I live through. I am

open to the world, I have no doubt that I am in communication
with it, but I do not possess it; it is inexhaustible. “There is a
world”, or rather: “There is the world”; I can never completely
account for this ever-reiterated assertion in my life. (Merleau-
Ponty, 1962, xvi-xvii)

Merleau-Ponty argues against a determinate explanation of

perception. The view he opposed holds that perception is a
function of sensation, or what the physical human senses and
what, in the physical world, can be sensed. Such a view is a
product of the intellectual genealogy whose shortcomings we’ve
already seen. Also, as we've seen, this product of the genealogy is
somewhat attractive because it provides a certain answer to
questions we may have relating to perception. Instead of the
deterministic position, Merleau-Ponty suggests that perception is
ineluctably indeterminate. I should hasten to add that his
position does not hold that perception is nondeterminate, but
that the dynamics of perception (integrating, as it does, self and
world) include humans confronting the world. We have to realize
that we are constantly reconstituting our understanding of the
world in light of changing perceptions of our selves, and vice
versa. He spoke of the dynamic in the context of an individual
trying to understand his/her past:

In the same way, although my present draws into itself time

past and time to come, it possesses them only in intention,
and even if, for example, the consciousness of my past which I
260 Chapter Six

now have seems to me to cover exactly the past as it was. The

past which I claim to recapture is not the real past, but my past
as I now see it, perhaps after altering it. (Merleau-Ponty, 1962,
69-70)

A similar conclusion could, and probably should, be reached

regarding history generally. A deterministic version of history is
not fruitful; history is a product of interpretation (there’s the
interrelatedness among elements again) based on changing
perception.
Perhaps the difference between the phenomenological view
of perception and the objective view can’t be overstated. I say this
because of the persistence of the idea of objective thought and
the even more pervasive treatment of many human actions,
including perception, objectively. An assumption of the empiricist
stance is, fundamentally, that the subject is actually an object
(e.g., a human being is an object in the same way that, say, a
book is). If that assumption is an accurate component of empiri-
cism then, as Gary Brent Madison says, no one can perceive in
such a construct; perception is, effectively, impossible (Madison,
1981). Merleau-Ponty himself made this point: “Objective
thought is unaware of the subject of perception. This is because
it presents itself with the world ready made, as the setting of
every possible event, and treats perception as one of these events”
(Merleau-Ponty, 1962, 207). Hammond, Howarth, and Keat
emphasize Merleau-Ponty’s point with regard to language. The
ambiguity we may experience is not a function of a multiplicity
of possible definitions of words or terms.

Instead it is a feature of the lived world itself—that its objects

often display mutually incompatible properties. In claiming
this, what [Merleau-Ponty] has in mind is quite close to the
way in which one commonly talks of certain human situations
or relationships as “ambiguous”. For example (ours, not his),
a personal relationship between two people might be de-
scribed as “sexually ambiguous”, in that it could equally well be
interpreted as sexual or as non-sexual. . . . It would be “open to
both interpretations”, not because one had failed to discover
which was the correct one, but because of the co-existence of
 Paths to Knowledge 261

(and indeed the tension between) both “meanings”.

(Hammond, Howarth, and Keat, 1991, 135)

If the empiricist position were correct and perception were

equal to sensation (and, so objective), then we would face the
challenge of trying to explain multiple, even conflicting, accounts
of the same thing. This challenge can be examined in the context
of LIS. If there were objective sensations, how would we come to
grips with the different views people hold of the library? How
would we explicate the debate about the purpose of the public
library (ongoing almost since the founding of the public library in
this country)? These questions may extend beyond perception,
but the way we perceive a thing is basic to answers to the
questions. More particularly, if sensation were objective, would
we not be able to design information systems that all users
could successfully manipulate? It is obvious that there are
disagreements about the matters central to these questions. Our
understanding of the questions could be enhanced by accepting
that perception is dynamic and not entirely determinate. If we try
to determine the outcomes of library use and information seeking
through system design (the imposition of particular subject
headings to works or the creation of particular search protocols),
the result is likely to be frustration for us and for the users. If we
accept that perception is complex we may well be able to
reconceive our goals and to address them more effectively. “Once
the prejudice of sensation has been banished, a face, a signature,
a form of behaviour cease to be mere ‘visual data’ whose
psychological meaning is to be sought in our inner experience,
and the mental life of others becomes an immediate object, a
whole charged with immanent meaning” (Merleau-Ponty, 1962,
58).

Intentionality

Intentionality may be the most central and important

element of phenomenology. It is a matter that just about every
262 Chapter Six

philosopher who focuses on phenomenology addresses. The

statement, mentioned a few times here already, that
consciousness is consciousness of something is integral to the idea
of intentionality. Our consciousness is always directed toward
some object. The idea has a history that predates Husserl
(extending at least as far back in time as Descartes), but it is
certainly fundamental to his program, and those of his successors.
Intentionality has been criticized over the years as being rather
trivial; critics maintain that of course there is an object of
consciousness, but that awareness doesn’t help us understand
human action. On the face of it, statements such as the following
by Husserl seems self-evident:

It was in the explicit cogito that we first came across this

wonderful property to which all metaphysical enigmas and
riddles of the theoretical reason lead us eventually back:
perceiving is the perceiving of something, maybe a thing;
judging, the judging of a certain matter; valuation, the valuing
of a value; wish, the wish for the content wished, and so on.
Acting concerns action, doing concerns the deed, loving the
beloved, joy, the object of joy. (Husserl, 1962, 223)

There is much more to intentionality, though, and it has

particular relevance to us in LIS.
For one thing, as Heidegger has pointed out, “Essentially the
person exists only in the performance of intentional acts, and is
therefore essentially not [emphasis in original] an object. Any
psychical Objectification of acts, and hence any way of taking
them as something psychical, is tantamount to depersonalization”
(Heidegger, 1962, 73). His words strengthen the need to avoid
objectification in the consideration of human action. Where the
tendency at times in the social sciences and LIS is to reify human
action, phenomenology points clearly to the error of such
thought. As we consider the behavior and actions of others, we
must keep in mind that those “others” are behaving
intentionally—they are directing their thoughts and actions at
something. They are not merely reacting to some physical
stimulus, internal or external. (This is, of course, opposed to
Skinner’s myopic position.) There may be physical stimuli, but
 Paths to Knowledge 263

they become potential intentional objects. We must also

remember that our own actions are intentional, including such
actions as the design of information systems, the organization of
information, and the mediation between users and the record.
With the reader’s forebearance, it is necessary to introduce a
bit of Husserl’s technical language so that we might understand
intentionality better. In particular, this language, as it is used by
Husserl, demonstrates that phenomenology is not a relativistic
position. It certainly recognizes, even embraces, indeterminacy in
interpretation, but phenomenology, as I’m describing it here, does
not admit to complete indeterminacy. The dynamic that includes
subject and object is complex; subject and object are not
completely separate, but are both components of the life-world.
Husserl described two concepts that are important to the process
of consciousness. One of these concepts is noesis, which literally
means perception or thought. The other concept is noema, which
means that which is perceived. These two concepts, together, are
necessary components of consciousness. What this means is that
we cannot connect noesis with subject and noema with object;
the two concepts form a unity that should not be separated. One
way to look at this unity is to recognize that we are not simply
perceiving beings seeking objects to perceive. Without the things
there can be no perception; without perception there are no
intentional objects. In other words, consciousness is comprised of
both noetic and noematic actions. | am stressing these concepts
because they apply to the basic actions of LIS. For example, the
consciousness that is necessary for materials selection in libraries
should be shaped by the content of those things that might be
selected. Moreover, the content of the things is related to the
conscious act of selecting. We can’t effectively conceive of
selection without the content or the content without selection.
Intentionality illustrates that phenomenology is a realist
stance. While some detractors of phenomenology claim that it is
relativistic, the claims are mistaken. The fundamental premise of
the phenomenon, the noetic and the noematic as a unity, point
to the realism of the framework. Granted, phenomenology is not
realist in the strong sense of scientific realism, with its attendant
criteria of referentiality and representation. The insistence on the
264 Chapter Six

connection between consciousness and the thing one is conscious

of clearly places phenomenology in the realist camp. The strength
of phenomenology, through intentionality, is that we are able to
comprehend the complexity of intentional action and we are not
trapped by the restrictive physicalist or narrowly empirical
limitations. As Stewart and Mickunas cogently observe,

The intentionality of consciousness also points up the absurdity

of dividing up reality into such mutually exclusive categories as
minds and bodies, subjects and objects, and so forth. . . . The
noetic dimension of any mental process is, in fact, the
meaning of that process understood intentionally; that is,
consciousness is always directed toward something, it can be a
material object in some cases, or a nonmaterial object in other
instances. This object [emphasis in original], which is the
correlate of any conscious activity, is the noematic dimension
of consciousness. (Stewart and Mickunas, 1990, 9, 120)

I'll offer one comment on intentionality and LIS at this point.

At the risk of being reductionist, we might say that action in LIS
is grounded in communication. Structures of information
collections and information systems are designed to communicate
to information seekers how they might be most effective in their
quest. The seekers query the system or ask people questions
about actual or potential information content. Responses follow
those queries, and so on. At each stage the participants are
engaged in complex intentional action. The participants are
directed at something throughout the process. And the initial
query by an information seeker is itself informed by previous
intentional actions (assignments in school, household challenges,
political events, etc.) that are, at the time of the query, brought
into the present and are reflected upon. When we realize the
nature of this action it becomes much more readily apparent that
there is no concrete object to be examined as a static thing. The
realization can help us speak of the phenomenon of information
seeking (which unites the seeker and the content record in a
process), instead of, for example, a transaction that has a discrete
beginning and end. We can learn from Alfred Schutz’s
 Paths to Knowledge 265

description of communication and the action based on

communicative phenomena:

Every act of communication has, therefore, as its in-order-to

motive the aim that the person being addressed take cognizance
of it in one way or another. . . . [I]f I happen to know that the
completed act is only a link in a chain of means leading to a
further end, then what I must do is interpret the subjective
experience the other person has of that further goal itself.
(Schutz, 1967, 130)

Self and Other

The realization that the phenomenon of perception, an

intentional phenomenon, blurs distinctions between the perceiver
and the perceived raises questions about our conception of self.
We come to know that each of us is shaped, in part, by the world.
The knowledge is integral to the idea of being-in-the-world. Self-
awareness necessitates awareness of those things that are not self.
Just as the delineation of subject and object becomes impractical,
the idea of self isolated from the world becomes impossible.
Again, this conception is part of the fundamental
phenomenological principle that consciousness is consciousness
of something. The consciousness we have is of the world and
ourselves in the world. There are some literal implications of such
a seemingly abstract statement. Imagine yourself driving a car on
an interstate highway. You are aware of the traffic flow, the
movement of other cars, because they can affect what you do. If
another driver cuts into your lane you apply the brakes because
your vehicle and the other are both occupying this part of the
world. Also, you pay attention to signs that guide you to your
destination, not because they are abstract communication
devices, but because they inform you when to turn off the
highway, which direction to head, and so on. Those signs exist for
you as intentional things.
When someone enters a library for the purpose of locating a
book, the unity also applies. The catalog, from which the user
266 Chapter Six
gets a call number, the map of the physical layout of the library,
the labels on ranges of shelves, the call number on the book itself
all exist to help the user fulfill the original purpose. As I’ve said
elsewhere,

What is primary about intentionality is that it constitutes an

unmistakable link between “I” and “other.” The other may be
a physical object that spurs memory or some kind of conscious
cognitive activity. The other may be another person, another I,
which means that a pair (or set, in the case of more than two)
of intentional stances are at work. The other may be the
physical product of another I, such as a text in the form of a
poem or a novel or a library’s catalog. We cannot forget that
the entirety of the library signifies, directly or indirectly, the
product of intentionality. The catalog, the physical and
conceptual organization, even the physical structure itself are
consciously created by an I (be the “I” individual or collective).
The library user—another I—adopts an intentional stance when
perceiving the aspects of a library. To the user, then, the library
(or its catalog or classification system) is the other. (Budd,
19957212)

Communication, central to LIS, should be seen as a discursive

process. The rules of language—syntax, grammar, etc.—apply, but
there is a difference between language and discourse. We might
see discourse as language in action. Discourse, then, is a
phenomenon, it is intentional. Paul Ricoeur reminds us that “To
say that discourse is an event is to say, first, that discourse is
realized temporally and in the present. . . . Moreover, whereas
language has no subject insofar as the question, who speaks? does
not apply at this level, discourse refers back to its speaker by a
means of a complex set of indicators, such as personal pronouns”
(Ricoeur, 1991, 77). Discourse is defined by an exchange of
messages and is at least potentionally meaningful. Ricoeur adds,
“So discourse not only has a world but has an other, another
person, an interlocutor to whom it is addressed” (Ricoeur, 1991,
78). Discourse is always the conjoining, through language, of an
I and an other. The conjoining can be complex. In a profession,
such as LIS, there are multiple means of discursive practice.
There is, of course, the traditional dialogue—two people engaged
 Paths to Knowledge 267

in conversation, each explicitly aware of the exchange between

self and- other. There is direct, though not exactly dialogic,
communication, such as a presentation before a group (common
at professional conferences). The most effective presentations
(and the most effective classroom presentations) also entail an
acute awareness of self and other. The above two means involve
situations in which it is reasonably easy to conceive of the other
as another self. Another means, publication, makes such an
awareness a bit more problematic. Ricoeur says that textual
communication is not really dialogic, but others, such as Mikhail
Bakhtin, disagree (we'll return to Bakhtin in the next chapter). In
any event, textual communication is also intentional. All of these
forms of communication, as Goldman points out, can contribute
to knowledge by conjoining the rational and the social.
In all of these means of communication there is a necessarily
intentional exchange at work. Other ways of thinking about
human action, especially the kinds of scientistic, objectivist ways
of thinking, do not admit to the intentional imperative. To stick
with some examples already mentioned, there may be a
temptation to see a library user or information seeker as an
object. The kind of objectification that may occur could tend to
be reductionist; the user or seeker may be seen (though certainly
not overtly) as an automaton following certain rules or patterns
of behavior. In this context the chosen response may be seen to
be the application of prescribed instructions aimed at eliciting
“appropriate” behavior. No one would admit to doing this, but
the temptation exists nevertheless to treat users or seekers as
“types” and to initiate programmed responses to various types.
This action amounts to a denial of the consciousness of the other
and, in practice, can be seen as solipsism (the belief that only the
self exists). Merleau-Ponty diagnosed the problem:

There is thus no place for other people and a plurality of

consciousness in objective thought. In so far as I constitute the
world, I cannot conceive another consciousness, for it too would
have to constitute the world and, at least as regards this other
view of the world, I should not be the constituting agent. Even
if I succeeded in thinking of it as constituting the world, it
would be I who would be constituting the consciousness as
268 Chapter Six

such, and once more I should be the sole constituting agent.

(Merleau-Ponty, 1962, 349-50)

Merleau-Ponty’s observation also serves as a critique against the

strong relativism that maintains that each of us, individually or
in some groups, defines the world around us. This kind of
relativism is actually as objectivist as the strongest scientism. The
phenomenological framework in intended to address the problem
of solipsism.
Addressing the problem, or the occasional charges, of
solipsism is indeed an important aspect of phenomenology. It is
undeniably tempting to think that I am the sole subject and
everything else is an object that might warrant my attention.
There are, however, some very important things to remember that
can help us see the relationship between self and other more
clearly. And, fortunately, Paul Ricoeur elucidates these points:

[A]lthough, speaking absolutely, only one is subject, I, the

Other is not given simply as psycho-physical object situated in
nature but is also a subject of experience by the same right as I
and as such perceives me as belonging to the world of his
experience. . . . [T]he world is not simply a private scene but a
public property. This is not so easy to understand, for on the
one hand there is the “world-phenomenon” opposite to all
subjects of experience and to all their “world-phenomena.” . . .
[T]he constitution of objects of a new type attaches to the
experience of the Other. Cultural objects—books, tools, works
of all sort—which specifically refer back to an active
constitution on the part of alien subjects, these cultural objects
are “there for everybody,” more precisely for every member of
a particular cultural community. (Ricoeur, 1967, 117-18)

The points Ricoeur makes have readily apparent connections to

LIS. The first has clear relevance to all mediation (and, in fact,
argues against the recent suggestion that disintermediation
should be common in information services). The second is the
recognition of the global phenomenon of social interaction, and
corroborates the need for a social epistemological stance for us in
 Paths to Knowledge 269

LIS. The third affirms that, for every work in a collection or in

any body of works, there is a consciousness responsible for that
work and there is conscious reception of the work by all
readers/viewers/listeners.

Interpretation

As should be evident (I hope) from the graphic representation

(p. 252) of the elements of phenomenology, interpretation is key
to each element and is fundamental to phenomenology itself.
Ricoeur refers to the relationship between phenomenology and
hermeneutics as one of “mutual belonging.” He describes this
relationship more explicitly:

On the one hand, hermeneutics is erected on the basis of

phenomenology and thus preserves something of the
philosophy from which it nevertheless differs: phenomenology
remains the unsurpassable presupposition of hermeneutics. On the
other hand, phenomenology cannot constitute itself without a
hermeneutical presupposition [emphasis in original]. (Ricoeur,
1991, 26)

The full realization of the relationship, as I’ve said, is

hermeneutical phenomenology. While there may be some
philosophers who would take the term to be tautological, it is
necessary to make the connection as explicit as possible. The
goals of phenomenology are achieved primarily through
hermeneutical analysis. This kind of analysis really constitutes
what we might call a metamethod, a way of conceiving any
analysis, whether quantitative or qualitative methods are
employed.
The process that enables us to understand each of the
elements of phenomenology is necessarily interpretive. This does
not mean that there are no constraints, but it does mean that
there is some indeterminacy at work. By that I mean that our
experiences, our use of language, our access to cultural products
(books, films, Web sites, letters, etc.), are all shaped by the time
in which we live. To an extent, our consciousness is also
influenced by history. As we attempt to understand anything that
270 Chapter Six
is temporally and/or spatially removed, we face limitations. We
cannot directly experience the consciousness, the self, that lived
in that other time and place. We then must construct
understanding with less than optimal tools. Even when we can
engage someone directly we have less than full access to that
other consciousness. When we don’t have the temporal
limitations we can at least try to engage in mutual reflection to,
we hope, reach understanding. In any event, we must adopt a
kind of realist position; we must examine what exists, what is
accessible, and try to understand it. Such a realization argues
against infinite possibilities. As Umberto Eco says, “If there is
something to be interpreted, the interpretation must speak of
something which must be found somewhere, and in some way
respected” (Eco, 1990, 7). Since interpretation is so vital for us,
we need to look more closely at hermeneutics.

Some Background to Hermeneutics

Hermeneutics actually has quite a long history, but there’s no

need to go into great historical detail here. We can take a brief
look at some key figures to help us comprehend the main points
of discussion over the years. While hermeneutics was originally
intended to aid with the explication of scriptural meaning
(specifically, interpreting the Bible), it began to move beyond
that application in the nineteenth century in particular. Friedrich
Schleiermacher, a German theologian and philologist, helped
bring hermeneutics into a wider frame of application. He
certainly still employed hermeneutical techniques to reach a
clearer understanding of scripture, especially of the New
Testament, but he was also concerned with the possibilities and
practices of understanding more broadly. In his efforts to devise
principles of general hermeneutics he (rightly, I think) touched
on a vital point: “Understanding has a dual direction, towards the
language and towards the thought” (Schleiermacher, 1998, 229).
His principle presaged some twentieth-century linguists’ (such as
Ferdinand de Saussure) distinction between language and speech.
Language refers to the entire universe of a linguistic body—for
 Paths to Knowledge 271

example, the English language. Speech generally refers to the

particular utterances individuals make, using components of the
language. Schleiermacher further made the distinction that an
utterance reflects the thought of the speaker.
In referring to the thought of the speaker Schleiermacher
included the psychological state of the speaker. In fact, there is a
psychologistic strain throughout Schleiermacher’s hermeneutics.
This strain is problematic inasmuch as it depends on our ability
to gain access to the inner workings of a speaker’s state of mind.
It is also problematic in that it is based on the assumption that
what is said (or written) is an accurate and honest reflection of
what is thought. Husserl, who originally was sympathetic to such
a psychologistic approach, eventually recanted and claimed that
it is not possible (nor is it necessarily desirable) to gain a full
understanding of the state of another person. More recent critics
of Schleiermacher have targeted his psychologism.
There are, however, ideas expressed by Schleiermacher that
clarify the aims of interpretation and also link it with phenome-
nology. For example, he indicated that context is extremely
important to interpretation and that history must be taken into
account: “The vocabulary and the history of the era of an author
relate as the whole from which his writings must be understood
as the part, and the whole must, in turn, be understood from the
part” (Schleiermacher, 1998, 24). In part the historical awareness
is “objective” in that interpretation depends on knowing language
as it could have been used by the author/speaker. In our
experiences of studying the plays of Shakespeare we most likely
used annotated texts to help us know what certain words or terms
would have meant in Elizabethan times. Now if we have the
potential for understanding, we also have the potential for
misunderstanding. For us in LIS it is important that we know
why some things can go wrong. Schleiermacher wrote,
“Misunderstanding is either a consequence of hastiness or of
_ prejudice. .. . The latter is a mistake which lies deeper. It is the
one-sided preference for what is close to the individual’s circle of
ideas and the rejection of what lies outside it” (Schleiermacher,
1998, 23). Prejudice is certainly not always malicious, but may be
the result of preformed ideas. For instance, we may develop ideas
272 Chapter Six
of the “ideal search” or of what constitutes relevance and may
misinterpret an information seeker’s query or the results of a
search.
Later in the nineteenth century and into the early twentieth
century the idea of hermeneutics was picked up by Wilhelm
Dilthey. One of Dilthey’s main concerns was to describe how one
might gain knowledge through the human sciences (what we
today would call the humanities and social sciences). He made
the distinction clear between the human sciences and the natural
sciences not just in disciplinary terms, but with regard to purpose:

The nature of knowledge in the human sciences must be

explicated by observing the full course of human development.
Such a method stands in contrast to that recently applied all
too often by the so-called positivists, who derive the meaning of
the concept science from a definition of knowledge which arises
from a predominant concern with the natural sciences.
(Dilthey, 1989, 57)

The goal of the human sciences, to Dilthey, is understanding,

particularly understanding of the individual. This is in contrast
to explaining, the goal of the natural sciences, which is aimed at
general types or categories. The link with phenomenology is even
stronger with Dilthey than with Schleiermacher. Richard Palmer
explains Dilthey’s quest for a method for the human sciences as,
“(1) an epistemological problem, (2) a matter of deepening our
conception of historical consciousness, and (3) a need to
understand expressions from out of ‘life itself” (Palmer, 1969,
100).
One of the principal phenomenology-related elements of
Dilthey’s thought is his conception of experience. For him
experience is the totality of an individual’s life in the world. The
idea of life-world in Husserl and being-in-the-world in Heidegger
are concepts that either spring from Dilthey or have very similar
origins as Dilthey’s idea of experience. Dilthey also separated the
reflection upon an event in one’s life from the event itself. The
conscious act of reflecting is an experience in its own right. This
idea of experience also is related to the phenomenological
imperative of blurring the lines between subject and object.
 Paths to Knowledge 273

Understanding (Dilthey’s goal) involves comprehension of what

another human being may think, may experience. Another person
is not an object of study, but a consciousness that might be
understood. In focusing on the totality of experience Dilthey was
aware that life is dynamic. There may occur an event which
prompts a person to reconceive what has gone before; former
meaning may be replaced by reshaped meaning. This does not
signify that meaning is capricious or completely subjective (that
is, completely within the subject who experiences the world). It is
tied to the phenomenon of experiencing the world. That meaning
may be variable or may change over time for someone is not a
mark of complete relativism; it is an indication of the dynamic
nature of experience.

Contemporary Debate
In the last half of the twentieth century there has been a
rather adversarial debate regarding the purpose of hermeneutics
and the means of hermeneutical investigation. We've already seen
(with positivism and phenomenology, for example) that
philosophical concepts are not indisputable, that there can be
disagreements as to definition, goals, methods, etc. Such is the
case with hermeneutics. Let me say at the outset that much of
this debate is irrelevant. Yes, there are some different visions of
and for hermeneutics, but there is also substantial common
ground. It is the common ground that is most fruitful and holds
the greatest potential for us in LIS. Let’s first turn to the
disagreement, so that we can better understand the areas of
agreement.
The debate centers on two figures—Hans-Georg Gadamer
and Emilio Betti. Schleiermacher also comes into play here. Betti
adheres to Schleiermacher’s claim that it is possible to recapture
the meaning intended by the author of a work. Betti is
sympathetic to Schleiermacher’s psychological analysis that is
aimed at analyzing an author’s time and life as a means of
reaching that authorial intent. Gadamer’s focus is on the text
rather than the author. He has criticized Schleiermacher’s
274 Chapter Six

psychologism as, first of all, difficult if not impossible to apply.

Further, Gadamer maintains that the text holds the key to
interpretation and, from there, to understanding. This is a very
brief and simplistic synopsis of the issue, but it illustrates a
dilemma that anyone seeking to interpret something faces: Is it
possible to discern a final and complete meaning of a text or a
discourse? Palmer sums up the conflict:

The problem arises in the fact that Gadamer’s ontology is such

that the possibility of objective historical knowledge is
called into question. From Betti’s standpoint, Heidegger and
Gadamer are the destructive critics of objectivity who wish to
plunge hermeneutics into a standardless morass of relativity.
The integrity of historical knowledge itself is under attack and
must be stoutly defended. (Palmer, 1969, 47-48)

Betti tends to look upon interpretation as having an objective

target—the text that has become concrete. He says,

Here, the mind of an Other, speaks to us not directly but across

space and time through transformed matter that is charged with
mental energy—which makes it possible for us to approach the
meaning of this product, since it is part of the human spirit and
is, to speak with Husserl, born of the same transcendental
objectivity; but it nevertheless remains a steadfast, self-
contained existence that can confront us owing to the fact that
here the mind of an Other has objectivated itself in meaning-
full forms. (Betti, 1990, 173)

The objectified text becomes part of what Betti refers to as the

triad of interpretation: the interpreter (the mind that seeks
meaning), the author (the mind that created the work), and the
objectified form (the text). The text is, in a way, the mediator
between the two minds. Meaning, for Betti, is knowable, since it
exists as the author’s intent. There is, of course, a connection
with phenomenology; no one would deny that a text (or
utterance, for that matter) is the intentional product of a
conscious being. The question here is the extent to which the
intentional act of an author or speaker can be retrieved and
known. Gadamer claims that context, in the sense of the author’s
 Paths to Knowledge 275

psychological state at the time of creation, is not absolutely

knowable; it is at least to some degree indeterminate. The reader
brings a context (both in terms of knowledge of the author’s time
and life and of an intentional state of his/her own) to, or imposes
a context upon, a text in an effort to understand it. Ron Bonetkoe
suggests that the difference between Betti and Gadamer lies in
what counts as context.
Betti’s staunchest defender is E. D. Hirsch (of Cultural
Literacy fame). Hirsch is adamant about making a distinction
between meaning and significance. “Meaning is that which is
represented by a text; it is what the author meant by his use of a
particular sign sequence; it is what the signs represent” (Hirsch,
1967, 8). Hirsch appears to be falling into the same trap the
strong scientific realists did in taking language to be completely
and univocally representational (what is said means one, and only
one, thing). What others take to be meaning Hirsch calls
significance, which “names a relationship between that meaning
and a person, or a conception, or a situation, or indeed anything
imaginable. . . . Significance always implies a relationship, and
one constant, unchanging pole of that relationship is what the
text means” (Hirsch, 1967, 8). In order for an individual to find
significance in a text, that person must first determine the
meaning which, Hirsch says, is determinate. One major problem
with that conclusion is that meaning is a prior condition of
significance. If interpretation of meaning is fallible and unending,
significance would be impossible to find. In claiming that an
author’s intent is knowable Hirsch seems to assume that the
author didn’t equivocate, was uniformly determinate in intent,
and was stable in communicating throughout the text. I say seems
to assume because Hirsch admits that an author can alter opinion
regarding the meaning of a work or may no longer understand his
or her text. He then says that has no effect on finding meaning.
His stance rests solely on the possibility of fixed philological
analysis that results in fixed meaning. If, however, a word or
phrase can have multiple meanings, in the philological sense, his
stance collapses. As we know, multiple meanings are not
uncommon, in literary or other kinds of discourse. Ricoeur has
276 Chapter Six

what is perhaps the most effective rejoinder to Hirsch’s insistence

on relying on the intended meaning of the author:

In fact, however, the intention of the author is lost as a

psychical event. Moreover, the intention of writing has no other
expression than the verbal meaning of the text itself. Hence all

information concerning the biography and the psychology of

the author constitutes only a part of the total information
which the logic of validation has to take into account. This
information, as distinct from the text interpretation, is in no
way normative as regards the task of interpretation. (Ricoeur,
1976, 100)

Gadamer presents his own set of problems. In particular, he

leaves himself open to accusations of relativism. He repeatedly
makes claims that the meaning of texts is not fixed; it is a product
of history. Also, at times he says that reaching a “true”
interpretation does not depend on the work’s background.
Bonetkoe recognizes that some of Gadamer’s statements create a
phenomenological problem: “[Gadamer’s approach to
interpretation] involves, both a recognition of the author as an
Other, but a determination that, since there is no possibility of
recognizing all [emphasis in original] that is other in another, we
will ignore him entirely” (Bonetkoe, 1987, 8). Bonetkoe also
observes that, while Gadamer criticizes Schleiermacher’s
psychologism, he glosses over Schleiermacher’s repeated warnings
that the task of interpretation in unending, “that our
understanding of another can always [emphasis in original] be
improved by further research into the circumstances of his life
and the language of his texts” (Bonetkoe, 1987, 8). Gadamer
himself is not the relativst some claim him to be, though. In Truth
and Method he states unequivocally that the purpose of
hermeneutics is to seek truth. Palmer recognizes that Gadamer
sees the difficulty of interpretation since “Historical knowledge
is itself an historical event; subject and object of historical science
do not exist independently of each other” (Palmer, 1969, 52).
Palmer clearly sees the phenomenological aspect of hermeneutics.
 Paths to Knowledge Pani

He also sees that hermeneutics is connected to epistemology and

has a practical purpose of linking language, thinking, and reality
(Palmer, 1969, 54).

Agreements about Hermeneutics

As I mentioned, we can learn more from what philosophers

have in common, since there are fundamental areas of agreement.
Further, these areas of agreement emphasize the relationship
between phenomenology and hermeneutics. One of the most
fundamental components is that hermeneutics aims to attain
understanding. The word understanding has significance that
transcends the usual usage. Understanding extends to the
universality of the human condition, incorporating all of the
elements of phenomenology, and so helps us to approach the
criteria for knowledge. Hermeneutics is a way to approach the
life-world and _ being-in-the-world. Betti admits to this
fundamental purpose: “Drawing on the familiar distinction
between action and outcome, procedure and its result, we may
tentatively characterize interpretation as the procedure that aims
for, and results in, Understanding. . . . [S]peech produced by our
fellow-men cannot be regarded as a ready-made physical object
simply to be received by us” (Betti, 1990, 162). For Betti the way
to achieve understanding is through the triadic process that
includes the interpreter, the creator of the text, and the text itself.
In light of the challenge to the importance of the creator
(attributed to Gadamer, among others), we have to recognize that
Betti’s triad speaks to many of the actions that occur in
information agencies, especially direct mediation. When a
librarian or information specialist tries to mediate between the
record and the information seeker, we can readily see the utility
of Betti’s vision. The librarian must consider both the question
and the person asking it. The phenomenon of mediation includes
the three aspects.
278 Chapter Six

Both Betti and Gadamer include an ontological element in

their ideas of hermeneutics. Actually, we can include the
ontological element in the thought of the phenomenologists
discussed above. For example, the very concept of being is
frequently linked to truth. James DiCenso, in addressing the work
of Heidegger in particular, observes that “What is required is an
inquiry into Being that is capable of addressing issues concerning
the way [emphasis in original] things are, that is, their manner or
mode of existing” (DiCenso, 1990, 30). Richard Bernstein affirms
the importance of being and emphasizes the ontological side of
being, and its universality: “We are ‘thrown’ into the world as
beings who understand; and understanding itself is not one type
of activity of a subject, but may properly be said to underlie all
activities” (Bernstein, 1985, 274). I'll repeat again, hermeneutical
phenomenology is a kind of realist stance and, inherent in a
realistic stance, is the aim of understanding the truth of being.
While this section focuses on agreement, there is an area
where Betti and Gadamer seem unable to come to terms with one
another—the historian’s understanding of history. This point
does have relevance for the formal study of history, but it has
broader ramifications. All of what we can call the human sciences
have a historical aspect. This is true of LIS as well. The issues we
deal with have historical roots and necessitate interpretation of
the past. Betti maintains that it is possible to come to objective
historical knowledge, that it is possible for the interpreter to
eschew all preconceptions and to “exclude any personal
preference concerning the result” (Betti, 1990, 170). Even in this
apparent steadfastness in favor of objectivity Betti hedges. He
says, “objective truth can now be glimpsed from any standpoint
and point of view within the limits of their perspective; the
picture that is arrived at would only be misleading if that
particular perspective was claimed to represent the only
admissable and legitimate one” (Betti, 1990, 172). In admitting
to multiple possible legitimate approaches Betti is necessarily
admitting the melding of history and historical understanding, a
principal element of Gadamer’s thought. Although he is not
responding directly to Betti, Ricoeur explains a problem with
historical objectivism:
 Paths to Knowledge Zo

The error of the proponents of nomological models is not so

much that they are mistaken about the nature of the laws that
the historian may borrow from other and most advanced social
sciences—demography, economics, linguistics, sociology,
etc.—but about how these laws work. They fail to see that these
laws take on a historical meaning to the extent that they are
grafted onto a prior narrative organization that has already
characterized events as contributing to the development of a
plot. (Ricoeur, 1991, 5)

Another point of common ground is the connection of

hermeneutics with knowledge. In seeking understanding we are
seeking knowledge. There is a richness and a particular character
that hermeneutics presents to us, though. I am indebted to
Bernstein for demonstrating the practical aspect of knowledge,
especially as Gadamer envisions it. The importance of knowledge
to praxis is of paricular interest to us in LIS.

As I indicated in the introduction, I’m using the word

praxis deliberately here, instead of practice. While praxis,
which comes from the Greek, is frequently translated as
practice, the word has a more specifc meaning, especially
to Aristotle. As Bernstein points out, praxis refers to
action in the social and ethical sense, whereas practice
refers to the technical performance of a task (Bernstein,
1971, ix-xiii). In LIS practice is of vital importance; it is
essential that we, as professionals, are proficient in the
tasks of information work. Likewise, though, praxis is
essential. We must continuously remind ourselves that
LIS has a social meaning as well as a_ technical
application. We might even say that our praxis is a
combination of all our practices plus the ethical basis of
our being.

Bernstein, in examining Gadamer’s stance regarding knowledge,

recognizes that there are several kinds of knowledge. As we saw
280 Chapter Six

in the last chapter, there is knowing how (we might use the Greek
word techne for this) and knowing that (which we've referred to
as episteme, and is taken to mean the universal knowledge of a
field or discipline). Episteme was the focus of chapter 5 and, in
fact, is at the heart of this book. There is another kind of
knowledge to Gadamer (and to Aristotle)—phronesis, or the
ethical knowledge that mediates between the universal and the
particular. In other words, phronesis helps to unite being and
knowing.
Gadamer says that a product of phronesis is understanding, .
not in a technical sense (such as understanding how an operating
system works), but of the relationship of self and other. “The
person with understanding does not know and judge as one who
stands apart and unaffected; but rather, as one united by a
specific bond with the other, he thinks with the other and
understands the situation with him” (Gadamer, 1989, 288). As
Bernstein explains, to Gadamer understanding helps us to realize
our humanity, including our shared humanity, more fully. For
this reason Gadamer sees the human sciences as moral-practical
sciences. For us this brings home the importance of LIS as a
praxis (including research within praxis) with ethical imperatives,
with obligations beyond individuals and beyond the profession.
As Gadamer put it, phronesis involves knowledge of both means
and ends (Gadamer, 1989, 286). Gadamer’s concept also helps us
in LIS to comprehend that information seekers are, at their cores,
seekers of understanding. He writes,

The interpreter dealing with a traditional text seeks to apply it

to himself. But this does not mean that the text is given for him
as something universal, that he understands it as such and only
afterwards uses it for particular applications. Rather, the
interpreter seeks no more than to understand this universal
thing, the text; i.e., to understand what this piece of tradition
says, what constitutes the meaning and the importance of the
text. In order to understand that, he must not seek to disregard
himself and his particular hermeneutical situation. He must
relate the text to this situation, if he wants to understand at all.
(Gadamer, 1989, 289)
 Paths to Knowledge 281

The information structures, including libraries, that we work with

are universal. We can see this most plainly in our catalogs,
classification systems, information products (such as databases),
and their operation. These universals, for information seekers, are
means, and we need to focus our praxis on that realization.
With knowledge as our goal, we cannot remind ourselves
often enough that all of the kinds of knowledge must be part of
our praxis. Techne without episteme and phronesis places us in
the position of adopting practices that are not aimed at
- information seekers. The elements of phenomenology are lost in
such narrow practices. Concern with means dominates and the
ends may be forgotten. Jurgen Habermas warns against dismissing
episteme and phronesis:

The positivistic self-understanding of the nomological sciences

does in fact promote the suppression of action through
technology. If practical questions, which involve the adoption
of standards, are withdrawn from rational discussion, and if
only technologically exploitable knowledge is considered to be
reliable, then only the instrumentalist values of efficiency
participate in what is left of rationality. (Habermas, 1988, 20)

Paul Ricoeur

At this point I want to focus a bit of space on the work of

Paul Ricoeur. I’ve already quoted him in a few contexts earlier in
this chapter to point to the usefulness of phenomenology and the
purposes of hermeneutics. As is true of most mature thinkers,
Ricoeur’s ideas regarding phenomenology and hermeneutics have
changed somewhat over time. Many of his later writings reflect
the thought he has given to the issues discussed in this chapter.
I do not agree with everything he says, but much of his work can
be appropriated by us in LIS. I’ve mentioned that he has taken
issue with Hirsch and the tradition of Romanticist hermeneutics
in critiquing the psychologistic program aimed at understanding
an author’s intention better even than the author. His critique is
largely well founded, but it presents some problems for us, even
282 Chapter Six

as it suggests an alternative. In rejecting psychologism he rejects

the influences that acted upon the author/speaker. His alternative
is to examine a text semantically as a way of finding meaning. He
says, “The surpassing of the intention by the meaning signifies
precisely that understanding takes place in a nonpsychological
and properly semantical space, which the text has carved out by
severing itself from the mental intention of its author” (Ricoeur,
1976, 76). The principal difficulty with his alternative is the
accompanying assumption that semantics is temporally and
spatially static, that the analysis we may make here today holds
for discourse originating at another time and another place. It
seems that, while Hirsch is in error, some attention to the
author’s time and life can augment the semantic analysis.
Ricoeur’s conception of semantic analysis does hold promise
for us, though. A fundamental element of his idea is one that has
been mentioned briefly above—the distinction between language
and speech. He refines the distinction by separating language and
discourse. Discourse, according to him, is a phenomenon that is
temporal and is realized in the present. Language, as a universal,
is not so time bound. Another difference is that “the signs of
language refer only to other signs in the interior of the same
system so that language no more has a world than it has a time
and a subject, whereas discourse is always about something”
(Ricoeur, 1991, 78). The phenomenological aspect of discourse
is evident in the distinction. Discourse includes an other; it is
addressed to someone. Also, it shares a feature with
consciousness; it is about something. Further, discourse has its
own structure; it is not merely an aggregation of words, or even
an aggregation of sentences. Discourse, as he states, is a message
intended for a reader or hearer; it is intended to be understood.
It has meaning. As an intentional event, discourse contains both
noesis (thought or perception) and noema (that which is
perceived). What is written or what is said embodies the
intention of the writer/speaker (noesis) and the meaning of the
speech act, of the event (noema).
Discourse is dialectical; it is an event, which is temporally
fixed, and it carries meaning, which transcends time. The
meaning endures even though the event is fleeting. We
 Paths to Knowledge 283

experience both sides of the dialectic. Ricoeur focuses on writing

in this dialectic, since the event of writing is recorded in what is
written. Speaking is usually not recorded, but it can continue in
the memory and consciousness of the hearer. The major
differences between writing and speaking have to do with
audience and with time. The writer is not in the presence of the
audience (and there may be audiences that are not anticipated by
the writer), and the writer’s text has already been created by the
time a reader has access to it. Ricoeur observes that “there is no
longer a situation common to the writer and the reader, and the
concrete conditions of the act of pointing no longer exist”
(Ricoeur, 1991, 85). The dialectic is evident in information work.
Direct mediation, such as a reference transaction, most obviously
represents an event, but it also depends on discernment of
meaning. A person searching a database is most obviously a quest
for meaning, but it is also an event, albeit one in which the
connection between the “writer” and the reader (searcher) is not
concrete. In both cases there is intentional action that is
undertaken in an effort to find meaning.
Ricoeur acknowledges the complexity of interpretation. For
one thing, we have to deal with polysemy; many words have more
than one meaning. Further, sentences may be ambiguous. The
hazards we come up against are not insurmountable, however. In
most instances we can determine which of the polysemic
meanings of a word apply from the context of the sentence. And
we can determine which reading of a sentence is appropriate
when we look at it in the context of the whole work. Ricoeur at
times advocates a structural analysis as a means of finding
meaning (that is, examining the specific words and their possible
meanings within the structure of the discourse itself). This
method may be effective in many cases, but it can also be
limiting. For instance, Bakhtin says that structuralism assumes “a
listener who is immanent in the work as an all-understanding,
ideal listener.
... It is an abstract ideological formulation. Counterposed to it
is the same kind of abstract ideal author. In this understanding
the ideal listener is essentially a mirror image of the author who
replicates him” (Bakhtin, 1986, 165). In LIS discourse, for
284 Chapter Six

example, a structural analysis may be insufficient to draw

connections among propositions and ideas as a way to gain
knowledge. The structure alone may not hold the key to the
phenomenological elements that open up discourse to
interpretation and, so, to knowledge.
At his clearest, Ricoeur avoids the problems his thought is
sometimes prone to (for instance, avoiding the primacy of
language over discourse, which most structuralists concede). For
the most part, as I’ve said, he reacts against Romanticist
hermeneutics and closes himself off to the world of the author. At
other times he recognizes that the two facets of authorial intent
and the semantics of the text are also a necessary dialectic
contributing to understanding. For example, at one point he
writes,

On the one hand, we would have what W. K. Wimsatt calls the

intentional fallacy, which holds the author’s intention as the
criterion for any valid interpretation of the text, and, on the
other hand, what I would call in a symmetrical fashion the
fallacy of the absolute text: the fallacy of hypostasizing the text
as an authorless entity. If the intentional fallacy overlooks the
semantic autonomy of the text, the opposite fallacy forgets that
a text remains a discourse told by somebody, said by someone
to someone else about something. It is impossible to cancel out
this main characteristic of discourse without reducing texts to
natural objects, i.e., to things which are not man-made, but
which, like pebbles, are found in the sand. (Ricoeur, 1976, 30)

When he accepts this dialectic he is on the surest footing with

regard to the normative aim of interpretation—understanding
through explanation. And the outcome of such understanding,
the outcome we seek, is knowledge.

LIS and Hermeneutics

There are few writings in LIS that directly address

hermeneutics (and fewer that address phenomenology). It is
useful, however, to take a look at some of these publications in
 Paths to Knowledge 285

order to see how our field is receiving the ideas of philosophers

and theorists. The first work I’ll deal with briefly is Librarians in
Search of Science and Identity by George Bennett. This book is a
published version of his dissertation, in which he attempts to
apply hermeneutics to praxis in LIS. The attempt should be
applauded, but there are some conceptual problems with his view
of hermeneutics and its application. First, he borrows from
Ricoeur, but he does so uncritically. He accepts Ricoeur’s critique
of Romanticist hermeneutics but he doesn’t see some of the
shortcomings in Ricoeur’s insistence on the primacy of the text.
That said, there is a paradox in Bennett’s book. While he claims
to use Ricoeur’s thought as a guide, he also turns to the sociology
of science as support for the claim that there are multiple, socially
constructed, realities. In drawing from some of the sociological
stances (examined in a previous chapter here) Bennett neglects to
investigate the determinism of some of those claims. In particular,
he accepts that reality is a social construction; this is a
fundamentally anti-realist stance that negates any ontological
truth. Further, the determinist stance is necessarily skeptical
about agreement among cultural groups; if there happens to be
agreement, it is accidental. Bennett does observe that, in any
setting, there may be some interpretive conventions that become
ingrained in the day-to-day life of the group. Where he falls short
is in his assumption that, because these conventions are
interpretive, they are grounded in hermeneutics. Hermeneutics,
as we've seen, is normative and not relative. In short, what
he takes
to be interpretive conventions are really more like
dicta—pronouncements intended (in many cases explicitly) to
influence action. Bennett does not make the neccesary distinction
in his book, and his aim of constituting hermeneutics as the
theory of practice falls short of its mark.
Daniel Benediktsson has also focused directly on
hermeneutics. He has offered an erudite summary of some of the
background to hermeneutics as well as to some of the major
strains of thought in hermeneutics. Despite the service he
provides LIS in raising the questions he does, he takes the more
psychologistic path of Betti and finds the most problematic
286 Chapter Six
elements of Ricoeur’s thought the most attractive. Benediktsson
rightly recognizes the phenomenological underpinnings of
hermeneutics, but he limits his critique of phenomenology to
Husserl and neglects some of the glosses on Husserl provided by
other philosophers—glosses that clarify some points and
emphasize the positive aspects of phenomenology. For example,
he takes Husserl to task for isolating consciousness in the
emphasis on intuition as a means to knowing essences
(Benediktsson, 1989, 206-9, 219). Intuition, for Husserl, is
indeed a challenging idea, but others who have examined this
idea have refined the concept and its application. Emmanuel
Levinas has placed intuition into an ontological philosophy and
has demonstrated that it can be useful to understanding of reality
(Levinas, 1995). Benediktsson does accept that Gadamer’s
thought provides some useful grounding for us in LIS, but he
chooses to adhere to Betti’s idea of meaning-full forms and
Ricoeur’s structural analysis. Perhaps the major problem with
Benediktsson’s paper is his complete dismissal of empiricism.
Strong empiricism (what we might call intolerant empiricism) is
seriously problematic, but empiricism in general is not
illegitimate; it is limited. It must be accompanied by
hermeneutical phenomenology if we are to reach understanding
of phenomena. Perhaps the greatest service Benediktsson
provides is his concrete links between hermeneutics and LIS
praxis: “At least two major subfields can be named: Information
retrieval (IR), in terms of bibliographic organization retrieval and
indexing, and personal interaction within reference theory”
(Benediktsson, 1989, 227).
I made reference to the work of Ian Cornelius earlier. His
book is an important one and I recommend it to all in LIS. At the
outset he states what he hopes to communicate to readers, that
“An interpretive approach gives practice an enhanced role in
theory construction for the field by binding practice and theory
into a closer and more complex relationship” (Cornelius, 1996,
2). I mention this because of the frequent criticism of writings in
LIS that there is no connection to practice. Cornelius’s work
actually addresses praxis, the social importance of action as well
as the techniques applied. As he points out, “Practice has received
 Paths to Knowledge 287

increased attention in the professional literature, but as an idea

it has been poorly treated, concentrating more on the
performance of tasks than on the problem of what practice in the
profession means for the self-identity of each practitioner”
(Cornelius, 1996, 35). Regarding praxis, he admonishes writers
in LIS for ignoring difficult questions and especially for avoiding
serious discussion of theory that could help us better understand
the field. He also, quite rightly, adds that the discussion should
not be couched in quantitative-qualitative terms but in terms of
conceptual foundations that can guide the application of specific
methodologies. He further, again quite rightly, emphasizes that
an interpretive approach is based on experience and is intended
to foster understanding of shared experience.
Rather than summarize Cornelius’s many excellent points (he
does this job much more completely than I could attempt here in
a synopsis), I’ll focus on one principal feature of his book. A
fundamental purpose of any praxis is to find meaning in what is
done. What is needed in LIS is much more attention given over
to the meanings that, first of all, inhere in the things we do and
the things we say and, next, are to be sought and found by us (in
other words, what do we really mean). At the heart of a discussion
about meaning is a genuine acceptance of reflexive practice, of a
consciously interpretive and intentional approach to praxis.
Reflection necessitates moving beyond the instrumental tasks
that are undertaken in order to understand purpose. Cornelius
illustrates this necessity by saying that “the practice of filing
catalog cards in a drawer does not have as its meaning or ultimate
purpose conformity to some set of rules about filing, rather
observing those rules give effect to some other objective that
requires the filing of records in some order” (Cornelius, 1996,
111). Reflection also means that theorizing is a part of life for
serious practitioners. The professional, in constantly reflecting on
action, is constantly theorizing, is constantly apprehending
shared meaning (Cornelius, 1996, 125). Cornelius draws quite
heavily from the thought of Charles Taylor, who succinctly
connects theory and praxis:

In any case, it is clear that theories do much more than explain

social life; they also define the understandings that underpin
288 Chapter Six

different forms of social practice, and they help to orient us in

the social world. And obviously the most satisfying theories are
those that do both at once: they offer the individual an
orientation which he shares with his compatriots, and which is
reflected in their common institutions. (Taylor, 1985, 108)

Cornelius, perhaps more thoughtfully than anyone in recent

years, offers LIS a way to think about what this praxis is really
about.

Summary
The foregoing has been based on the premise that inquiry in
LIS, and in all of the social sciences, needs to be founded on a
way of thinking that recognizes the characteristics and qualities
of humans. What we in LIS deal with are human beings and
human constructions. Our dealings can be seen as events in the
phenomenological sense. One of the implications of these events
is the blurring of subject and object. This means that the event is
shared and affects all involved in it. Further, the event is
intentional; the participants mean something by their actions and
are pointed to an outcome. The phenomenological way of
thinking, incorporating hermeneutics, provides us with a way to
see ourselves and our actions that will enable us to understand
these actions and ourselves. Or, stated another way, it gives us a
means to gain knowledge. And, hermeneutical phenomenology is
a way to investigate reality; it is grounded in ontology.
Richard Palmer encapsulates hermeneutics in a concise set of
theses, some of which are as follows:

The hermeneutical experience is intrinsically historical. . . .

The hermeneutical experience is intricically linguistic. .. .
The hermeneutical experience is dialectical. . . .
The hermeneutical experience is an event—a “language event?
 Paths to Knowledge 289

The hermeneutical experience understands what is said in the

light of the present. . . .
The hermeneutical experience is a disclosure of truth. (Palmer,
1969, 242-45)

An important aspect of phenomenology, at least as conceived

by Husserl, is that it is presuppositionless. As an absolute goal,
this is unattainable. Everything that we do in a formal discipline
like LIS is purposeful, is in some respect theory laden; even the
avoidance of presuppositions is a theoretical construct. We can,
however, admit to an openness to the phenomena we’re
examining. By that I mean that we need not constrain our study
of phenomena in LIS or our praxis by assertions that specific
constructs govern action. For example, if we begin by assuming
that mediation between information seekers and the graphic
record functions like a system, with a particular set of actions,
reactions, and flows of communication, then we may impose that
structure on the act of mediating (whether the structure
facilitates understanding or not). Instead of trapping ourselves in
abstract ideals, we would do better to follow the advice of
Mikhail Bakhtin, who argues against what he calls “theoreticism,”
which is a fundamentally a theory about itself, not a theory about
being. “A theory needs to be brought into communion not
[emphasis in original] with theoretical constructions and
conceived life, but with the actually occurring event of moral
being” (Bakhtin, 1993, 12). The phenomenological framework,
focusing as it does on being, is more responsive to essences,
perception, and other.
We must remember that this framework is normative; it does
not admit to a permissive relativism. Spiegelberg reminds us that
“phenomenology is more than phenomena and their direct
inspection. It is a systematic account of these phenomena. As
such it is expressed in descriptive statements which claim to be
true... . Their claim of truth has always to be checked against
the facts, if only the facts of the phenomena” (Spiegelberg, 1975,
117). As he has stated, phenomenology is means to achieve
knowledge, and knowledge that is intersubjective, knowledge that
is shared. His statement reinforces the social epistemic goal of
hermeneutic phenomenology.
290 Chapter Six

Next, we’ll look at some work in LIS and some possibilities

that have the potential to achieve the epistemological goal we've
set for ourselves.
 Chapter Seven

Products and Possibilities in LIS

In past chapters we've seen an intellectual heritage of the social

sciences and LIS, some representations of the limitations of that
heritage, an argument for the purpose of LIS, and a framework
for achieving that purpose. The goal of knowledge, achieved
through hermeneutical phenomenology, points to one thing quite
clearly—the action we engage in LIS, including facilitating
information seeking, are inseparable from being, especially as
conceived by Husserl and Heidegger. In this chapter we’ll see
some works that have the purpose of LIS in mind and employ
productive means to meet their ends. I’m not saying that these
works are perfect, but they do not succumb to many of the
temptations of scientism and, by and large, they do not resort to
deterministic methods. The examples used are not exhaustive;
they don’t represent all of the well-conceived, well-executed
contemporary inquiry in LIS. The examples are intended to be
illustrative of the need to remember that the goal is knowledge

291
292 Chapter Seven

(for its own sake and for application in practice). They further
illustrate that physicalist methods are not sufficient for under-
standing. Instead, they are sensitive (although usually implicitly)
to the framework proposed in chapter 6. In addition to the
examples, taken from the pages of our literature, this chapter will
suggest some conceptual strategies from other disciplines for
inquiry and praxis (keeping in mind that praxis includes both the
techniques used from day to day plus the social and ethical
imperatives of LIS).

Relevance

A considerable amount of work identified as part of informa-

tion science deals directly with, or depends on, ideas regarding
relevance. I’ve mentioned some aspects of relevance earlier, but
I believe it’s now necessary to look at some fairly common, but
misguided, ideas about relevance so that we can better appreciate
the more conceptually sound work. Of course one of the first and
most important challenges in any study that includes relevance
is to define the word. In application, relevance is overwhelmingly
associated with topicality. This means that a document could be
judged relevant if the topic of the document matches the topic of
the search (or, more appropriately, the terms used in a search).
For instance, an information seeker may express a query as:
voting patterns of naturalized U.S. citizens. Investigators may
then ask the seeker to judge the relevance of items in a retrieved
set. In some cases the seeker has access only to a title, in some
cases the seeker has access to an abstract, and in other cases the
seeker may be able to examine the entire document. The seeker
then judges each document (or abstract or title) as relevant or
not. In many studies the relevance judgment is a binary one—yes
or no. Lesk and Salton, in a heavily cited article published more
than three decades ago, offer an explicit operational definition of
relevance. A document is to be considered relevant “if it is
directly stated in the abstract as printed, or can be directly
deducted [emphasis in original] from the printed abstract, that the
document contains information on the topic asked for in the
 Products and Possibilities 293

query” (Lesk and Salton, 1968, 347). Lesk and Salton treat
retrieval in an objectivist way. A document “contains” relevant
information in the same way that a glass can “contain” water.
Further, there is an objectivist connection between the abstract
(they do not refer to the entirety of a document) and the search
strategy. Both abstract and search statement are objects that have
some determinate relationship. Studies that follow the lead of
Lesk and Salton may be geared toward answering questions about
information seeking generally, or toward the design of technical
systems.
In any event, the assumption, which is more often than not
implicit, that relevance can be assessed in binary terms is a
product of the outlined genealogy. A practical flaw of some work
dealing with relevance is that assumptions regarding judgments
are unstated, leaving the reader to infer them from the study. The
inferred assumptions generally follow a few lines:
(1) information seekers are able to peruse documents, parts
of documents, or abstracts and make immediate binary
judgments;
(2) information seekers’ queries are complete and explicit,
allowing others to make judgments about the relevance of
documents;
(3) the relevance judgment, once made, is permanent;
(4) the documents in a retrieved set can be effectively
assessed independently of one another; and
(5) relevance inheres in the document, making reliable
relevance judgments possible.
Not all work contains these assumptions, but they are not
uncommon. All of the assumptions are based on a physicalist
view of relevance—it exists as part of the stated query and/or it is
part of each document (that is, every document is discernibly
relevant or not to any stated query). In other words, relevance is
a verifiable, empirically measured property of the query or of the
document.
Some of the measures, closely related to relevance, that have
been a part of information retrieval research for a few decades are
precision and recall. These measures were employed some years
ago in the Cranfield studies (Cleverdon, 1960; Cleverdon, 1962).
294 Chapter Seven

(It should be noted that Cleverdon himself recognized the

limitations of recall and precision and urged caution in their use.)
Recall is usually defined as the number of relevant documents
retrieved divided by the number of relevant documents in the
database. So if an information seeker constructs a query that
yields 100 relevant documents and it is determined that there are
200 relevant documents in the database, the recall figure is 50
percent. Precision is defined as the number of relevant documents
retrieved divided by the total number of documents retrieved. So
if an information seeker constructs a query that yields 100
documents, and twenty-five of the retrieved documents are
relevant, the precision figure is 25 percent. Of course the
measures depend on the ability to make an absolute relevance
judgment. In the case of recall it is further assumed that it is
possible to make a relevance judgment about each document in
the database. When librarian-mediated online searching was
common in libraries some training tools were used to improve the
effectiveness of librarians’ searches. Natural language queries were
presented to librarians and they would then structure queries
according to system protocols and, perhaps, database thesauri.
The system would then calculate recall and precision figures
(which means that relevance was determined beforehand). The
shortcomings of such training tools are readily evident. As Linda
Schamber says, “Generally, recall, precision, and similar measures
concern the ability of the system to identify relevant documents
without error, or . . . the degree to which system relevance
response predicts user relevance judgment” (Schamber, 1994,
14).
The difficulties with a naive view of relevance (the premise
that, if the topic of a document matches the terms of a search, the
document is relevant) are recognized in some work that is more
sensitive to the human quest for knowledge. In a couple of
studies T'aemin Kim Park questions the objectivist definition of
relevance:

Topical relevance is context-free and is based on fixed assump-

tions about the relationship between a topic of a document and
a search question, ignoring an individual’s particular context
and state of needs. It is an [sic] unidimensional view of users’
 Products and Possibilities 295

information problems, disregarding the changing nature of the

individual’s information problem and its subsequent impact on
the search. It fails to focus on the complexity of the individual’s
background and task situation. (Park, 1994, 136)

Recognizing the importance of context is a step toward recogniz-

ing the phenomenological nature of being and the connection
between being and the world. A query does not simply appear
from nowhere; it is an expression that is rooted in an intellectual
situation that includes some knowledge and the desire to know
more. Much of traditional thought on relevance tacitly assumes
that a seeker’s knowledge is definite and the desire to know more
is clearly directed, with no confusion or ambiguity. Park disputes
this assumption.
Another kind of questioning of the assumption regarding
relevance is made by Nicholas Belkin. Belkin advocates what has
come to be called the cognitive viewpoint. He admits that some
proponents of the cognitive viewpoint incorporate some aspects
of phenomenological thinking, especially thinking that adds social
to individual being. Ostensibly, the cognitive viewpoint is
intended to replace an approach to information seeking that is
object-centered with one that is user-centered. I say ostensibly
because, despite the seeming user-centered orientation, Belkin’s
vision of the cognitive viewpoint tends to be reductionist. He
coins the term Anomalous States of Knowledge (ASIX) to describe
in some way the information seeker’s reason for searching. The
term itself creates a problem for us, though, since it implies that
there are definable states that can be altered by some action on
the parts of librarians or systems designers. (In one sense, all
knowledge is anomalous if we take it to be fallible and corrigible.)
He says that we can expect a seeker to describe “goals, problems,
and knowledge, and that such a description can be represented
and used in comparison with similar document representations
for retrieval purposes” (Belkin, 1990, 14). According to such a
position, knowledge can be translated into information needs in
terms specific enough to generate representations and then
matched with other representations determined from the
documents themselves. Two objects (the representations) can be
296 Chapter Seven

compared so that relevance can be assessed. While initially

attractive, the cognitive viewpoint has shortcomings, many of
which are noted by Bernd Frohmann. Frohmann details the
diminshing of social elements of knowledge, the reduction of
intellection to specific internal cognitive processes, and ultimately
the commodification of information seeking (Frohmann, 1992).
Belkin’s work serves as a warning to us to look past claims of
user-centeredness and to examine closely the nature of any
theoretical and practical position for its relation to being.
Perhaps a more reasonable description of relevance is offered
by Park. Relevance is, as Park says, temporal and fluid. A
document (or any potentially informing text) can only be
evaluated at a point in time and in the context of being at that
time. Traditional thinking maintains a clear subject-object
separation. The phenomenological framework, as we've seen,
negates a clear separation. This means that relevance does not
inhere in the document, nor does it reside in the information
seeker (solely). The fluidity of relevance includes not only the
seeker’s knowledge, but also the seeker’s perception, which is
intentional. A claim that relevance is temporal and fluid implies
that relevance judgments are not fixed; they may change with
time. Park says that it may be possible to “trace an individual's
view of relevance and its changing patterns during the whole
process of one’s information seeking and use” (Park, 1993, 346).
In other words, a study could be conducted to collect relevance
judgments from the seeker at various stages of research (treating
the judgments as historical data) and then examining the
judgments qualitatively. Park’s work can help us see the short-
comings of the traditional views of relevance. One limitation of
his work is that there seems to be an assumption that judgments
progress through discrete stages. Such an idea runs somewhat
counter to the notion of fluidity.
Park’s work (along with that of several others) is cited by
Peiling Wang and Marilyn White. Early in their article they state,
“The current paradigm related to relevance considers it a
complex, multidimensional concept based on both cognitive and
situational factors that is derived from dynamic human judg-
ments” (Wang and White, 1999, 99). They then construct a
 Products and Possibilities 297

study that has participants from a previous examination of

relevance judgments reassess the relevance of retrieved docu-
ments. Wang and White recorded comments about the relevance
of documents at the time they were retrieved in 1992. They then
interviewed the participants in 1995 and asked them about
subsequent assessments of the relevance of the documents. One
respondent said in 1992 that a title looked promising and should
be examined right away. In 1995 that respondent said that, upon
reading the full document it was not appropriate for citation,
even though the document fits generally with the respondent’s
research interest. Wang and White conclude in this instance that,
“In the comments across the two studies, it is apparent that this
participant applied different criteria in the citing decision than in
the selecting decision” (Wang and White, 1999, 101). While it
could have been stated more explicitly, this study includes a
number of instrumental aims that might be linked to relevance.
Such aims include inserting citations to pioneers in the field or to
journals that are deemed important to the discipline. A next step
in this kind of inquiry could be to explore how relevance assess-
ments fit into the more complex dynamic of being.
One of the voices most critical to the physicalist view of
relevance belongs to David Ellis. His remarks at times strike at
the heart of the physicalist way of thinking and expose its
limitations:

But it is not objection to measurement which underlines

criticism of the employment of relevance as a performance
criterion; rather the lack of recognition that there is a difference
in kind between the employment of a device to measure a
physical process, and the employment of human judgements of
relevance as the basis of the measures of retrieval effectiveness.
(Elise gous 24)

Ellis correctly and necessarily articulates what is probably the

central shortcoming of the genealogy of thought that contributes
to a physicalist position. The genealogy, accepted widely in the
social sciences and LIS, logically leads to the acceptance of
simplistic empirical means of measurement. I will not argue that
empirical, quantitative methods have no value in LIS; they can
298 Chapter Seven

contribute to understanding. For instance, data about library

acquisition and circulation trends can help us greatly in our
understanding of the nature and use of materials. These methods,
however, have severe limitations and Ellis points out how they
fall short:

The goal of attempting to retrieve all and only those documents

which are relevant to the searcher becomes not so much a
theoretical ideal, unattainable in practice, as an unsustainable
construct. . . . [W]hile it is feasible to describe or analyze
changes in knowledge in response to new information qualita-
tively, to attempt to do the same quantitatively seems to have
no tenable theoretical or practical foundation and represents a
similar unsustainable research goal. . . . The original vision of
information retrieval research as a discipline founded on
quantification proved equally restricting for its theoretical and
methodological development. (Ellis, 1996, 33-34)

It is time for information retrieval, as a field of study and as it

applies to praxis, to transcend those restrictions.
In at least one published piece Park makes reference to a
book entitled Relevance: Communication and Cognition, by Dan
Sperber and Deirdre Wilson. While nominally a work in the
realm of cognitive science, Relevance focuses on the linguistic and
philosophical side of that discipline. At one point Sperber and
Wilson make an observation that seems eminently sensible, even
though it is an idea that is missing from much traditional LIS
thinking: “As a discourse proceeds, the hearer retrieves or
constructs and then processes a number of assumptions. These
form a gradually changing background against which new
information is processed. Interpreting an utterance involves . . .
seeing the contextual effects of this assumption in a context
determined, at least in part, by earlier acts of comprehension”
(Sperber and Wilson, 1988, 118). A judgment of relevance, such
as one that research subjects may be asked to make, might well
be based on intuition. As such it is, as Park says, temporal and
fluid. The contextual elements within which relevance is assessed
include both external and internal frames. In the external frame,
something may be deemed relevant if it fits logically, substan-
 Products and Possibilities 299

tively, spatially, and temporally into a situation. A student may

find a text relevant if it fits into the content of a course, specifi-
cally if it fits into the content that is currently being studied or is
the focus of an assignment. Further, that text may be relevant if
it fits into the kind and depth of treatment of the course. With
the internal frame, a text may be deemed relevant if it fits with
what an individual is currently thinking about and if it fits into
the way an individual is thinking about the topic.
These frames seem self-evident, but let me elaborate on them
a bit to illustrate the complexity of relevance. Sperber and Wilson
write, “We have suggested that the context used to process new
assumptions is, essentially, a subset of the individual’s old
assumptions, with which the new assumptions combine to yield
a variety of contextual effects” (Sperber and Wilson, 1988, 132).
When a person seeks information, that person does not have a
blank mind. She or he is constructing a query (in the broad
sense) based on existing knowledge. For example, if I am unaware
that some medical authorities question the direct link between
HIV and AIDS I may construct a search on the treatment of HIV
as part of the control of the spread of AIDS. If I retrieve a
document that denies HIV’s connection to AIDS I may not judge
it relevant. However, as new propositions are uncovered I may
begin to include these new propositions into my perception. If I
retrieve several documents questioning HIV as a cause of AIDS
I may reassess the relevance of those documents. The dynamic of
questioning already held propositions in the face of new ones is
a complicated and dialectical one. There is no simple algorithm
that effectively predicts some kind of gestalt shift to a different
way of thinking. Individual context may be based on a claim by
John Searle: not all intentional beliefs are conscious. I may
believe something about the cause of AIDS, but I may not be
thinking about that at the time of a search. Nonetheless the
unconscious belief is affecting assessment of relevance, in large
part because, as Searle says, every unconscious intentional belief
could be conscious (Searle, 1992, 132). Context, as we can see, is
extremely difficult to discern fully. Searle offers a reason for the
difficulty; most of computational cognitive science makes a
serious mistake. “The mistake is to suppose that in the sense in
300 Chapter Seven

which computers are used to process information, brains also

process information. . . . In the case of a computer, an outside
agent encodes some information in a form that can be processed
by the circuitry of the computer. . . . In the case of the brain,
none of the relevant neurobiological processes are observer
relative” (Searle, 1992, 223-24). (Searle’s approach is physicalist,
but in a way that is substantially different from neuro-philoso-
phers.)

Information and Communication

Recent work has attempted to combat any inclination to reify

information (to treat it as an object) by emphasizing the commu-
nicative action engaged in by people when seeking information.
It generally isn’t stated, but stressing communication embodies
an acceptance of the intentionality of human action. The
communicative stance may be articulated most explicitly and
most forcefully by Brenda Dervin, whose work is cited heavily in
the LIS literature. In her view information is more of a means to
an end (the end being the result of communication—making
sense of some situation). She writes, “Information is essentially
seen as a tool that is valuable and useful to people in their
attempt to cope with their lives. . . . The core assumption is that
information exists independent of human action and that its
value lies in describing reality and therefore in reducing uncer-
tainty about reality” (Dervin, 1977, 18, 20). The idea that
information is a tool is not an altogether common one in LIS.
The word “information” is frequently much more sweeping. The
disagreement over what information is illustrates the problematic
aspect of the word. Dervin seems to equate information with
data; if “data” were to replace “information” in her statement
there would probably be less disagreement (at least with regard
to that statement). Or, looked at another way, Dervin advocates
stressing communication, which is a fundamental human action
that may depend on a process of informing, of giving shape to
data.
 Products and Possibilities 301

Dervin reiterates the limitations of an objectivist approach to

information and informing. The approach, which ignores the
essential nature of being, is, according to Dervin, grounded in two
assumptions: “one is that information can be treated like a brick;
the other is that people can be treated like empty baskets into
which bricks can be thrown” (Dervin, 1983, 160). The act of
reification may be one of the most serious mistakes we can make
(and is opposed to phenomenology). The tradition of scientistic
determinism necessarily depends on objectifying, not only human
products, but also human action. As might be expected, the
scientistic stance requires the reification of language. This means
that an objectivist treatment of language reduces the elements of
language—syntax, grammar, semantics—as things. This is
precisely what Dervin (rightly) criticizes. Reification of language
transfers meaning entirely to the language itself and eliminates
the intentions of the speaker/writer. The intentionality of
communication is implicit in Dervin; it is inherent in her idea of
information as a User Construct: “[I]t is assumed that the
individual is a sensemaker by mandate of the human condition”
(Dervin, 1983, 169). At times her work suggests a kind of anti-
realism, bordering on constructivism, but her insistence on the
importance of communication indicates that there must be some
way for communication to share meaning. The intentionality of
language use is much more explicit, for instance, in the work of
Paul Grice. He demonstrates how a speaker/writer expresses
intentions in ways that can be understood by a hearer/reader
(Grice, 1989, 86-116).
If we combine Dervin’s important body of work with some
other thought on language and communication that has not
become a part of the literature of LIS, the phenomenological
nature of communication becomes clearer. Dervin repeatedly says
that an individual’s information seeking is situated, contextual.
The only way to understand information seeking behavior is to
understand the context in which it takes place. We can’t assume
that every information seeker will come to content in the same
way for the same reason. What can go wrong, according to Dervin
is that “The user’s unique situation, then, is treated as a typical
or normatively defined situation and is thus made amenable to a
302 Chapter Seven
match in an information system designed normatively” (Dervin,
1977, 19). In other words, a query is reified, treated as an object;
and that object has a single discernible meaning. The tendency to
reification is powerful, though, and is exacerbated by both the
nature of language (as something more or less fixed by rules and
conventions) and possible assumptions regarding language (as
determinate of meaning and as universally shared). These two
factors lead to an observation by Schutz on reification:

I leave out of my awareness the intentional operations of my

consciousness within which their meanings have already been
constituted. At such times I have before me a world of real and
ideal objects, and J can assert that this world is meaningful not
only for me but for you, for us, and for every one. This is
precisely because I am attending not to those acts of conscious-
ness which once gave them meaning but because | already
presuppose, as given without question, a series of highly
complex meaning-contents. The meaning structure thus
abstracted from its genesis is something that I can regard as
having an objective meaning, as being meaningful in itself.
(Schutz, 1967, 36)

The kind of reification Schutz speaks of is apparent in some

conceptions of relevance, which is seen as universal and deter-
mined by the content itself, rather than as part of the complex
intentional perception of the seeker and the intentionality of the
content.
The way we treat language when it comes to information
retrieval further illustrates the tendency to reification. Everyone
involved in the process—information seekers, systems designers,
librarians, indexers—engages in an effort to normalize the range
of queries through categorization. What I mean by this is that
everyone translates a complex event (keeping in mind an
information seeker’s perceptions, the intentional act of querying,
and the intentional act that results in creating the content that
might be retrieved) into a highly structured, and usually simpli-
fied, one. This doesn’t mean that categorization is bad or that it
should be abandoned. It does mean, though, that the act of
categorizing should not be oversimplified. Patrick de Gramont
 Products and Possibilities 303

suggests that a metaphor for the act of categorizing is to see

language as a filing system. “Filing systems have two distinguish-
ing characteristics which enable one to compare them to the way
language works. First, they operate on the basis of the fact that
the information to be filed has meaning before it is filed. Second,
the system under which the information is filed is geared, not to
the information per se, but to an ulterior purpose” (de Gramont,
1990, 65). In common usage of language the process of categori-
zation may be shared by all speakers of a language and is usually
based in shared or common experience. The commonality of
experience is generally the grounding for establishing a verbal
category to describe the experience. We can see that there is a
difference between categorization in everyday usage and categori-
zation in much of information retrieval. The categories in a
database include a structured vocabulary (such as subject
headings in a library catalog or descriptors in a bibliographic
database) are not customarily established by the information
seekers (although there may be exceptions). In other words, the
information seeker is not the one who created the filing system or
filed the information. Understanding, in the sense of shared
meaning, exists insofar as the information seeker can infer what
the filer did in the process of categorization (including both the
establishment of a thesaurus or vocabulary and the application of
that vocabulary to specific content). Categories, which can be at
least somewhat predictable, can facilitate finding content that
closely fits the accepted definition of the category. Given that
much language is characterized by polysemy and that content is
frequently semantically rich, simplified, a priori, categorization is
of some, but limited, value to an information seeker.
Carol Kuhlthau, in many ways, builds on Dervin’s work. She,
too, makes a distinction between an almost exclusively objectivist
approach to information services and a more phenomenological
approach. She writes, “The traditional approach is limited to the
task of locating sources and information but does not take into
account the tasks of interpreting, formulating, and learning in the
process of information seeking” (Kuhlthau, 1993, 168). Locating
sources implies that meaning is fixed and, further, inheres in the
information objects. Meaning, as we've seen, is a result of action,
304 Chapter Seven

specifically communicative action. Kuhlthau’s model of informa-

tion seeking includes a combination of the analysis of content
with the seeker’s doing something with the content. The model
owes a debt to Habermas’s insistence that understanding stems
from the joint interpretation of language and experience
(Habermas, 1971, 171). Such necessary interpretation is central
to Habermas’s idea of lifeworld (which is similar to, but differs
somewhat from, Husserl’s idea). Habermas’s lifeworld also has
being at its heart, but being, for him, is shaped by, and helps to
shape, society and cultural production (which includes, among
other things, both libraries and their contents). And the personal
is, of course, a part of being (Habermas, 1998, 215-55).
Some aspects of Habermas’s lifeworld are incorporated by
Kuhlthau. She says, “Within the [Information Search Process],
the user interprets information to construct new understandings
and knowledge that add valuable information for addressing
problems and making judgments” (Kuhlthau, 1999, 400). Action
is a vital outcome of the information seeking process. Kuhlthau’s
program, however, is much more focused on the individual than
on the individual’s place in society. She does include experience,
but internalizes that experience; she doesn’t fully explore the
richness of societal relations and influences and cultural produc-
tion. In one study she concludes that librarians can become active
in the information seeking process, but the phenomenological
challenges of incorporating self and other are not addressed
(IcuhlIthau, 1999). The process of inferring meaning, or of making
sense, is not purely internal in her program. It is by its nature
communicative and linguistic. More attention to Habermas might
strengthen Kuhlthau’s information seeking model. In particular,
an explicit recognition, left implicit in much of her work, that
information seeking is a directed action with pragmatic purposes
could lead to emphasis of the communicative action that contrib-
utes to understanding. The pragmatics of communication
generally include cooperation aimed at shared (entirely or
partially) interpretations based on claims of validity (or what
Goldman would call veritism), if not truth, that can be mutually
arrived at (Habermas, 1998, 299). Cooperation necessitates a
 Products and Possibilities 305

transformation from an objectivist to a phenomenological

attititude. As Habermas says,

The telos of reaching understanding inherent in the structures

of language compels the communicative actors to alter their
perspective; this shift in perspective finds expression in
the necessity of going from the objectivating attitude of the
success-oriented actor, who seeks to effect something in the
world, to the performative attitude of a speaker, who seeks to
reach understanding with a second person about something
[emphasis in original]. (Habermas, 1998, 300)

Comprehension of the interaction between self and other is

integral to understanding.
In evaluating Kuhlthau’s method and program, Hjerland
points out that her work has sound grounding in principles that
follow from phenomenology and is aimed at helping us to
understand, to know more about, information seeking. He
identifies her methodological principles as:

¢ User orientation instead of focusing on the information

system itself
* Process orientation, that is, the perception of information
seeking as a process
¢ Orientation toward both cognitive and affective processes
¢ Qualitative studies (interviews and case studies) and
quantitative studies
¢ Longitudinal studies. . . .
¢ Studies of real users with real problems in real libraries.

¢ Studies that build upon a theoretical framework of users as

constructive information seekers. (Hjgrland, 1997, 116)

He also points out that her work is limited by its “methodological

individualism,” and could benefit greatly by inclusion of social
aspects of experience. Expansion of the conceptual base could
help LIS more directly address its central questions. Hjgrland is,
I believe, correct both in his praise for the strengths of Kuhlthau’s
program and in his criticism of its limitations.
306 Chapter Seven

Other LIS Work

Those who are familiar with writings in LIS are probably

aware of the work of Ross Atkinson. Atkinson has built a record
of thoughtful scholarship; everyone studying or practicing
librarianship should pay attention to what he has to say. Some
years ago he suggested that the materials selection process in
libraries is complicated by the multiple contexts that can affect
decisions. Citations (references in published works) can be used
to help make selection decisions. The existence of citations
creates a relationship among texts, a relationship so intricate as
to signal an indication of intertextuality, or the interweaving of
the ideas in texts that blur lines among individual works.
Atkinson quotes Roland Barthes, who recognizes the phenomeno-
logical element of intertextuality, especially the linking of “I” and
“other.” As Atkinson observes, “The reader is very much the
product of the texts he or she has come upon before; an individ-
ual’s ability not only to understand but also to evaluate and make
other decisions about newly encountered documents (or other
utterances) depends upon his or her reference to such personal
textual experience” (Atkinson, 1984, 110). The multiple contexts
of selection include the social environment that constitutes
demand and use (and that responds to the actions of selectors).
Atkinson also recognizes that selection, as an epistemic act, is
both an individual and a shared event.

Written policies may, of course, be used to provide some

regulation and coordination among selectors, but such policies
no matter how detailed must still always be interpreted by each
selector on the basis of his or her personal experience at the
time of each selection decision. . . . Contexts overlap greatly
between individuals, so that most instances of selection invite
little dispute. (Atkinson, 1984, 118)

He demonstrates how interpretation need not be entirely

relativist, but may lead to some normative social epistemic
agreement.
More recently Atkinson has turned his attention to collection
management in an online environment. Although he doesn’t state
 Products and Possibilities 307

it, there are some familial links between this later work and his
earlier thinking on intertextuality. He recognizes that in an online
environment the connections between and among texts are more
apparent than when we handle physical artifacts. The connec-
tions that are made depend on both the information seeker and
the content. It is possible to examine library service from either
perspective: ensuring that local users have ready access to the
content they need

can be viewed from either a subjective or an objective perspec-

tive. From a subjective position, the goal of information
services is—given a_ particular set of information ob-
jects—to provide local users with the tools and skills they need
to make the most effective use of those objects. But the service
can also be approached from the objective perspective: assum-
ing a particular group of local users with clearly defined needs,
the goal of the service is to add selected values to the specific
information objects, such that those objects can be used more
effectively to respond to those local needs. (Atkinson, 1998, 8)

As we examine the goals of information services we can see that

there is another way to see the apparent dichotomy of the
subjective and the objective. Atkinson says we can divide the
values of our goals into functionality (ensuring a person’s ability
to work within an object such as a text) and maintenance
(ensuring stability and accesibility to objects over time). The
dichotomies he illustrates, and especially the subjective and
objective designations, are, essentially, false. Just as phenomenol-
ogy dissolves subject-object distinctions, Atkinson attempts to
minimize the dichotomies by advocating what he calls the “digital
mentality.” The information seeker makes and breaks connec-
tions with content in an intentional manner given changing wants
and needs. The digital mentality allows seekers and librarians to
envision a fluid environment, characterized by, among other
things, what Atkinson refers to as embedment. “Both transferabil-
ity and analyticity entail embedment. Transferability is the
potential to move objects within a wider universe, while
analyticity is the capacity for the user to move within the object.
Thus while every database is an object, we must also recognize
308 Chapter Seven

that every object is a database” (Atkinson, 1998, 19). In his body

of work Atkinson gives a way of thinking about familiar matter in
unfamiliar, but fruitfully epistemic, terms.
Information services can certainly be as complex as collection
management, and some thought in LIS displays not only aware-
ness of the complexity, but effort at understanding the root of the
problems we face. Melissa Gross investigates a particular kind of
information seeking, the imposed query. Most information
services assume that user-generated queries begin the service
action, but at times people are urged, asked, or assigned to seek
information. The dynamics of an imposed query are quite
different from a user-generated one, and the central difference is
epistemic. Gross tells us that

The imposed query model describes a process in which the

imposer or end user passes the question to another who will act
as the agent in the transaction of the query and then return to
the imposer with an answer or resolution. Since the person who
formulated the question is not present in the reference negotia-
tion process, the performance of reference service is to some
degree dependent on how well the agent really understands
what the end user wants and the degree to which the agent feels
licensed to add to or change the question. (Melissa Gross,
1998, 291)

She recognizes that the same approach to service will not be

effective with both the imposed query and the user-generated
query. The will to knowledge is not the same in the two instances.
With an imposed query, as Gross points out, the information
seeker does not necessarily have knowledge of the origins of the
question and, so, may not be able to consult with a librarian or
assess the outcome of the service. Gross also acknowledges that
examination of such instances as imposed queries can help us
understand statements about relevance. What the information
seeker may be able to know is how to assess content that may
satisfy the originator of the query. Gross states that relevance
judgments are usually assumed to be based on subject knowledge.
Her work suggests that an epistemic event does take place; rather
than evaluating on the grounds of subject knowledge, the
 Products and Possibilities 309

information seeker evaluates content on the grounds of know!-

edge about the nature and situation of query imposition—the
information seeker may know what will succeed in the eyes of the
person who began the process. That success may be based to
varying extent on perceptions of the content, but is more likely
to be related to topicality.
All information services are related to the ways we have tried
to organize information for retrieval, including our frequently
used systems of classification. Investigations into the frameworks
of classification systems aren’t uncommon, but some investiga-
tions are more sensitive to the conceptual underpinnings of
classification. Francis Miksa offers such a sensitive analysis. He
admits that some library catalogs, particularly in the nineteenth
century, were based on Francis Bacon’s hierarchy of the sciences.
Others owed a debt to later scientistic organizational premises.
Miksa writes,

Charles A. Cutter, for example, lauded by his contemporaries

for the scientific accuracy of his classificatory work and well
acquainted with John Fiske, the American populizer of Herbert
Spencer’s philosophy of evolution, was quite straightforward in
asserting in 1897 that his Expansive Classification was based on
the idea of evolution, a basic theme of Spencer’s philosophy.
(Miksa, 1998, 36)

Hierarchical classification continued into the twentieth century,

but was accompanied by other (although related) approaches that
illustrate a kind of Enlightenment optimism that knowledge is
perfectable. Underlying the optimism is a belief that science (or,
more appropriately, scientism) provides the instrumental means
to address all issues and solve all problems. Miksa points out that
Henry Bliss “established this argument by putting forth an
elaborate philosophy of realism. He posited an objective world
apart from humankind’s observation of it and asserted that not
only are ‘objects’ of this world discovered progressively, but also
that individual minds together constitute a unity in perceiving
such objects” (Miksa, 1998, 60). As has already been admitted in
previous chapters, a softened realism is an appropriate conception
310 Chapter Seven

of the world, but strong realism is insufficient to an understand-

ing of being.
The assumption that nature exhibits a hierarchy of organiza-
tion and influence and, by extension, our knowledge mirrors the
hierarchy is, according to Miksa, questionable. Relationships
among things in the world are much more complex than a simple
deterministic hierarchy, and our perceptions of relationships are
at least as complex. The complexity does not render classification
impossible, but it does suggest some critical response to tradi-
tional hierarchical structures. Miksa suggests that one response
is to allow a deeper level of specification that information seekers
can use; another response is to create alternatives that can exist
alongside existing structures, such as the Dewey Decimal
Classification. One alternative might be to allow flexibility in
facet sequences so that users could alter sequences (for example,
the user might want place or time to be earlier in the sequence
because of the nature of the query). Another alternative could be
to employ collocation so that content on a topic could be linked.
Miksa provides an example:

if a classifier wished to collocate a wide variety of information

resources (or electronic links to them) related to jewelry, the
template should allow the user to move the topical areas and
subclasses of, say, gem metallurgy (553.8), gem mining
(622.38), synthetic gems (666.88), gem carving (736.2), jewelry
and gems in religion (the categories of individual religions from
the 270s to 290s), and so on into a structure at, say, 739.27
(Jewelry) with links from their standard positions to the new
locations. (Miksa, 1998, 89)

Miksa’s analysis incorporates the nature of being, perception, and

intentionality into an examination of existing practice in LIS and
into proposals for future practice. Such reflexiveness is imperative
to the knowledge-based goals of our profession.

Miksa’s example above represents both a challenge and

an opportunity for the retrieval of pertinent information.
I’ve addressed the opportunity elsewhere. In examining
 Products and Possibilities 311

the difficulties of retrieving all materials on a specific

topic I suggested that “There is no conceptual reason why
a single work cannot be assigned multiple call numbers
[in bibliographic records of a library’s online catalog],
with one primary call number serving as a shelf locator.
The multiple call numbers could be used to assist re-
trieval in the same way multiple subject headings do”
(Budd, 1996, 115).

I’ve already made reference to Birger Hjgrland’s work, but it

deserves a bit more attention. As does Miksa, Hjorland examines
access to information from the perspective of knowledge and
communicative action. Perhaps in response to potential skepti-
cism, Hjgrland explains why we in LIS should concern ourselves
with epistemological matters:

¢ Level 1: Information science should develop a theory of subject for

analyzing [disciplinary literatures in the context of the knowledge
bases of the disciplines].
¢ Level 2: Information science is itself a science influenced by the
same paradigms or epistemological positions as those influencing
psychology and other human and social sciences. (Hjgrland, 1997,
92)

He further says that human knowledge can only be understood

as a social process that depends on communication. While I agree
that an investigation of how we know depends on social influence
and social action, I believe we can’t ignore, in fact we can’t
entirely separate the social context from, the ways individuals
come to knowledge. By disagreeing in part with it, though, I
definitely do not mean to suggest that he is incorrect, just that his
position could be strengthened by recognition of the confluence
of the individual and the social. Hjorland further states that his
position is pragmatic, although not so radically pragmatic as to
deny epistemology. In recognizing the shortcomings of radical
pragmatism, he objects to “the problem with a pragmatic concept
512 Chapter Seven

of the subject [which] lies in the most basic sense in the condi-
tion it shares with pragmatic philosophy: even though the goal is
to develop human practice, a narrow practice-orientation is too
short-sighted and superficial in its truth criteria” (Hjorland, 1997,
78). He realizes that knowledge and human action tends to be
functional and directed (which is admitted by phenomenology).
The social element, according to Hjgrland, can be explicit in
what he calls a domain analytic approach to the subject analysis
of content. The approach is characterized by: realism; the social
functioning of disciplines; focus on the knowledge domain of a
discipline (or comparisons of different disciplines and their
knowledge domains); and a collectivist, rather than an individual-
ist, methodology (Hjerland, 1997, 109). It is evident that he
advocates a social epistemic foundation for our discipline. In
practical terms, Hjgrland maintains that the approach he urges
can result in a more complete analysis of content leading to
subject representation that is consonant with the retrieval
purposes of information seekers. There may well be variation in
subject headings among different settings (libraries) and that a
merged database, or union catalog, can present the totality of
possibilities that individual libraries can choose from for local
access. “Information retrieval systems should be made user-
friendly, and this can be done by having knowledge of the users’
language and subjective perceptions and use this knowledge, for
example, in cross-references to the preferred terms” (Hjorland,
L997,.66);
Birger Hjgrland’s thought demonstrates that there is interest-
ing, well-conceived work emanating from places other than North
America. His writings are not anomalous. In the last chapter I
spent some time reviewing Ian Cornelius’s ideas on theory.
Others offer readers fresh points of view on matters that are
central to LIS. Seren Brier, for instance, agrees with Hjerland in
stating, “I want to show that LIS has to move from the cognitive
science’s information processing paradigm towards more pragmat-
ically semiotic, cybernetic and social-linguistics theories of
understanding, improving and designing document mediating
systems” (Brier, 1996, 24). He emphasizes the importance of
semiotics (sign systems) to the communication process of which
 Products and Possibilities 313

LIS is an important component. A sign is representational; it

stands for something. Moreover, it represents something to
someone. Interpretation is inescapable in the field of representa-
tion. The kind of linguistic understanding that Brier says systems
such as libraries, databases, etc. exist to facilitate is dependent on
the variety of meanings that exist in the range of producers (what
Hjgrland and Brier refer to as domains) plus the range of
mediators (libraries, information systems, databases). There is not
a single lingua franca that everyone recognizes and uses. The
challenge, according to Brier, is “how we can map the semantic
fields of concepts and their signifying context’s into our systems
beyond the logical and statistical approaches the technology up
till now has made us focus on as the only realistic strategies”
(Brier, 1996, 40). The work of these non-Americans brings home
the fact that we cannot be parochial in our quest for understand-
ing.

Possibilities

As is readily evident by now, there is a substantial record of

conceptually and methodologically sound work in LIS. Maybe
there is also some work that is grounded in the errors of scientism
as well, but the same could be said of all social science disciplines.
And, as is true of the social sciences generally, we in LIS can learn
from some thought in other disciplines. Throughout this book
I’ve mentioned work in philosophy, sociology, and other fields
that is directly related to the kinds of questions and concerns we
have. At this time I’d like to focus on a couple of strains of
thought that can help us frame some of those questions and
increase our understanding of the complex issues of our discipline
and profession.

Mikhail Bakhtin

A considerable amount of the foregoing discussion of

intellectual direction and of productive work has included a
314 Chapter Seven

linguistic element. The communicative nature of study and

practice in our discipline necessarily encompasses the nature and
working of language. The role of language is manifest in more
than one way: practice in libraries and other agencies depends on
the effective communication of professionals; the content
information seekers need; regardless of the medium, the content
is in large part textual; and formal study in LIS is, of course,
communicated textually. Language and communication are
essential to knowledge and are related to phenomenology. Given
the importance of language, we should incorporate study of it
into our inquiry and practice. And if we are committed to
hermeneutical phenomenology we must investigate how language
functions in concert with the elements of phenomenology. One
approach to language and thought is that of Mikhail Bakhtin.
Bakhtin’s work is usually linked to literary study; he does address
literary and aesthetic texts. His writings are broader, though, and
include the human sciences generally. I’m willing to admit that
the texts and communication we most frequently deal with in LIS
are not literary, but Bakhtin’s ideas relating to both literary and
other texts have something to offer us.
Bakhtin adopts the position that our conceptions of human
action must be rooted in ethical considerations. As is the case
with ethics generally, judgments based in language and communi-
cation can fall into one of two categories—judgments of value or
quality, or judgments of obligation or action. It should come as
no surprise at this point in the book that the ethical consider-
ations apply to LIS. The very nature of epistemology implies that
there are value judgments that must be made on the bases of
justification, correspondence to truth, or veritism. The nature of
professional practice implies judgments of obligation that lead to
actions based on principles of equal access to information,
balance in library collections, and mediation between information
seekers and content. Ethical considerations, in some ways, can
concretize the abstract, can make ideas real in the way we inquire
and practice in LIS. Bakhtin addresses the ethical considerations
in discussing the purpose of theory:

A theory needs to be brought into communion not with theoret-

ical constructions and conceived life, but with the actually
 Products and Possibilities 315

occurring event of moral being—with practical reason, and this

is answerably accomplished by everyone who cognizes, insofar
as he accepts answerability for every integral act of his cogni-
tion, that is, insofar as the act of cognition as my deed is
included, along with all its content, in the unity of my answera-
bility, in which and by virtue of which I actually live-perform
deeds [emphasis in original]. (Bakhtin, 1993, 12)

The acceptance of answerability or responsibility is, as might be

expected, a major criterion for ethical application of theory.
Bakhtin criticizes what he calls theoreticism, which is no more
than theory about itself, not theory of being.
The space remaining in this book is not sufficient to approach
a complete examination of Bakhtin’s thought, but some of his
most important (to LIS) observations should be mentioned here.
(A much deeper investigation of whether we can learn from
Bakhtin will have to be relegated to a subsequent piece of work.)
In one of his earliest writings, Toward a Philosophy of the Act, he
stresses that each of us participates in being. In other words,
being is concrete; J exist and you exist and we have actual
histories filled with particular events. The concreteness of being
emphasizes the ethical aspect of our lives; while we live within
ourselves, we do not exist solely for ourselves. Participation
defines the way we live our lives, so any examination of the
elements of being can only be fully realized if we accept and
comprehend the nature of participation in being.

There is no acknowledged self-equivalent and universally valid

value, for its acknowledged validity is conditioned not by its
content, taken in abstraction, but by being correlated with the
unique place of a participant. . . Theoretical cognition of an
object that exists by itself, independently of its actual position
in the once-occurrent world from the standpoint of a partici-
pant’s unique place, is perfectly justified. But it does not
constitute ultimate cognition; it constitutes only an auxiliary,
technical moment of such ultimate cognition [emphasis in
original]. (Bakhtin, 1993, 48)
316 Chapter Seven

We can relate his idea to some of the most pressing concerns of

our discipline. Information seeking by several people are distinct
moments in what Bakhtin calls being-as-event. The act of seeking
is unique to each seeker and involves individual knowledge of, for
instance, information content. Assuming that all information
seekers and all acts of seeking are alike, and understanding based
on such an assumption, can only come from the perspective of
non-participation. As such, the study becomes something less
than fully human; or it is divorced from a more complete
understanding of being.
Elsewhere Bakhtin embellishes upon the participative idea.
Participation is frequently manifest through expressions (speech,
writing) that can be formulated as a text, in the broadest sense of
the word. The text can be received. This communicative action is
not limited to literary texts, but describes perception that can
only occur through some literal act of expression. As Bakhtin tells
us,

The transcription of thinking in the human sciences is always

the transcription of a special kind of dialogue: the complex
interrelations between the text (the object of study and reflec-
tion) and the created, framing context (questioning, refuting, and
so forth) in which the scholar’s cognizing and evaluating
thought takes place. This is the meeting of two texts—of the
ready-made and the reactive text being created—and, conse-
quently, the meeting of two subjects and two authors [emphasis
in original]. (Bakhtin, 1986, 106-7)

His conception of dialogue is one of the most essential features of

his writing, and one of the most discussed. The nature of dialogue
is very closely related to the phenomenological linking of self and
other, and the connection is made through language.

As a living, socio-ideological concrete thing, as heteroglot

opinion, language, for the individual consciousness, lies on the
borderline between oneself and the other. The word in language
is half someone else’s. It becomes “one’s own” only when the
speaker populates it with his own intention, his own accent,
when he appropriates the word, adapting it to his own semantic
and expressive intention. (Bakhtin, 1994, 77)
 Products and Possibilities 317

With regard to the human sciences (and we can, of course,

include LIS) Bakhtin recognizes that knowledge is not a matter
of comprehending a physical thing. In many cases what we seek
to know something about is another subject, an “other,” who
perceives, intends, and also lives in the world. The place of other
as subject denotes a clear distinction between the human and the
natural sciences.

The exact sciences constitute a monologic form of knowledge:

the intellect contemplates a thing and expounds upon it. There
is only one subject here—cognizing (contemplating) and
speaking (expounding). In opposition to the subject there is
only a voiceless thing. Any object of knowledge (including man)
can be perceived and cognized as a thing. But a subject as such
cannot be perceived and studied as a thing, for as a subject it
cannot, while remaining a subject, become voiceless, and,
consequently, cognition of it can only be dialogic [emphasis in
original]. (Bakhtin, 1986, 161)

I realize that Bakhtin’s use of the word dialogue can create some
confusion; we may be tempted to think in terms of conversation.
He does, as might be expected, include such events as conversa-
tion within dialogue, but dialogue encompasses more than a
simple linguistic exchange. Michael Bernard-Donals explains,

Dialogue is not so much a discourse between two people (as in

Saussure’s notorious model of one interlocutor “pitching” and
another “catching” meaning), as it is a metaphor for the welter
of communication that exists in the social world generally.
Rather than involving an exchange of meanings, there occurs an
exchange of selves, since language is the medium with which
subjects conceive their world and their placement in it.
(Bernard-Donals, 1994, 34)

Dialogue, then, is both cognitive (it involves comprehension of

the language used as well as the meaning of the language event)
and ethical (it necessarily involves understanding of value and
obligation). Dialogue, in Bakhtin’s usage, doesn’t guarantee
understanding; there remains the reality that speaker and hearer
are exterior to one another. Dialogue does, however, admit to the
318 Chapter Seven

consciousness, and by extension the directedness of that con-

sciousness, of the other.
Imagine the kind of mediating action that takes place
regularly in libraries and other information agencies. The
information seeker has a purpose in asking a question, even if the
query is imposed by someone else. Does that seeker initiate a
dialogue, in the Bakhtinian sense? There isn’t a clear answer to
that question; at times an information seeker is communicating
at a deep level, but at other times the seeker is closing off some
cognitive and ethical possibilities by adopting an objectivist
approach. A person may say, “I need information on Heming-
way.” This may be an expression of, for example, an imposed
query, an assignment to find biographical data on the author. Or
it may hide a desire to read critical receptions of The Sun Also
Rises because the questioner has been touched by the characters
in the novel. If the query goes no further it amounts to the kind
of monologic expression Bakhtin associates with the natural
sciences. There is a sharing of self in such a query.
The mediator’s response to a query can likewise be examined
in dialogic or monologic terms. A librarian or information
professional may be closed off to the possibilities a query can
initiate and may objectify the question. Since two selves are
involved in mediation, there must be an openness for dialogic
communication to occur. The difference, in epistemological terms,
between monologue and dialogue is a striking one. Tzvetan
Todorov observes that the difference is “that in the natural
sciences we seek to know an object, but in the human ones, a
subject [emphasis in original]” (Todorov, 1984, 18). Pam Morris
also tries to signal the difference:

There is no existence, no meaning or thought that does not

enter into dialogue or “dialogic” relations with the other, that
does not exhibit intertextuallity in both time and _ space.
“Monologue” and “monologic” refer to any discourse which
seeks to deny the dialogic nature of existence, which refuses to
recognize its responsibility as adressee [sic], and pretends to be
the “last word.” (in Bakhtin, 1994, 247)
 Products and Possibilities 319

The concept of intertextuality is a complex one, as we’ve seen in

the brief discussion of Ross Atkinson’s work. Todorov helps us
understand it—intertextuality is not an aspect of language, but of
discourse (the purposeful use of language), and every utterance
exists within a context of other utterances (Todorov, 1984, 60-
61). How we know, and what we know, then, is inherently
constructed by both an individual understanding of language and
its meaning and a collective employment of discourse. For
knowledge to be possible at all in the human sciences, and
certainly in LIS, discourse must be dialogic. By dialogic I mean
Bakhtin’s recognition that

word is a two-sided act. It is determined equally by whose word it

is and for whom it is meant. As word, it is precisely the product
of the reciprocal relationship between speaker and listener, addresser and
addressee. Each and every word expresses the “one” in relation
to the “other”. I give myself verbal shape from another’s point
of view, ultimately, from the point of view of the community to
which I belong. A word is a bridge thrown between myself and
another. If one end of the bridge depends on me, then the
other depends on my addressee. A word is territory shared
by both addresser and addressee, by the speaker and his
interlocutor [emphasis in original]. (Bakhtin, 1994, 58)

Knowledge depends on the sharing, on the actual bridging that

can occur. And dialogue is not an unconscious act; it is inten-
tional.

Ideology

If we accept, as I think we must, that communication is

essential to a discipline and profession like LIS, then we should
also accept that communication has an ideological aspect. Let me
emphasize at the outset that “ideology” is not always negative or
pejorative, although the term “ideological” usually signals a
negative connotation. (The original meaning of the word had to
do with the study of ideas.) There are, in a simplified concep-
tion, two ways of looking at ideology. One way has nothing to do
320 Chapter Seven

with truth or falsity; its focus is on the functioning of ideas as

part of our social lives and social interaction. According to this
conception each of us is guided by a socially influenced set of
beliefs that lead to particular actions. For example, I was raised
in a particular part of the U.S., in a particular religious tradition,
with particular schooling, and in a particular familial setting. All
of those strong forces have implications for the way I look at the
world. The extent to which my thinking and acting are shaped by
those forces is the extent to which my thinking and acting are
ideological. This neutral idea of ideology is described by Terry
Eagleton as

the general material process of production of ideas, beliefs and

values in social life. Such a definition is both politically and
epistemologically neutral, and is close to the broader meaning
of the term “culture”. Ideology, or culture, would here denote
the whole complex of signifying practices and symbolic pro-
cesses in a particular society; it would allude to the way
individuals “lived” their social practices, rather than to those
practices themselves which would be the preserve of politics,
economics, kinship theory and so on. (Eagelton, 1991, 28)

Much more frequently ideology refers to the contests between

true and false thinking, between honest and deceptive expressing,
between straightforwardness and distortion, between clarity and
illusion. That conception is an oversimplification, though.
Ideology is not merely a matter of deception or illusion. It is a
way of describing reality, so, at least in some way, it must attempt
to conceive reality. The effort at prescribing, legitimating, and
spreading the thinking of one group can be based in establishing
the identity of the group. This conception has something of a
negative connotation, mainly because there is usually some
distortion or deception employed in the effort at legitimation. In
the most extreme conception of ideology, one group or class is
seeking domination over others and is seeking to extend that
domination as far as possible. One clear example of the effort at
domination based on distortion is the state of science during
Stalin’s rule in the Soviet Union. Reasonable empirical evidence
counted for little and political approval allowed Tromfin
 Products and Possibilities 321

Lysenko’s absurd dictates regarding agriculture (among other

things) to hold sway. I will submit here that a much more subtle
ideological force is that of deterministic scientism. That way of
thinking distorts both what knowledge is and how we come to
knowledge.
That last point explains why I’m spending some time on
ideology here. In the first, neutral, sense, each of us is a member
of, probably, several ideological groups—religious, political,
professional, social, etc. We maintain the memberships isofar as
our identities are formed by the fundamental elements of those
groups. In the second, negative, sense, each of us is subjected to
purposeful forces that aim at co-opting or dominating us. As we
in LIS seriously consider how we know and what we know, we
must be aware of the possibility of ideological impact. If we
follow the proposition that constitutes the heart of this book, we
can identify ideology in operation through its intentionality, its
mode of perception, and its manipulation of the relationship
between self and other. To return to communication, the
examination of ideology involves study of the uses of symbols and
signs as they are used in purposive ways (sometimes for domina-
tion, sometimes for legitimation). The ideology of deterministic
scientism focuses on a particular instrumental use of “fact” that
holds it to be objective and immutable, separate from social and
historical context. Our investigation should include the most
basic assumptions and premises of the scientistic program.
The implications of such an investigation extend to inquiry
and practice in LIS. I’ll focus on just a couple of instances where
ideological influences can affect the ways we think and act. And
in doing so, I’ll urge readers to keep in mind Eagleton’s observa-
tion that “at least some of what we call ideological discourse is
true at one level but not at another: true in its empirical content
but deceptive in its force, or true in its surface meaning but false
in its underlying assumptions” (Eagelton, 1991, 16-17). One, that
has been addressed in many ways by a number of commentators,
is technology. (By technology here I am referring to existing and
emerging information technologies, including networks, telecom-
munications, etc.) No reasonable person would dismiss techno-
logical development as completely false; there are numerous
a2 Chapter Seven

things possible in the world of LIS because of technological

development. However, claims are made on behalf of technology
that extend beyond its material capability. Advertisements state,
for example, that human differences disappear in cyberspace, or
that only the latest developments contribute anything of value to
society. There is, of course, some truth to the statements.
Technology is not separate from society, but is embedded in it.
But what force does it exert, and for what purposes? In some
utopian visions technology has the power to transform education,
work, and the ways we are informed. The power is, to a consider-
able extent, real, but the power may also be imparted by us.
Andrew Feenberg says that technology acquires meaning by three
main means: “(1) rhetorical procedures that invest [it] with
symbolic meaning, such as myths or advertising; (2) design
features that embed values in the artifact; (3) interconnections
with other technologies in a network that imposes a specific way
of life” (Feenberg, 1995, 227). As is the case with scientism,
technology has a large body of applications that are reasonable
and appropriate; the extent of that body of applications is not
universal, though. The framework of phenomenology can help us
examine critically which applications are best fitted to technology
and which are not.
Related (at least somewhat) to technology is consumption,
especially mass consumption. Robert Bocock reminds us that
“Consumption, in late twentieth-century western forms of
capitalism, may be seen . . . as a social and cultural process
involving cultural signs and symbols, not simply as an economic,
utilitarian process” (Bocock, 1993, 3). In LIS consumption is best
typified by the discourse on customer service. Elsewhere I have
examined the rhetoric of customer service and conclude that, as
an economic and a social idea, it affects our perceptions of the
nature of service and of the most fundamental conception of
information (Budd, 1997). In fact, the customer service premise
necessitates a reconception of LIS and of everything related to the
profession, including the content which we provide access to. It
is grounded in a claim that there is a diminishing of the use value
of information in favor of information’s exchange value. The
content and the service related to it are objectified, and their
 Products and Possibilities 323

meaning is defined by their value as objects. The danger is that

the services offered by libraries and information agencies,
including the access mechanisms we design, are not seen in terms
of the knowledge enhancing potential they represent. Instead, as
Slavoj Zizek points out, as a commodity it “is reduced to an
abstract entity which—irrespective of its particular nature, of its
‘use-value’—possesses ‘the same value’ as another commodity for
which it is being exchanged” (Zizek, 1989, 17).
With knowledge as our goal, we can examine claims and
statements critically. Since we are looking for truth-value, or
veritistic-value, we will be able to assess the claims on their own
terms. Any distortions or deceptions can be uncovered, and our
inquiry and practice can contribute to the combatting of ideolo-
gies that obscure the genuine purposes and contributions of LIS.

Bourdieu

Other scholars from disciplines outside LIS can suggest ways

we can inquire into matters that are important to us. Pierre
Bourdieu has examined many aspects of human action, and some
of his ideas in particular have relevance to action in LIS. Let’s pay
special attention to what he has to say about language and its
use. (The scope of his work extends beyond language, but I
believe this element of his program addresses some of the societal
aspects of LIS.) Bourdieu’s focus is not on the individual (he
doesn’t study conversation, for example), but on societal dynam-
ics (how language supports or creates relationships within the
structure of society). The societal dynamics of LIS operate in (at
least) two ways—internally as we continuously constitute and
define ourselves, and externally as we communicate with, and are
influenced by, other societal elements.
Bourdieu also addresses one particular issue that is of vital
concern to us, censorship. He deals with censorship, though, from
an internal perspective, pointing out the ways that a field
expresses itself and who controls that expression. He writes,
324 Chapter Seven

The metaphor of censorship should not mislead: it is the

structure of the field itself which governs expression by govern-
ing both access to expression and the form of expression, and
not some legal proceeding which has been specially adapted to
designate and repress the transgression of a kind of linguistic
code. This structural censorship is exercised through the
medium of the sanctions of the field . . . ; it is imposed on all
producers of symbolic goods, including the authorized spokes-
person, whose authoritative discourse is more subject to the
norms of official propriety than any other, and it condemns the
occupants of dominated positions either to silence or to
shocking outspokenness. (Bourdieu, 1991, 138)

We have to remember that the kind of censorship he speaks of

has to be exercised by someone. The library, especially the
organizational (through ALA), stance regarding the larger issue of
censorship in the external sense provides us with a venue for
examining internal censorship. The organizational statements,
such as the “Library Bill of Rights,” express a particular point of
view that not all librarians agree with, for instance when it comes
to access to some sexually explicit materials via the Internet.
According to the ethos of our profession, we should openly
discuss the grounding for dispute, and we should also examine
the extent to which an open discussion is possible. That is, we
should investigate whether there is some structural silencing of
dissenters. In some ways Bourdieu’s conception of censorship also
provides a connection between the internal and external uses of
language.
One way the power of authority manifests itself is in our
interactions with information seekers. The explicit goal we cling
to is the provision of complete and individualized service aimed
at meeting the seeker’s needs. We might ask if the language we
use in interactions helps realize that goal or if it inhibits service.
Bourdieu examines the language that typifies academic communi-
cation, the interaction between teachers and students. The setting
is different, but his observations strike a familiar chord. Teachers
are systemically sensitized to the use of a particular code (some-
thing that transcends the occasional use of jargon) that embeds
ideas in a dense rhetorical cloud. Librarians have been accused at
 Products and Possibilities 325

times ofusing jargon, but the more serious charge may be that we
have also adopted and institutionalized a code that hinders
clarity in interactions with information seekers. The lack of
understanding in such interactions, then, is not accidental; it is
formalized by the systems under which we operate. For example,
the code may permeate presentations and discussions at confer-
ences, the language of our literature, and the daily communica-
tion with information seekers. A possible outcome, as Bourdieu
says is that “language is the most effective and the most subtle of
all the techniques of distancing” (Bourdieu and Passeron, 1994,
19). If we are to overcome the distancing and misunderstanding
we must comprehend the nature and origin of the code, which
tends to be deeply rooted. As is the case with the teacher, we
can’t leave our “linguistic and cultural ‘ethnocentrism’ to discover
that the language [employed] is that of a particular social class”
(Bourdieu and Passeron, 1994, 22).
The “social space” Bourdieu keeps returning to is powerful,
but it is also substantially of our own making. Part of the
construction relies on what counts as symbolic capital, which can
be cultural or social, and which can be recognized and valued
when perceived by those who are sensitive to it. There can,
however, be a “shift from a diffuse symbolic capital, resting solely
on collective recognition, to an objectified symbolic capital [emphasis
in original]” (Bourdieu, 1998, 50). There may have been, over
time, a shift in the symbolic capital of the library from an
accepted recognition of selectivity of contents (collections) and
purpose based on edification of the reader to a received symbol
of public institution (i.e., publicly funded or publicly owned). The
symbolic shift here is, in part, a transference of control from
within the organization to what could be termed “the people.”
Once objectified, the definition of the symbolic capital is removed
from its previous holder. In the past the library has generally
maintained a “pure” purpose grounded in uplifting and educa-
tional reading. As a cultural good, the library has in many ways
drifted from the realm of the pure to that of the commercial. The
current symbolic capital of the library allows it to transform itself
from an agency in denial of the economy to one embracing it. The
danger in the transformation is a particular kind of reduction, one
326 Chapter Seven

closely related to scientism. Bourdieu calls it “economism,” which

leads to “considering the laws of functioning of one social field
among others, namely the economic field, as being valid for all
fields” (Bourdieu, 1998, 83). The ideas of customers, customer
service, and commodity applied to libraries are just such examples
of economism. A potential outcome of the reduction is, as Michel
de Certeau says, that “What is counted is what is used, not the
ways of using [emphasis in original]” (de Certeau, 1984, 35).
Purpose and being can become altered by a process that operates
in some ways sub rosa; the transformation is not necessarily
agreed to through discussion, but may be insinuated into
institutional discourse.
De Certeau addresses some of the challenges that Bourdieu
and others grapple with, including the place of ethics in praxis.
He contrasts the ethical responsibility of practitioners with what
he calls dogmatism. Dogmatism sets itself up as being nomologi-
cal by defining the reality it purports to represent. Ethics, on the
other hand, “is articulated through effective operations, and it
defines a distance between what is and what ought to be. This
distance designates a space where we have something to do” (de
Certeau, 1986, 199). The ethical responsibility can help us
examine, among other things, the role of technology in LIS. De
Certeau provides provides some warnings regarding a departure
from ethical responsibility. Media can have the effect of obscur-
ing the act of consumption, can solidify the mistaken idea that
consumption is passive. The “technocracy of the media” rein-
forces the assumption of passivity; “the ‘informing’ technicians
have thus been changed, through the systematization of enter-
prises, into bureaucrats cooped up in their specialties and
increasingly ignorant of users” (de Certeau, 1984, 167).
Bourdieu’s thought is not without its problems. He tends to
be less than willing to admit to normative criteria for knowledge,
for example. Also, he is not entirely consistent in his use of the
term “field.” The definition I’ve selected here includes the
complexity of societal and cultural influences, but at times “field”
designates a much more autonomous construction, separate from
exterior forces. Even with such limitations, Bourdieu can contrib-
ute to the framework I’m arguing for.
 Products and Possibilities By

Knowledge and Ethics

In a profession such as ours no one would deny that we all
should have what is called techne, or “knowing that.” This is the
kind of practical knowledge that is the foundation of every action
we take. This book has been an argument that, as essential as
techne is, practical knowledge is grounded in episteme, or “knowing
that.” It is now time to introduce a third kind of knowledge,
which is referred to as phronesis, or “ethical knowledge.” The
organization of information, the design of systems, and the
provision of services that LIS is based on undeniably has an
ethical component. Ethics has been a concern of our professional
associations for many years. Phronesis is the knowledge on which
we base our ethical arguments and ethical praxis. It is necessary
for us to ask of ourselves (individually and collectively), what
should I/we do, and how should I/we act? A key element of the
questions is “should,” which implies two things that we must
recognize: (1) there is an underlying responsibility that we accept
as part of praxis, and (2) there is some normative aspect of
analysis that can guide our answers to these questions (see, for
example, Cullity and Gaut, 1997). In some ways, most notably
the recent attention within the American Library Association to
the profession’s core values, LIS has been cognizant of the ethics
of praxis. There is sound philosophical grounding for such
attention to values (even if the ALA process and product may be
flawed), and Hans Jonas expresses the grounding clearly:

It is therefore necessary, where ethics and obligation are

concerned, to venture into the theory of values [which is
technically known as axiology], or rather the theory of value as
such. Only from the objectivity of value could an objective
“ought-to-be” in itself be derived, and hence for us a binding
obligation [emphasis in original] to the guarding of being, that is,
a responsibility toward it. (Jonas, 1984, 50)

To focus on just one element of LIS to illustrate the impor-

tance of ethical knowledge, we can turn to technology. Our
praxis-based relationship with technology is not merely technical;
that is, we are not simply concerned with what information
328 Chapter Seven

technology is capable of doing. We are concerned with how the

technology is used, how it may be transformative, how it may
privilege some people over others, the economics of technology,
the politics of technology, and other factors. All of these concerns
are ethical. They affect the decisions we make in our organiza-
tions; they have an impact on the services we design for our
communities. As Jonas says, “technology, apart from its objective
works, assumes ethical significance by the central place it now
occupies in human purpose”; this carries a serious implication: “If
the realm of making has invaded the space of essential action,
then morality must invade the realm of making, from which it has
formerly stayed aloof, and must do so in the form of public
policy” (Jonas, 1984, 9). The criteria for knowledge that have
been presented here, and especially phenomenology as a path to
knowledge, provide us with ways to inform praxis and to ensure
that praxis is not only efficient in the technical sense, but also
effective in the ethical sense.

Epilogue
The future of library and information science is bright. The
contributions of our field have been monumental. While there
may be some who question whether the contributions will
continue, there is no foundation for the kinds of doubts based on
technological, or other, myths. Reasons for optimism include the
archival functions of libraries, the mechanisms for access that
have been designed, and the commitment to knowledge demon-
strated by the profession. If there is any grounding for doubting
the future of LIS, and particularly of librarianship, it would be
any betrayal of the commitment to knowledge. As we've seen,
there are a number of intellectual forces pulling and tugging at us.
Some of those forces are attractive and are shared by a number of
other disciplines. They are, however, epistemologically weak siren
calls, even if they are ideologically strong.
The genealogy of thought in the social sciences and LIS has
wound with some fits and starts from the seventeenth century to
the present, but the tie that has bound the ideas that have been
 Products and Possibilities 329

inflluential has been the presumption that everything we can

study is physical and can be examined objectively. The
presumption of objectivism affects praxis as well as inquiry. The
erroneous way of thinking that can be identified as scientism
leads to a program of practice based on the false premise that the
process of information seeking is objectively knowable and
predictable. The shortcomings of the program should be sufficient
for us to look elsewhere for epistemological foundations. What
I’ve tried to offer here is a consistent idea of knowledge—what it
is, how we come to knowledge, and what role communication
plays in knowledge growth. I’ve tried to present a framework
within which we can seek knowledge. The framework of herme-
neutical phenomenology combines a kind of realism with
understanding of the dynamics of human action and perception.
It confounds scientistic thinking and praxis. It resists the
repression that scientism can exert by emphasizing the
intersubjectivity of human action. The intersubjectivity pervades
thought (through, for instance, research by reminding us that
researchers are part of the structure they study) and praxis (by
stressing the phenomenological elements of communication,
including the social implications of communicative action).
As does every author, I hope this book will be read critically
and that it will contribute to the discourse on the purpose and
future of LIS. And I hope this will open us up to the possibilities
that have been, and are being, explored in other disciplines. An
open mind can help us realize the bright future that’s possible for
us.
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pean ae (as ecanttd aeganctretas ag
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 Index

Adair, Douglas, 55 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 266, 283, 289,

adaptationism, 97-98 313-19
Adorno, Theodor, 26, 83 Baldus, Bernd, 92-93
Alston, William P., 212-13 Barnes, Barry, 126
Altman, Ellen, 195 Bauer, Henry H., 110
American Revolution, 57 Bechtel, William, 89
Andaleeb, Syed Saad, 198-99 Becker, Carl, 41
Anderson, Elizabeth, 235-36 Becker, Gary S., 176-78, 187
Andreski, Stanislav, 78 behaviorism, 158-63
Appleby, Joyce, 99-100, 149, being and phenomenology, 252-
154-55 55
argumentation, 233 Belensky, Mary Field, 236
Armstrong, David M., 112-13, Belkin, Nicholas J., 295
151-52 Benediktsson, Daniel, 285-86
Atkinson, Ross, 306-08, 319 Bennett, George E., 284-85
Audi, Robert, 210-11, 218 Berkeley, George, 42-45
myer, As J., 09, 91 Bernal, J. D., 33, 41-42
Bernard-Donals, Michael F., 317
Bacon, Francis, 24-31, 34, 36, Bernstein, Richard J., 142, 274-
38, 42, 48, 55, 76-77, 79
93, 159 Bertman, Martin, 36
Baconianism, 25, 57-58, 67, 71, Betti, Emilio, 273-75, 277-78
93, O74 155 Bhaskar, Roy, 118

333
354 Index

bibliometrics, 199-200, 251 Cohen, I. B., 25-26

Bloor, David, 126, 130 coherentism and knowledge,
Bocock, Robert, 322 211-14
Bohman, James, 177-79, 240 Cole, Stephen, 136
Bonetkoe, Ron, 276 commodification, 189-90, 222-
BonJour, Laurence, 120, 212 ey
Bourdieu, Pierre, 323-26 communication. See information
Boyce, Bert R., 145 and communication
Boyd, Richard N., 124 Comte, August, 64-71, 77, 80-
Boyle, Robert, 43 81, 96, 101-02, 110, 200
Brier, Soren, 312-13 Condorcet, marquis de, 58-61,
Briskman, Larry, 162 64-65, 69
Brooks, Terrence A., 115 constructivism, 128-31, 133,
Bryant, Christopher G. A., 82, 1355,227-28, 230-313 mi
103-04 education, 184-86
Buckland, Michael, 200, 222 consumerism, 322-23
Budd, John M., 192, 246, 255, Copernicus, Nicholas, 28
KES, MI, GRY Corlett, J). Angelo, 227
Burke, Edmund, 59-60 Cornelius, lan, 244-45, 286-87,
Burt, Cyril, 167-68 312
Butler, Pierce, 3, 6 corpuscular theory, 43-44
cosmology, 22
capitalism, 53 Cranston, Maurice, 30
Carnap, Rudolf, 87-88 criteria for knowledge, 8, 206-11
Cassirer, Ernst, 54-55 Crosland, Maurice, 60
causation, 18, 23, 27, 44, Culler, Jonathan, 84
48-50, 53 customer and LIS, 192-93, 322-
censorship, 324 23
Chabris, Christopher, 169-70
Chalmers, A. F., 125, 141, 146 Dancy, Jonathan, 205-07, 210
Childers, Thomas A., 239 Danford, John W., 47-48
Churchland, Patricia Smith, Daniels, Michael, 164-65
218 Darwin, Charles, 78-79
Churchland, Paul M., 217-18 Dasein (Heidegger), 254
Clarke, Desmond, 32-33 Davidson, Donald, 113, 120,
classification of information, 124, 211-12
309-11 Davis, Charles H., 201, 203-04
Clinchy, Blythe McVicker, 236 de Certeau, Michel, 326
Cleverdon, Cyril W., 293-94 de Gramont, Patrick, 302-03
Coffman, Steve, 196-97 de Saussure, Ferdinand, 84-85
cognitive viewpoint in deduction, 110-11
information science, 295-96 Dervin, Brenda, 300-303
 Index 355

Descartes, René, 24, 31-35, 37- feminism and knowledge, 138-

38, 40, 49, 79, 151, 262 39, 235-38
determinism, 15-22, 51, 76, 78- Feyerabend, Paul, 133-34, 136
79, 81-83, 160, 179-84, 206 Fodor, Jerry, 218-19
deterministic scientism. See Fogel, Robert William, 179-82
scientism folk psychology, 216-17
Devlin, Bernie, 164-65 Force, James E., 50
Dewey, John, 3 Foucault, Michel, 9-12, 149,
Di Censo, James J., 277 171, 257-58
dialogic communication, 314-19 foundationalism and knowledge,
Dick, Archie L., 14-15, 245-46 209-10, 214
Dilthey, Wilhelm, 272 French Revolution, 57-59, 63,
discursive practice, 266-67, 282- 105
83 Friedman, Michael, 52-53
Donaldson, Lex, 182-84 Frohmann, Bernd, 296
Dreyfus, Hubert, 10 Fuller, Steve, 116, 226-27
dualism, 32, 99, 151
Dunn, John, 40 Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 273-74,
Durbin, Paul T., 23 276-81
Durkheim, Emile, 79-84, 104 Galgan, Gerald J., 24-25
Gardner, Howard, 165
Eagelton, Terry, 320-21 Gassendi, Peter, 43
Eco, Umberto, 85, 270 Gatten, Jeffrey N., 136
economics, 99, 176-78; and Gay, Peter, 55
information, 187-91 genealogy, 9-13; defined, 9-10
Egan, Margaret, 222-23 Getz, Malcolm, 191-92
eliminative materialism, 217-19 Gey, Frederic, 200
Ellis, David, 297-98 Giddens, Anthony, 82
empiricism, 15, 32-34, 43-45, Giere, Ronald N., 117, 125, 133,
HS O26 144
Engerman, Stanley, 179-82 Goldberger, Nancy Rule, 236
Enlightenment, 4, 28-29, 32-33, Goldhor, Herbert, 115
40, 42, 54-57, 60, 154, 170- Goldman, Alvin I., 129-30, 204,
71 OF 0-13 72219 228-359237,
essence and phenomenology, 304
252, 255-58 Goodman, Nelson, 230
ethics, 327-28 Gould, Stephen J., 12, 169
evaluation of services, 193-96 Graduate Library School
experience, 37-38, 46 (Chicago), 104-05
Gramsci, Antonio, 76
Fay, Brian, 239, 241 Great Instauration, 25
Feenberg, Andrew, 322 Green, Donald P., 178
356 Index

Greiner, Joy, 189 Hjorland, Birger, 244, 305, 311-

Grice, Paul, 301 12
Gross, Alan G., 129 Hobbes, Thomas, 35-37
Gross, Melissa, 308-09 Hofstadter, Richard, 79
Gross, Paul R., 237-38 Horkheimer, Max, 26
Guerlac, Henry, 42 Houser, Lloyd, 115, 119
Howarth, Jane, 245, 260-61
Haack, Susan, 16, 145-46, 212, Hoyningen-Huhne, Paul, 135
214 humanism, 27
Habermas, Jurgen, 106, 109, Hume, David, 45-51
114, 281, 304-05 Hunt, Lynn, 99-100, 149, 154-
Hacking, Ian, 115-16, 129 55
Haines, Valerie A., 78 Husserl, Edmund, 248, 250,
Hammond, Michael, 245, 260- 252-53, 255-57, 262-63,
61 271, 285, 288, 291
Handlin, Oscar, 180-81
Hanfling, Oswald, 88 ideology, 76, 232, 319-22
Harding, Sandra, 139, 237-38 Iggers, Georg, 61
Harré, Rom, 126-27 imposed query (information
Harris, Michael, 14, 105, 109- seeking), 308-09
10, 186 incommensurability, 134-37, 184
Hawkes, David, 192 indeterminism, 21, 240
Hawkesworth, Mary E., 138 induction, 25-26, 28, 50, 71-72,
Hawking, Stephen, 18 159
Hawkins, Richard, 71 information and communication,
Hayek, F. A., 15, 58-59, 66, 69 300-05
Hegel, G. W. F., 76-77, 247 information retrieval, 124, 295
Heidegger, Martin, 246, 254, information seeking, 204, 264,
262, 291 300-05
Heineman, Martha Brunswick, instrumentalism, 159-60, 184
101-02 intelligence, measurement, 1 63-
Hempel, Carl G., 91, 153-56 70
hermenutical phenomenology intentionality and
246-47, 291, 329 phenomenology, 252, 261,
hermeneutics, 6, 77, 252, 263, 301-02
269-73; and LIS, 284-87 interpretation. See hermenutics
Hernon, Peter, 2-3, 195 intuition and phenomenology,
Herrnstein, Richard J., 163-70 285-86
Hirsch, E. D., Jr., 275-76, 281
historicism, 62-63, 79, 153-54 Jacob, Margaret, 99-100, 149,
history, 99-100, 153-56, 179-82, 154-55
260 Jacobs, Struan, 72
 Index 357

James, William, 3 Lenski, Gerhard, 92

Jardine, Lisa, 25, 27, 54 Leplin, Jarrett, 119
Jonas, Hans, 327-28 Lesk, M. E., 292-93
Journal des scavans, 30 Levinas, Emmanuel, 285-86
justification, 10, 122-24, 204- Levitt, Norman, 237-38
08, 213-16, 220 Lewontin, R. C., 173, 175
Library Bill of Rights (ALA),
Kafatos, Menas, 116-17 324
Kamin, Leon, 168, 173, 175 lifeworld and phenomenology,
Kanekar, Suresh, 159, 162 293, 277,304
Kant, Immanuel, 51-53, 120, Little, Daniel, 75
it Livingston, Paisley, 245
Kaplan, Abraham, 114-15 Llobera, Josep, 46
Keat, Russell, 245, 260-61 Locke, John, 38-44, 55
Keller, Evelyn Fox, 139-40 logical positivism, 45, 85-93,
Kincaid, Harold, 113 102-06, 209-10
King, Joyce E., 169 logos, 24
Kingma, Bruce R., 143, 187- Longino, Helen, 140-41, 143
91 Lorenz, Edward, 19
Kitcher, Philip, 121-22, 228 Lukacs, Georg, 189
Knorr-Cetina, Karen, 128 Lumsden, Charles J., 108
Kockelmans, Joseph J., 253 Luntley, Michael, 143
Kornblith, Hilary, 228 Lynn, Richard, 168
Koyré, Alexander, 39 Lyon, Peyton V., 62
Kraft, Donald H., 145 Lyotard, Jean-Francois, 195, 197
Krausz, Michael, 126-27
Kraynak, Robert P., 28-29, 36 Mach, Ernst, 117, 159
Kaihlewind, Georg, 24 Machlup, Fritz, 152, 224
Kuhlthau, Carol C., 303-05 MacIntyre, Alisdair, 154-55
Kuhn, Thomas S., 98, 131-37 Macleod, R. B., 40
Kvanvig, Jonathan L., 204 Malone, Michael E., 135
management, LIS, 191-92
Lacey, Hugh, 161-62 Maritain, Jacques, 204, 208
Lakatos, Imre, 136-37 Marx, Karl, 74-76
language and knowledge, 84-91, mass media and social
120-21, 240, 266-67, 282- epistemology, 233-34
84, 323-24 Masterman, Margaret, 132
Laplace, Marquis de, 17-18, 20 materialism, 112-14, 151-52,
Latour, Bruno, 128 Fal
Laudan, Larry, 66-67, 131, 142 Mazlish, Bruce, 25, 32
Lehmann, Jennifer, 81 McCarthy, E. Doyle, 136
Lehrer, Keith, 204-09, 211, 214 McCloskey, Donald N., 99
358 Index

McClure, Charles R., 194-96 Owens, Joseph, 204

McCombs, Gillian M., 189-91
McMiullin, Ernan, 123-24 paradigm, 132-33, 136
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, 258- Palmer, Richard E., 272, 274,
61, 267-68 276, 280
Merton, Robert K., 157 Park, Taemin Kim, 214-16
methodological idealism, 1 10- Peirce, Charles Sanders, 3, 85
ib perception and phenomenology,
Metoyer-Duran, Cheryl, 2-3 252, 258-61
Metz, Paul, 136 phenomenalism, 78, 108-09,
Meyer, Susan Sauve, 24 111
Mickunas, Algis, 251, 264 phenomenology, 5-6, 246-69,
Miksa, Francis L., 79, 309-11 282-83, 316-19
Mill, John Stuart, 70-74, 77 Phillips, D. C., 96
Miller, Richard W., 101, 107 Philosophical Transactions of the
modernisn, 34, 36 Royal Society of London, 30
Mohanty, J. N., 250, 253 phronesis, 279-81, 327
Morris, Pam, 318 physicalism, 207-08, 216-18,
Moser, Paul K., 112 292E20F
Murray, Charles, 163-70 Pickering, Andrew, 128, 146
Munz, Peter, 220 Pickering, Mary, 64-65, 69
Piele, Colin, 17, 21-2
Nadeau, Robert, 115-16 polysemy, 285
Natanson, Maurice, 257 Popper, Karl R., 20-21, 26-27,
naturalism, 16 89-91, 110-11, 121, 125-
INelmsS D225 26, 141, 153-54, 209-10,
Nelson, Lynn Hankinson, 236- 243
37 Porter, Theodore, 172-73
Neurath, Otto, 88 positivism, 4, 14-15, 25, 32, 59-
Newton, Isaac, 41-42, 50, 55, 62, 66-70, 80-83, 96-106;
CVE Ma Villy WSS in LIS, 104-06, 109-10
Newton-Smith, W. H., 134 Prado, C. G., 221
nomological, 70, 111 pragmatism, 3, 5, 219-21
Norris, Christopher, 118-19 praxis and LIS, 3, 5, 279-81,
Novick, Peter, 154, 181 286-87
Nowak, Leszek, 75 precision and information
Nowakowa, Izabella, 75 retrieval, 294
Prigogine, Ilya, 18-19
objectivism, 30-31, 82, 115, 117, progress, 1-2, 42, 156-58
155-56, 267, 294 psychologism, 271, 273
operations research in LIS, 145 public libraries as businesses,
organizational theory, 182-84 196-97
 Index 359

Putnam, Hilary, 122-23 Schamber, Linda, 294

Scharff, Robert C., 73
Quine, W. V. O., 16, 90, 210 Scheler, Max, 250
Scheman, Naomi, 235
Rabinow, Paul, 10 Schleiermacher, Friedrich, 270-
race, measurement, 163-70 d2
Radford, Gary P., 14, 257-58 Schmitt, Frederick F., 207, 213-
rational choice, 59, 171-79 14
rationalism, 22, 32, 59, 116-17, Schneider, Susan M., 98-99
190, 238-39 Schrader, Alvin, 115, 119
realism, 5, 18, 114-22, 144-47, Schutz, Alfred, 264-65, 302
207, 263-64 Schwartz, Barry, 161-62
reason, 52-53; in LIS, 123-25 scientism, 4, 15-16, 22-23, 31,
recall in information retrieval, 34-36, 50-51, 54, 69-70, 74,
294 78-79, 91, 95-97, 100-14,
reductionism, 34, 44, 73, 107- 160, 209, 239, 267, 321,
08, 111, 160, 207, 216-17 326; in LIS, 186-201
Reedy, W. Jay, 60-61 Scriven, Michael, 157
relativism, 125-31, 135, 142, Searle, John, 117, 144-45, 230,
144, 230, 268, 273 299-300
relevance in information self and other in phenomenology,
retrieval, 292-300 2525259820)
reliabilism, 213, 229-35 semiotics, 85
Renaissance, 28-29, 32, 54-55 sensory perception, 35-36, 46-
Restoration (England), 28 47, 49, 256
Ricoeur, Paul, 266, 268-69, 278, Shapin, Steven, 126, 128
281-84, 286 Shapiro, Ian, 178
Roberts, Clayton, 182 Shelley, Mary, 62
Roeder, Kathryn, 164-65 Shera, Jesse H., 5, 222-25, 228-
Rose, Steven, 173, 175 30
Rosenberg, Alexander, 156, 178 Simmonds, Patience L., 198-99
Rorty, Richard, 3, 5, 219-21 Simon, Walter M., 63, 73
Rouse, joseph, 139,141, 143, Skinner, B. F., 158-63, 266
145 Slezak, Peter, 130
Royal Society of London, 30 Smith, David, 99
Rushton, Phillippe, 168-69 Smith, Laurence D., 160
Snider, Alvin, 28-30
Saint-Simon, Henri de, 61-65, social constructivism. See
68, 74, 104 constructivism
Salton, G., 292-93 social Darwinism, 78-79, 146
Sayer, Andrew, 110, 157, 240-42 social epistemology, 5, 222-35,
Schaffer, Simon, 128 268
360 Index

sociobiology, 108 veritism, 233-35

sociology, 77-78, 80-82, 157 Vienna Circle, 86-91, 96, 102,
sociology of knowledge, 130 104
Sorrel, Tom, 15, 23, 31, 37 Visker, Rudi, 10
Spencer, Herbert, 77-79 von Glasersfeld, Ernst, 184-86
Sperber, Dan, 298-99 von Wright, Georg Henryk, 100-
Spiegelberg, Herbert, 248-49, Ol
289
Staats, Arthur, 97-98 Wang, Peiling, 296-97
Stengers, Isabelle, 18-19 Wartenberg, Thomas E., 53-54
Stewart, David, 251, 264 Weber, Max, 55, 108-09, 240
Stich, Stephen P., 216-17 Weil, Beth, 194-96
Su, Louise, 200-01 Weingand, Darlene, 192-93
White, Marilyn, 296-97
Tarule, Jill Mattick, 236 Wilk, Richard, 247
Taylor, Charles, 287 Williams, Robert V., 198
technology, 8-9, 21 Wilson, Deirdre, 298-99
teleology, 23, 35 Wilson, Edward O., 170-75
testimony in social epistemology, Wilson, Patrick, 224-25
232 Winch, Peter, 240
theory and LIS, 244-45, 311-13 Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 85, 209
Tibbetts, Paul, 102-03 Woolgar, Steve, 128-29
Todorov, Tzvetan, 173, 318
Toulmin, Stephen, 28, 54, 134 Zabeeh, Farhang, 46
Trigg, Roger, 107-08, 110, 144 Ziegelmeyer, Edmund H., 69
truth, 46, 122-24, 231 Ziman, John, 118
Tuck, Richard, 37 Zimmerman, Jerome H., 17, 19-
Tversky, Amos, 179 20
Zizek, Slavoj, 323
uncertainty principle, 18
understanding, 47-48, 253, 270,
272
unity of science, 88-89, 109-10,
112, 150-55
Urbach, Peter, 26, 28
Urmson, J. O., 43-44

value neutrality, 105, 155

van Frassen, Bas, 123
Van House, Nancy, 186-87, 194-
96
verification, 88
 About the Author

John M. Budd is an associate professor with the School of

Information Science and Learning Technologies at the University
of Missouri-Columbia. He earned his Ph.D. in library science
from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in 1985.
Prior to joining the faculty of the University of Missouri, he
taught at Louisiana State University and the University of
Arizona. He also worked for several years at Southeastern
Louisiana University.
He is the author of other books, including The Academic
Library: Its Context, Its Purpose, and Its Operation, published by
Libraries Unlimited, and The Library and Its Users: The
Communication Process, published by Greenwood Press. He has also
written several dozen journal articles. Most recently, he has been
examining the intellectual and theoretical foundations of library
and information science. This book is a product of that
investigation.
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 LIBRARY SCIENCE

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KNOWLEDGE an/ KNOWING

vs LIBRARY«»/ INFORMATION
SCIENCE
ee Shilosophical Framewors

JOHN M. BUDD

he profession of library and information science is, of necessity,

concerned with day-to-day functions and operations. What has
been missing over the years has been careful attention to the
conceptual grounding for those functions and operations. Such
actions as organizing data and designing information systems require
thought devoted to cognition, semantics, and knowledge. The foundation
of these actions tends to be a heritage of thought that has influenced
much of the work in the sciences and social sciences for the past few
centuries.

Knowledge and Knowing in Library and Information Science traces that

heritage from the beginnings of modern science in the seventeenth
century until today. Budd proposes a new foundation to guide thought
and action in library and information science based on hermeneutical
phenomenology—a path to knowledge grounded in the recognition that
humans interpret language and signs through attention to being, the
essence of our existence, the complexity of perception, the relationship
_ of self to other, and the intentionality of human action.

John M. Budd is an associate professor in the School of Information

Science and Learning Technologies at the University of Missouri-Columbia.
He holds a Ph.D. in library science from the University of North Carolina
and has taught at Louisiana State University and the University of Arizona.
He has authored several books and many journal articles.

For orders and information please contact the publisher

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