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oFor three days in June of 1996, I sat with Jerome Bruner in his
study in his Greenwich Village loft, recording an interview at
the request of the new editors of Ethos, Tom Csordas and Janis
Jenkins. The occasion was the inauguration of a new forum in
Ethos: interviews with figures who are influential in contem-
porary psychological anthropology. I had spent the preceding two months
swimming in the vast and deep waters of Bruner's work, putting together
a series of anthropologist's questions. Our discussions ranged over a whole
continent of issues-biographical, methodological, historical, and, of
course, conceptual. To talk with a man who has spent six decades thinking,
studying, and writing about mind-often in the company of some of the
most distinguished thinkers of the 20th century-is not likely to turn into
your garden variety chat. It wasn't. Jerry Bruner is a virtuoso conversa-
tionalist. Watching him field a tough question is like watching Yo Yo Ma
negotiate a difficult passage of a Bach Cello Suite. Bruner is a scientist/hu-
manist whose work has always developed through an unbroken chain of
conversation, generations long, which includes talks with students,
friends, opponents, family, and colleagues from all over the world. He
himself attributes his long and productive career to his knack for "keeping
the conversation going."
In his thirty years at Harvard, his decade as Watts Professor at
Oxford, and his New York years at The New School for Social Research
and more recently at the Law School at NYU, Jerry Bruner has tacked
back and forth among most of the major subfields of his discipline. His
contributions have paved the way for significant advances in the fields of
physiological psychology, perception, thinking, child development, lan-
guage and symbolic processes, play, education, psychology and law,
cultural models, and narrative models of self. The selected bibliography
at the end of this interview attests convincingly to the fact that there is
THE OFACAREER
SHAPE
BS: In your autobiography, In Search of Mind, you write, "I'm better
at thinking up new things than following old ones through to implemen-
tation." I find that an interesting insight into how you think about your
own career. Your first publication was way back in 1939, and for almost
sixty years Jerome Bruner has continued to think up all sorts of new
things. Since you naturally tend to think about lives developmentally, how
do you conceive of the flow and shape of your own extraordinary career?
Does it divide into stages, or chunks? Or do you think of it as continuous,
all of a piece?
JB: Well, it doesn't seem particularly extraordinary. I was always
following the same set of voices, and I guess the voices had to do with the
question of how you organize experience. How do you know? Now, why
I became interested in that, God only knows. It may have had to do with
the fact that I was born blind and had to construct a "visual" world, and
then, when my sight was restored at two, I had to reconcile that "visual"
world with the one you build out of real visual input. Who knows?
BS: You don't have any conscious memory of having been blind?
JB: I have none whatever, certainly no eureka! in which, postopera-
tively, I suddenly remember being in the light when the anesthetic wore
off. I do remember some years later coming out of the anesthetic after a
tonsil operation when the world seemed as if it were somehow flowing
with light. It may have been a memory recovery of coming out of
anesthetic at the time of my cataract operation, but I don't know.
Interesting, though, that for me "space in the light" and "space in the
dark" don't seem to differ that much. Friends sometimes tease me about
being so good at finding my way around in the dark. Maybe I have a
symbolic system unless that were there. You can see perfectly well where
I got the original idea. It's a very Peircean idea.1 You go from index to icon
to symbol as if somehow there was nothing there before. That was Peirce's
trying to abstract the problem a little too much. For in fact they're all
there, and they gradually differentiate and get arrested. Johnny von
Neuman once said to me that human intelligence is an extraordinarily
interesting kind of thing, used mostly for correcting errors. That is to say,
we have a primitive way of making a first order of approximations of how
to understand something, and when we get into pickles with them, we use
our intelligence to get out. We start out with primitive intuitions and,
thank God, we are superb at correcting our mistakes. We need alternate
ways of looking at things so that we can shift from one to the other to
correct. And he said, "I suppose that's what you get for having so much
brain."
BS: Over the last sixty years, have you ever taken any strong position
that you've eventually repudiated? A position where you've thought you
had been dead wrong?
JB: Repudiation isn't exactly the word I want. But certainly I've had
the sense that a concept or approach wasn't doing for me what I wanted.
For example, the idea of "stages" wasn't doing what I wanted. It wasn't
dealing with the complexity of the issues that I wanted to deal with. So I
give it up provisionally and put something in its place. There's no point
in repudiating a concept as if somehow it had betrayed you about the
world. Just try another way of doing it.
BS: You have, without interruption, remained extraordinarily pro-
ductive, to the point that as I was trying to catch up with some of your
older work, you would be sending me new papers before I could make a
dent in the old ones. How do you account for your virtually continuous
and prolific output over all these years? I don't think it's normal for people
to be continuously productive in this way over such a long period of time.
JB: How would I account for that?
BS: Maybe it's like asking how you breathe?
JB: How I breathe, or why I wear a ten-and-a-half shoe. But I suppose
there are some curious things that come to mind as I turn your question
over in my head. One of them may be that there isn't all that much
difference between my work and my play. It's all a form of playing. It's a
family joke, my blurring of work and play. My daughter's great joke is that
I love sailing because it poses familiar problems of interpreting position,
current, wind, and such. But it's play too. I taught myself celestial
navigation, which is anachronistic because people don't use celestial
navigation. They use satellites. But never mind. Besides, play and work
are not so different. My gang with whom I used to race in the Bermuda
Race had decided that one of the things we should do if we all got rich was
to give a special prize for the boat in the Race that had the best conver-
sation on board on the way from Newport to Bermuda. Now I'm going to
say something utterly banal but serious. If you take ideas seriously, you
assume that they relate to your being and your life as well as to others.
Ideas and theories aren't isolated in your own head. Nor isolated from
other activity, like play. Those kinds of formalized play that are separated
from life always risk sharpening the distinction between work and play
whereas it isn't really a distinction. I work a lot, but it's really play-work
or work-play.
BS: A lot of people can recognize the fun in talking, but they think of
it as just conversation. You seem to have the ability to translate that same
conversational energy into writing, which for many people is a chore. It
sounds as if writing has the same playful character as conversation.
JB: It's a continuation; but it's more than a continuation. Because the
fact of the matter is that the flow of ideas in life, particularly in conver-
sation, is so fast, that you want somehow to get alone so that you can
really work the thing out. Frequently you take positions. You say, "How
the hell did I come up with that? Why did I say that?" I'm one of those
people who goes through many, many drafts. I really do believe David
Olson's point in that new book of his, The World On Paper.2 David says
that the difference between writing and speaking is that in writing what
you do is to "go meta" on the speaking, on the conversational thing, to
try to find a way of saying it to which you can adhere and of which you
have a correctable record. And that's the way it is for me. I love the process
of finding out what I really think. In some funny kind of way, how do I
know what I think until I read what I've said?
BS: So conversation lets you bounce your ideas off other people's
ideas. And writing is a kind of conversation with yourself?
JB: Yes, it's with myself. But I also love giving drafts to [my wife] Carol
[Feldman] who says things like, "That's great!" or "How can you say that
there and then come to the particular here? You've left out three steps
and it sounds perfectly obscure to me." And I do the same for her. So it
gets to be that there is kind of an intermediate step-you and your close
friends. And I've always had close friends that are there when I'm writing,
too. For years I had an almost mythological older brother-the great
Robert Oppenheimer-who was a fantastically complicated human being.
We spent a lot of time talking not only at the Institute [for Advanced
Study] but before that. I knew him in the days when he used to come in
from Los Alamos. I used to stay with Ruth and Richard Tolman in their
house in Washington, and he would stay there too. We got to be good
friends and stayed good friends over the years. And whenever I tried out
something having to do with the nature of knowing, which was a subject
that absolutely fascinated him, I'd ask myself "what would Robert say
about this or that?" I've done the same with a few other people. David
Olson is another case in point of somebody who's close by my desk. And
of course Carol. George Miller is another one. George is particularly
valuable because we know that I know that he knows that I know that we
disagree very deeply. But if I can make my point to him and he can say,
"I understand what you are saying but I disagree," then that's okay. The
main thing is, does he know what I'm trying to say even if he disagrees.
So these kinds of friends have made writing much easier.
BS: You seem to have a deep attraction to what you like to think of
as the "subjunctive mode" of mind, which makes it easier to let go of your
ideas and get them into print. I suppose that makes writing a lot easier. I
know people who have this book that they're unable to publish because
it's not perfect. They've been writing it for years and if you have a view
that you're either right and or you're wrong, you get afraid that you might
not quite have it yet. You're afraid to let go of what you're doing. But where
you view the mind as open as you do, then you're really not afraid to let
go of what you're doing because it's really all part of the process of learning
and meaning-making, even your mistakes.
JB: I know, it's part of the process, and somebody's going to respond
to what you write and tell you you're a damn fool. And you're going to tell
him why he's a damn fool. You know I never really thought about it so
much, but I think that this kind of view makes writing considerably less
threatening. That's one of the reasons why I love the essay. Because the
essay is a try. There was a great exchange between George Miller and Phil
Johnson-Laird when they were finishing their book on perception and
language. They had gone through revision after revision after revision and
finally George said to Phil, "Well, enough. We've got to decide now
whether we're going for perfection or Thursday." So they decided it was
Thursday, to the great relief of the Harvard University Press. Go back for
a second to that question of why one goes on being productive. Why do
we go on having conversations? Why do we go on wanting to talk to
ourselves? And why do we go on wanting to chase down volumes in the
library to find out what other people actually have said in the past? Did
they really say that? What do they really mean? Or why do they spend
all those hours observing kids or analyzing text or doing quirky little
experiments? To us, it's what life's all about. Somebody will say, "Oh.
You're those goddamned intellectuals." But I don't think that all this is
really different from being any other kind of person. Everybody does that
in some measure. Life consists, after all, in construing and reconstruing
things from the horizontal, syntagmatic point of view, then from the
vertical, paradigmatic perspective. So what's new about intellectuals?
BS: Have you ever had a point in your career when you've been
blocked in your writing?
NO"BRUNRIA"
BS: Much of your impact on psychology has been through your many
illustrious students. How do you view your role and your impact as a
teacher?
JB: Let me start with an odd kind of anecdote about this business of
passing on knowledge. I had a nightmare when I was a kid that I had sort
of forgotten but that came up in the course of analysis. It's full of hostility,
my analyst said. Maybe it was, maybe not. But it went like this. I woke
one morning and discovered that everybody in the whole world had
disappeared. I was the only one left. And there was a new humanity put
on earth and I had to pass onto them everything we knew. Of course, my
analyst immediately said, "What did you do? You killed off the world."
But to me the terror of the thing was not that I had killed off the world or
that they had died, but how in God's name would I pass everything on.
And I want to tell you, you know how neurotic one can be! I thought that
what I needed was contained in those beat up volumes over there on the
shelf of the 11th edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica. You know where
those sat? They sat in the bookcase next to my father's desk at home, in
his study. I thought that was the best place to find what I'd have to pass
on and I still have them here, close by. I mean I've tried other versions of
the Encyclopedia, but they're just not as good. Maybe because of all of
those brilliant jokers who wrote in that 11th edition. Remember C. K.
Ogden was the editor of that edition. Maybe all of them had that same
kind of nightmare I'd had when I was a kid!
BS: To say nothing of its inherent virtue that it was your father's
encyclopedia that he had given to you.
JB: Yeah. I realize full well that it's neurotic as hell. In fact, I inherited
it.
BS: Now there's one hell of a transitional object for you.
JB: It's amazing having the 11th edition of the Encyclopedia Britan-
nica as my transitional object. [Laughter]
BS: I think it's a stunning achievement. [Laughter]
JB: It's so crazy.
BS: One of your Oxford graduate students, Alison Gopnick, who
wrote that very nice piece about your Oxford years, made a fascinating
comment about your teaching style. She said that despite your great
influence on three generations of students, there are no disciples. There
are no "Brunerians."
JB: You bet. Not if I could help it.
BS: Her quote was: "You managed to turn your students into some-
thing better than Brunerians, into themselves." An amazing tribute and
a very interesting statement about teaching.
JB: That's very sweet. It probably relates to my own life. I remember
the first time I walked into the Harvard Yard. I looked about and thought
about my heroes, like the living Walter Bradford Cannon and the departed
William James. And I remember thinking, "Oh my God! Here is this place
that represents this great tradition, carrying out the learned life. I've really
got to do my version of it." And then there was another occasion of the
same kind when I went into the Mary Hitchcock Library in Dartmouth
where I had a study over the summer for reading. I recall going into the
stacks and finding Aristotle's De Sensu and thinking to myself, "Jesus
Christ! Here I am, in the middle of the summer in Hanover, New Hamp-
shire reading Aristotle's De Sensu." Aristotle asks, "How do I know that
it's Cleon's son walking down the steps of the Parthenon?" And I started
asking the question of myself. I felt somehow part of a tradition, a tradition
that was more important than any of us. No, I don't need disciples. What
we need are people who will carry out that tradition of inquiry. To a major
extent, it is a kind of conversational tradition although it gets transferred
into the writing mode when you're being more serious about your conver-
sation. So if somebody takes a position that's contrary to my position, I
want them to work it out as well as they can. If Alison makes that sweet
remark about me that makes me sound deeply unselfish, you need to
realize that I'm not unselfish at all. I don't honor my students for echoing
me back. I want to find out where they're going to take the idea next. And
in some respects I was inspired by Edward Tolman. He didn't want
Tolmanians. He had a few, but he didn't really want disciples. He wanted
them to get on with the enterprise of a cognitive learning theory. I felt a
lot of reward for their picking up something on their own and developing
it. The line of work that Mike Scaife and I began on very young infants
following an adult's line of regard to discover what they were attending to
is a good example. We were interested in how they "knew" that others
were attending to things "out there," knew it well enough to follow their
gaze direction in search for what they might be looking at. Well, this
requires some sort of "theory of mind," some very grasp of what philoso-
phers like to call the Other Mind problem. And now research on children's
"theories of mind" is booming-what is the basis of intersubjectivity-and
lots of my former students and post-docs are leading the way, like Colwyn
Trevarthen, Alison Gopnik, and Alan Leslie who has even shown that
autism is partly attributable to a failure to grasp how Other Minds work.
Just look at Janet Astington's splendid book, The Child's Discovery of the
Mind.4 My feeling about that is that once they get into the act, my job was
to get into the business of giving it a lift, quoting their work, giving it a
boost and talking about their theories. I'm a pretty arrogant character in
terms of self assurance. I mean, I think I'm on the right tack and I don't
need a lot of assurances from others. But I'm like everybody else. I mean,
I look in the back of every book I get to see whether I'm in the index. And
if I'm not, I say, "How the hell did they miss me." I'm just as vain as the
next character. But somehow, I don't have to produce disciples-Bruneri-
ans, as you call them. And it's paid off in some way. For example, all that
work on scaffolding like Mike Tomasello is doing at Emory and that David
Wood is doing in England, and Barbara Rogoff at Santa Cruz, makes me
feel I started something that got picked up and carried out on its own. Let
them carry it on. That gives me a chance to get onto the next problem.
BS: If you think about the people that have those adjectival versions
of their names ...
JB: ... some of them are not very kind people.
BS: There's something to that. Is it also possible that if you're not a
reductionist at heart that it's harder for people to associate you with a
BS: One of the things that's most characteristic of your writing seems
to be your resistance to what you call large and coherent systems of
thinking. How would you characterize your own theoretical predisposi-
tions in this light?
JB: Large and coherent systems don't bother me. It's the route we
often take in psychology-a kind of metaphoric route. I don't think you're
nearly as plagued with this in anthropology. But in psychology, you can
start off a la Clark Hull by having a series of axioms from which are then
derived a set of hypotheses that you test by cannily designed experiments.
You make out as if somehow you had full control of a situation which is
assumed to be context-free. I mean, you cobble together some kind of a
t-maze situation for rats to demonstrate a particular principle of delayed
reinforcement, but your results depend on using just that particular
situation. That kind of thing I find just isn't right, because it makes it seem
as if there were kind of a linear causational type of thing at work and I
don't think human affairs operate that way-maybe not even rat affairs!
It fails to take account of the interpretations of those who are involved in
the events that are supposed to be covered by these causational "covering
laws," if I can use Hempel's old term.7 The interpretations of participants
actually change the nature of the situation as such. So that is where
contingencies enter in. I mean that contingencies matter terri-
bly-whether or not you think there's a salt supply within an area
affecting whether you are going to migrate, or whether you think there
are jobs available. But it's not just contingencies. It's the factor of-what
am I going to call it?-"dialectical contrariety," that there are things that
are pitted against each other, in interpretive tension. I think the thing
that characterizes any viable social system is that it pits contrary things
against each other. For example, you have to build an economic system
that pits opportunity against stability. And when I say "against," I mean,
if you're a genius what you do is form some kind of balance and the balance
is never for all and for always. You're never going to get a set of economic
regulatory laws that remain effective forever. Several of my friends are
involved in formulating what is in effect a new branch of law which is
called the law of intellectual property. God, if you ever saw a field which
wildly generates the higher mishigas, that is it. I mean, what constitutes
intellectual property? It is an issue that generates endless dialectical
contrariety.
BS: So one of the attractions of studying the law for you is that law
confronts the necessity to formulate large and coherent systems out of
the messiness of life, which is forever throwing up resistance to its
intellectual tidiness. Isn't it this perpetual confrontation of the give-and-
take of real life with this kind of legal systematicity that you really enjoy?
JB: That is exactly right. But mind you the thing that's so interesting
about the law is that you form a system of jurisprudence because you have
to, and you count on precedent and interpretation to fit it to new
circumstances.
BS: You need law in the world for much the same reason that you
need theories in social science. You say you dislike coherent systems of
thought, but it seems to me that such coherent systems bear similar
relations-both descriptively and prescriptively-to human behavior as
law does to life.
JB: I do argue just that. That is very much my position. I had a very
interesting exchange with David Olson and Janet Astington in the Journal
of Human Development. David wants an explanatory psychology. And I
say, "Bravo for you." The fact of the matter is you can have an explanatory
psychology except for the fact that when you deal with the particulars,
context gets to be so crucially important. There's no way of avoiding it.
And not only context, but a socially constructed context for the partici-
pants.
BS: What is the alternative you have in mind to an explanatory
psychology?
JB: Not an alternative, but a parallel one. It's an interpretive psychol-
ogy-not quite like Cliff Geertz's view of anthropology. I think psycho-
logical intrepretivism may be more constrained by "natural" or biological
constraints on functioning than is interpretation in anthropology. That
probably comes from the freeing power inherent in the human cultural
adaptation. A lot of psychological functioning is still pretty strictly con-
strained in a primitive, precultural way-like the limits on human atten-
tion and memory, like the powerful temporal and spatial constraints that
limit human cognitive processing general. To be sure, it often happens
that cultural inventions come along that make it possible to transcend
those "hard wired" explanatory limits. But we'll talk about that later. Let
me get back to interpretation now. The difference between an explanation
and an interpretation is that when you have one interpretation, somebody
who comes along with another interpretation does not necessarily pre-
clude the first. There's no "gotchas" about interpretations, whereas an
explanation is "it"-a unique and final account. Now, there are some
people who don't agree fully with what I'm saying. Josh Lederberg says
that I'm being simplistic in saying that, because the fact of the matter is
that explanations have never worked out that way in science. You start
out with one explanation, come up with another one which may include
the first. But you can also come along with an explanation that doesn't
include it, which is a completely different way of seeing things, like a
quantum as compared to a classical mechanical way of looking at nature.
BS: Well, even if it's right, it turns out that every explanation has a
context within which it's right. A kind of limited "gotcha."
JB: Explanations all have their range of convenience.
JB: Oh, it's everywhere, but never enough. You can even find it in my
work on thinking. If you look at A Study of Thinking, you'll find a good
enough formalist point of view for it to serve as the basis for a lot of Alan
Kay's work with Apple computer. And at the same time, without my
realizing it, I provided the basis for making narrative also be at the heart
of concepts-thematic concepts, so-called. Actually I didn't fully know
what the hell I was doing. When I read those chapters on thematic
concepts I think to myself, "What a blithering coward you are, Bruner.
Why the hell didn't you follow it through?" I guess I didn't follow it through
because it didn't have to do with the discourse I was then involved in. I
wanted to get rid of those funny ways of talking about stimuli as if they
simply impinged without a categorization step along the way, a step that
brings in the mental. I also recognized the fact that categorizing was an
innate trait of human beings. Not any particular categorization, but the
fact of categorization. We simply cannot operate without categorizing. It's
our nature. But there are categories that fit formal criteria, practical-use
criteria, and thematic narrative criteria, and I wish I had pursued that
point back then. In any case, I want to go back to your major point. It is
true, I think that my thinking is dialectal. And if insisting on the presence
of these dialectical forces in the operation of the mind is ornery, then I
can plead guilty to orneriness.
BS: Your style of debate seems to be to enter into a joust with the
hope of raising the level of discourse by expanding a current perspective
to include left-out matters. Hence your love of what you call "going meta."
It's a dialectical orneriness with the hope of a synthesis and reconciliation
at the end. So when you challenge people or oppose something, it's less
with the hope of winning and doing away with them than with the hope
of codiscovering a way out of a dilemma by "going meta" on the problem
and eventually transcending the dilemma itself.
JB: I think that's so. And you're the second person this week to accuse
me of that, by the way. The other one is a very gifted Italian philosopher
who teaches at University College, Dublin, by the name of Liberato
Santoro. He's just written a fantastic piece on the concept of desire in the
history of philosophy. One desires but one also wants a stable situation
in which desire doesn't disrupt things. A kind of dialectics of desire. He's
accused me of loving the play of dialectics.
BS: In your essay, "The Conditions of Creativity," in that wonderful
collection you did, Essaysfor the Left Hand, you suggest the relationship
of creativity to what you term productive paradox. You see paradox as
essential to creativity, just as for Bateson it is essential to play. One of the
deepest sources of creativity, you say, is the working out of conflict and
coalition. So opposition and conflict of some sort is inherent in the way
a creative mind works and is part of the creativity. So totally overcoming
conflict, contradiction, or opposition might well suggest for you the end
of thinking, at least of creative thought. This suggests a fear that reductive
and final explanations would lead to the kind of boredom we discussed
earlier.
JB: Not only to boredom. I think it would also lead to violence. I think
the one sure way to produce violent opposition within a society is to say,
"This is the way it goes forever more."
BS: When I listen to this, it makes me realize the degree to which the
ways in which we work intellectually have a lot to do with a kind of a social
orientation that we have.
JB: Oh, I'm sure that's true.
BS: I am also drawn to dialectical thinking and like to bring people
together while not avoiding dispute. Isn't bringing contrary ideas together
in that way a form of social engagement? It may have something to do
with my attraction to the study of ritual. Ritual thrives on ambivalence
and the bringing together of contraries. And it especially involves an
attempt to both acknowledge and overcome violence.
JB: That's a very interesting point. What you're doing, essentially, is
working out the discourse pattern in your life into some theory that would
explain that very discourse pattern.
BS: There are people, the oppositional thinkers, who when faced with
complexity or opposition to their ideas become increasingly entrenched.
When they see a powerful and credible mode of thought that's opposed to
their own, they become more and more entrenched and dig their heels in
rather than try to find a way out of the conundrum by engaging the
opposition constructively. I suppose they enjoy the violent confrontation.
JB: If you ask about my kind of axiomatic, almost religious beliefs,
one of them is that growth is what human goodness and virtue, or
whatever you want to call it, are about. And those who prevent the
working out of growth, which is a dialectical process in my deep-structure
way of thinking, and who become committed to trying to kill the opposi-
tion, those are the people whom I think of as evil. And I see it in such
interesting ways. I don't want to go into detail on this, but I have known
some evil people who, in some way, prevent growth in others from
occurring in order to improve their own position entirely, without a view
to the broader context of the world in which they live. And they block
community, civility, or whatever you please.
"POP"
PSYCHOLOGY
AND
ETNO-PSYCHUOGY,
PSYCHOLOGY,
BS: Let's move onto a whole range of issues that deals with the
relations between academic psychology, ethnopsychology, and "pop psy-
JB: Ah, yes. That's the reason why I think I find myself in pretty much
the same position with the kind of free-for-all Ken Gergens who operates
on the assumption that anything is possible. But everything, alas, is not
possible, and all is not socially constructed out of totally malleable
material.
BS: Just to clarify this issue, your response then to people like Dan
Sperber, who reviewed Actual Minds, Possible Worlds somewhat criti-
cally with the claim that you've gone too far in this constructivist thing,
is to say, "Look I'm interested at this point in the particularity of things.
That's where I am now, but there is a genuine role for what you might call
scientific psychology."
JB: That's right.
BS: And scientific psychology for you is the elucidation of those
processing constraints. But you don't know what those constraints are,
unless you're familiar with the way in which people really operate and
that really means you have to leave the laboratory to really know how
people operate in the world. Those constraints that you're talking about
can't be derived simply from your laboratory experiments.
JB: That's right. Exactly.
BS: Psychology is distinctive in the social sciences in having spawned
not only an academic discipline, but something called "pop psychology"
as well. It's telling that we have a pop psychology, but we really don't have
pop anthropology. There are some works that you can call that, but there's
no general concept that people have of a "pop anthropology."
JB: They translate pop anthropology into a kind of pop psychology.
Like Margaret Mead.
BS: That sort of pop anthropology really becomes a theory of "the
person," not a theory of culture. Theories of culture as such don't seem
to make it into popular discourse in this way.
JB: Well, people don't know culture, because that's exactly like the
fish being the last to discover water. They've got to go into another culture
or become alienated. Most people aren't even aware of the culture.
BS: Right. Culture seems to be a relatively invisible medium for the
most part, except when various ethnic groups come up against one
another, or try and make claims based on their ethnicity. On the other
hand, in our particular culture people seem to be extremely aware of
themselves as psychological beings. Now let me contrast that with my
experience in the South Pacific. In Samoa, you might say that people have
a pop anthropology, but no pop psychology. They have a self-conscious
conception of their culture-they love telling you about their culture. And
the differences between cultures. But if you ask them for a theory of the
person, which I tried to do when I looked into their ethnopsychology back
in the early seventies, well that was a lot harder to get at. I had to probe
Figure2. Bruner(right)andShore"goingmeta."
has to cover up something else. This is part of what Bohr meant I suppose
by his complementarity principle.13 A theory gives us a temporary holding
slot where we can say "this much I understand." And I think that
ethnopsychology or folk psychology or pop psychology all do the same
thing.
JB: That's interesting. Fascinating.
BS: Both folk psychology and academic psychology are inevitably
only a partial rendering of human experience. They allow for public
communication of certain states of being and make possible shared
explanations for behavior. And equally clear is that there are always
dimensions of people's experience that are left out of such theories, almost
by definition.
LIVES
AN ORDIIARY
EXTRAORDHARY C06GON
BS: It struck me last night that there is a correspondence between
your own character and life and the view you have of ordinary cognition.
JB: That's a very interesting point.
BS: In some way, you're a deep optimist. In other ways, you're a
realist. You also have a deep feeling for the possibilities in people and in
situations. And you're an unstoppable conversationalist. Literally, your
life seems to go on as a series of fascinating conversations. Those conver-
sations are your most habitual acts of meaning.
JB: They can also be acts of coercion you know.
BS: They're all sorts of things. But you're also thinking aloud as you
talk which is one of the exciting things about you.
JB: But the puzzling thing is that you create a world around you that's
a response to yourself, and you think it's the universe. This is the dilemma
of ordinary human beings, but especially of intellectuals. You get ordinary
mortals posing as that kind of deified entity called a social scientist or a
psychologist
BS: Just how ordinary a mortal you are is a matter of some debate.
But I wonder about the extent to which your own research methods on
narrative are acts of discovery or acts of teaching. It seems to me that
most of the time most people aren't as articulate about their lives and
their selves as when you prod them into narrative as part of your research.
JB: It may very well be. It's characteristic of our discipline. I interview
the Fox family members. They have never gotten that kind of prodding
before and they "go meta," on themselves and their lives. They go meta
because I make them go meta. Just like you and I do to each other in the
course of these conversations. Just like you go to Samoa and all of a
sudden here's an interesting stranger who is interested in them. They
regard themselves as living in this dense surface structure of ordinary life.
And all of a sudden what before was a given now becomes a topic for
discussion, for inquiry and for thought in which they're asked to make
comments. And the world begins to reflect it. And that's one of the reasons
that I liked that study that Cliff Geertz published of Ruth Benedict and
Evans-Prichard, Levi-Strauss, and Malinowski.14 It was absolutely marvel-
ous. On the other hand, the one thing I would want to say is that there
are corrective measures that one can take doing research. Besides, I have
lot of natural sympathy for the disempowered and the ordinary. I'm not
sure but maybe I have some kind of a feeling for the human plight, because
of my conversational proclivity. That's true of most people in the human
sciences who are any good at it. You know, they can laugh at the world
they're constructing, and are capable of empathizing and of seeing others'
perspectives.
BS: It's kind of an imagination for other lives. Given your strong
associations between thinking and education, to what extent is a theory
of mind for you inevitably a theory of education? And therefore your
research methods are as much a form of education as they are discovery
tools. To the extent that you provoke people into narrative, are you using
discovery techniques or educational techniques? Aren't you in fact pro-
voking people into modes of meta-discourse and meaning making that
they are capable of, but which in fact exaggerates the degree to which this
kind of meaning-constructing enterprise really goes on in everyday life?
I'm struck by the fact that most people lead probably much more mun-
dane lives than you do.
JB: Well, I don't know whether they feel themselves to be any more
mundane than I feel. We all live kind of at some tolerable level of
mundanity. We put up with a lot of routines.
BS: Well, I guess to the extent that meaning making requires a kind
of narrative which triggers meta-cognition, your research with these
people promotes a kind of self-realization of what you are looking for. So
the basic question is to what extent do you really believe that those
activities go on with these people when you're not around? They obvi-
ously go on to some extent, but I'm struck by the fact that when I did
research in Samoa, some of my more interesting informants and friends
were the ones who said that this was an unusual experience for them but
that they really learned to enjoy it.
JB: But wait. They probably said to you "I never said this to anybody
else in my life."
BS: That's right. They said, "This is fun. Can you come back?
Nobody's ever asked me this." And so what I was doing in addition to
collecting data was a kind of education in the guise of a discovery
procedure. It certainly was tapping into meaning making possibilities that
people ordinarily have, but that are not always or even commonly used
in this way.
JB: Well, there's no question about that. It's a bit like psychoanalysis.
I mean, in psychoanalysis you're supposed to free-associate. But the fact
of the matter is as Don Spence and other people point out, the association
is guided by the fact that somebody is giving you a kind of implicit theory
in the hope that along the way by following the instruction to let one thing
come out after another the way they ordinarily do, you will learn some-
thing. And you will not only learn something that is therapeutic, but you
will also learn how to conduct yourself and behave on the couch.
BS: Well, it's the original form of guided participation.
JB: Absolutely. Do you think it's an inevitable feature of the work
we've chosen as our life work? I kind of suspect it is.
BS: As anthropologists we try to be aware of the degree to which we
don't want to intrude too much and that sort of thing. But most of us are
discourse-centered in our lives, relative virtuosi in these kinds of conver-
sations. It's what we do for a living. That's our tool kit-a kind of meta
discourse in which we're talking about things and thinking and pushing
them to a new level. And some of us I think get fairly impatient with people
who carry on a discourse that is not meta. So we push it meta insofar as
we can.
JB: It's funny. I keep coming back to Neils Bohr. He was talking about
Edgar Rubin, when he and Bohr were young scholars at the University of
Copenhagen together. It was about the figure-ground phenomenon-you
know, when you see the vase, you can't see the profiles that compose
them. He told it to me in terms of a story. His son Aage went down to the
village where the Bohrs stayed for the summer and there was some sort
of a notions store there and he stole some kind of a small thing. Aage was
so stricken by guilt about this that a week later he came to his father and
confessed and asked what he should do. Bohr told him to take it back and
he did. What struck the elder Bohr at that point was that he could see his
son Aage either in the light of love or in the light of justice. But if he saw
him in the light of justice, he missed something about him as a lovable
human being. If he saw him in the light of love, he missed something about
him in terms of how we regulate a society. So for Bohr it was the old
duck-rabbit problem of perception. And he said that was the thing that
really set him off on his search in physics for these kinds of phenomena
too. And it's a bit that way in even a deeper sense in the human sciences,
because of the fact that we take discourse into our own mode and away
from the discourse that people may normally engage in. Not entirely. I
mean, there's always the empathy factor that I was talking about. When
Clyde Kluckhohn studied Navajo witchcraft, the best thing he ever did
was to get them talking about the problem of looking after their sheep.
Where they put them and what they keep the dog for and why is the dog
useful. It was all in their terms of reference. And then he would make the
leap and say, "Are there any other things that having a dog is good for?"
And they said, "Yes, you know, you can't tell about the things that are
around here. It's good to have somebody warning you." "Warning you?"
Kluckhohn asked. "You know, you never can tell what's going on out
here." By that time, they had known Clyde for a long time. But he was
talking on a tabooed subject, because people don't talk about witches and
certainly in daily life they don't talk about the fact that their dogs are good
barkers when there are witches around. So if you are to get a full account
of people's lives, you have to provoke kinds of conversations that may not
be typical everyday-that is, if you're going to get certain kinds of
information.
WAYS
OFKNOWING
BS: Let's explore what counts as knowledge in psychology and
anthropology. I want to deal with a set of issues around the uses of
phenomenological approaches to knowledge and experience and their
relevance to modern psychology and anthropology. It strikes me that both
psychology and anthropology started off in their earliest years with the
study of the senses. In anthropology, the earliest cross-cultural studies
done were actually in cross-cultural psychology during the famous Torres
Strait expedition in the 1880s.
JB: W. H. R. Rivers.15
BS: Yes, Rivers and HIaddon.
JB: My first teacher, McDougall, was one of them.
BS: And there was Boas's early trip to Baffin Island to study percep-
tion and the effect of environment-what started out as physical environ-
ment but later came to be known as "culture"-on the senses. That set
of interests went underground in anthropology for many years and was
taken up only by a few cross-cultural psychologists.
JB: It also gets picked up again with Berlin and Kay's work,16 of
course.
BS: That's right. It reemerged with in a big way with Berlin and Kay's,
but it's also come back in contemporary cultural anthropology in a
completely different sense in the concern with "the embodiment of
knowledge." Actually, I think it's part of a poststructuralist reaction to an
overly abstracted and intellectualized view of human knowledge and in
an attempt to approximate some kind of authenticity of knowledge.
JB: That's right. It is a concern with authenticity, and with under-
standing what aspect of knowledge stays put. What's the steady input from
the senses that you can say, "That part is the world." Psychology's
engagement with the senses begins with Weber and Fechner.17 Theirs was
the model that I was exposed to very early on by one of my teachers, E.G.
Boring. Basically it represented the nature of the human psyche as a
systematic transducer and I want to put the emphasis on both terms-sys-
tematic and transducer. What does it take, for example, to notice that
one sound is louder than another? A "just noticeable difference" between
them turns out to be a constant fraction of the sound from which you
make the comparison. So that, for example, if you have a sound that can
be characterized in its physical measurement as magnitude 10 and the
ruling fraction is one-tenth, an increment of one is what it takes to get a
just noticeable difference. Whereas if you if have a sound of magnitude
one hundred, it takes ten to give you the one-tenth. You always have to
increase the sound by a ratio of one-tenth to get a just noticeable
difference (JND), and the JND gets to be the systematic psychological
metric. Now, out of this developed the field called psycho-physics. The
"psycho" part was essentially how the physical world was experienced,
and "physics" was the role of systematicity or the constant fraction
making a JND. This was tremendously thrilling in the 1860s and 1870s.
It produced a special psycho-physical dualism. What they wanted was a
dualism, not interaction. And if there was to be any interaction, it was to
be the physical over the psychic. The physical caused the psychic. That
became the initial model. But there was a different pattern that came
along at the same time from a different tradition, which was a genuinely
phenomenological tradition rather than coming from Fechner and Weber.
I say it was mainly Weber, because Fechner himself was very conflicted
by this.
BS: Which Weber are you referring to here?
JB: This is E. H. Weber. Fechner's name was, Gustave Theodor
Fechner. Fechner himself finally rejected this view by saying that this was
the "day view" of the human mind-what he called the Tagesansicht. But
the "night view" (Nachtansicht) of the mind took into account that mind
also created things that went beyond sense perception yet had equal
psychic reality. But there is another tradition that grew very much out of
an analysis of the senses. Color has always fascinated man. The great
Goethe wrote a book that was called the Zur Farbenlehrer, about color.
In it, he made the claim that there were phenomenologically primary
colors based entirely on their phenomenological simplicity. And those
colors were, of course, yellow, blue, red, and green. And the basic
argument is not that there's anything physically important about them
but that those are the phenomenological primaries. He inadvertently
introduced the notion that in experience itself you could find the "natural
joints." It's a powerful argument that the world presents itself in an
experientially natural way. You see it in a way that is natural. Now, if it's
old question, which we still haven't answered very well, of how people
internalize this cultural business. We now realize that we can't assume
that most people come to know their culture in the way that anthropolo-
gist's write about it-through words, abstract propositions, or dia-
grams-the way that structuralists liked to represent culture. Most people
come to know their cultural environments through a set of culturally
orchestrated practices, practices which often exploit and orchestrate
different senses in different ways. We know many things mainly visually,
others by smell, or touch, and still others primarily through sound, like
Steve Feld and Buck Schieffelin have argued for the Kaluli of Papua New
Guinea.20 Now Jim Clifford, Michael Fisher, George Marcus and others
have pointed to the fact that what anthropologist's do is the "write
culture" which means to me translating these experiences into words,
actually into propositions. So people who read these ethnographies en-
counter our informants and their lived experiences as written objects. Yet
the most thoughtful among us know perfectly well that this kind of
propositional language is almost always a reformulation-a transduction
if you will-of the kind of knowing we're attempting to describe. So the
question becomes how do we come up with a set of concepts, a vocabulary,
and a narrative mode for better rendering so-called "experience near"
ethnography, ethnography that doesn't bracket the sensory diversity of
our knowing.
JB: I learned about this a long time ago reading a monograph by one
Bogoras on the Chukchee.21 That really knocked my socks off. It was one
of those Museum of Natural History monographs, full of observations on
how a strange object brought from another village would smell disgusting
to local villagers. And there was that fascinating business of how a
Chuckchee learned to use the micro-structure of tundra space to navigate
his way across the "featureless" landscape.
BS: It's just that kind of thing. Somehow novelists manage to convey
these sorts of sensory polyphonies on knowing better than we anthropolo-
gists have managed to do. Years ago I realized that in all the years I was
in graduate school, I never once saw a film or a slide, or listened to a sound
recording about anything we were studying. It was as if we had literally
risen above such data, to give a somewhat negative cast to your idea of
"going meta." Culture was presented to us as a series of linguistically
grounded propositions, and if there were visuals, they had to be in the
form of tables or complex and highly abstract diagrams. I mean I remem-
ber when I started writing academic papers as a grad student, I used to
fret about how I was going to translate my imagistic memories of Samoa
into the kind of flow charts and complex diagrams that furnished the best
scholarly papers of the time.
JB: That's right.
BS: One of the reasons that I need to keep going back to Samoa is
that when I arrive in that place, I am overwhelmed by a series of sensory
experiences, sensory gestalts, you can call them, that have to do with
sight, touch, body posture, and especially with smell, that remind me
deeply of Samoa in a way that I can't get to in my written work.
JB: Samoa was your mitzvah. Absolutely. You saw that these things
were looked at as kind of structural gestalten.
BS: Well, only in retrospect. And only when I go back do I realize,
"My God. I've missed all of this." "Missed it" in both senses of nostalgia
and of a kind of academic misrepresentation. And I could think of no way
to capture this in the ethnography. I remember asking Marshall Sahlins
whether he thought it was possible that the feel of my rather pained body
posture as I sit for hours in a Samoan house with my legs folded in and
that hard post against my back, the particular smell and touch of the air
acrid with smoke and heavy with flies, and coconut oil mixed with the
fragrance of certain flowers-all those sensory gestalts-were as central
to "culture" as the kinship structures, the terminologies, the value pat-
terns, and all the rest of it. I think it struck him as an interesting question,
but an odd question.
JB: He knew its truth.
BS: Sure he knew it was true. But back then it was such a different,
such an unfashionable way to think about culture. It seemed kind of low
level, intellectually lame compared with kind of stuff we were used to in
our writings. And there was no vocabulary within our field for talking
about this experience-near stuff. So we get it traveling back and forth to
our field sites for renewal and recall. And we tell anecdotes, and some-
times write them down in our "light"writings of the "letters from the field"
genre. The memoir genre where we're allowed to describe such intimate
memories.
JB: Well, it almost started the genre of uninterpretability.
BS: It certainly did. So this is all leading to a set of issues. How do we
"save the phenomenon," as I believe Aristotle once put it. How do we act
on the insight that knowledge is always mediated by the senses in which
it's packaged, so that what we know is really inextricably bound up with
how we know it. And here going meta becomes a problem, since it means
transducing these elementary experiences into a more intellectually
manipulable form.
JB: The first thing I would do is to raise a red flag when you say, "by
the senses," as if somehow the senses were operating as mirrors, which
of course, they're not.
BS: You're talking about the senses more as active constructors of
experience than as passive recording devices.
JB: The senses provide an account to fit the context. That's what all
of this stuff on the constancies is about-what the brightness of a white
surface is in bright light and in shadow, or how tall a twenty-foot pole
looks at twenty yards and at a hundred yards. You know, a white sheet in
shadow looks brighter than a black sheet in bright light even though the
latter is casting more light into your eye and on to your retina. So when
Professor Boring discovered that I was a monocular, that I can look at the
world only through one eye at a time, he said, "Oh, your depth perception
should be very interesting." So he studied my depth perception and found
that there was absolutely no difference whatsoever between my depth
perception and anybody else's depth perception-until such a time as you
actually put me into a chamber where the only depth cue available was
the disparate images on the two retinae. But then he said, "I see. You're
a genius in the use of secondary cues?" And I said, "Well, if I'm a genius
in the use of secondary cues why does anybody need primary cues?" For
the fact of the matter is that cues to depth are massively redundant. There
are masses of cues that you can use and you use what you can. Who said
some of them are "primary?" Somebody whose theory required that they
be so.
BS: Now that you've raised the red flag of the senses as active agents
in perception and also as highly context-dependent, let's put the flag at
half mast for a moment.
JB: Okay, we'll put it at half mast and I'll tell you what leads me to
agree to put it at half mast. It's what your friend Bob Levy calls "hypo-
cognition." I became very interested in that stuff as I'd been interested in
Polanyi's work on "implicit knowledge," what was to come out in even
more challenging form in John Searle's notion of "background knowl-
edge."
BS: Within some circles in phenomenology, this is called "pre-objec-
tive knowledge."
JB: I'm not sure I follow why it's any more "pre-objective" than any
other kind of knowledge.
BS: I think it has to do with apprehension of something as objectively
existing-a matter of the degree of conscious awareness.
JB: I'm troubled that the idea of the preobjective might suggest an
illusory objectivity-that some percepts seem ontologically realer or
more objective than others. That drives me batty in all versions of
two-step theories of the senses-one part pure sense, the other part some
sort of overlay from the Herbartian apperceptive mass. I don't think we
ever operate perceptually without taking into account-implicitly or
explicitly-our background knowledge about the world. When you de-
velop a perceptual hypothesis about "What's that?" that hypothesis
comes out of an enormous amount of not very explicit knowledge of how
things are in the world. Like when you're constructing speech acts, you
are guided by a lot of implicit knowledge, often difficult to verbalize, about
what kinds of felicity conditions govern or constrain what you must say,
how you have to say it, and under what circumstances. So when one of
our wonderful benefactors at Ethos, Tom Csordas, talks about the senses,
I'm going to say, "Sure, so long as you deal with the senses as some kind
of abstraction of what input might have been like from the real world when
it first hit the so-called sensorium." But of course the sensorium itself is
already a "mind-orium." It's not really just a sensorium as such. I mean
there is no such thing as the pure senses.
BS: That's a wonderful way of putting it-I love the notion of a
"mind-orium." But unlike our own community where our literate tradi-
tions privilege linguistic and especially written knowledge as the primary
means for enforcing meta-cognition, many traditional societies stress
kinds of knowledge grounded in sensory transmission, particularly kines-
thetic knowledge. So the question becomes whether there is a tight
relationship between the way in which knowledge is encoded sensorily
and the way in which that knowledge is experienced and known. And what
implications does that have for a theory of self?
JB: Oh wow.
BS: Well, it is a big question. And I'm making my way here to the
question of what happens when you have a theory of self, as you do, which
is grounded in narrative and so becomes intrinsically language-based. It
seems to me that this conception of self is based upon a theory of self as
meta-cognitive, rather than "preobjective."
JB: Well, it's interesting. But it can't be based on that alone. I mean,
I agree with your general point. But I'm not sure how to explain it. Let me
try. There is some kind of thing which has to do with the immediacy as
compared to the mediacy of experience. And it's a curious kind of thing.
It isn't necessarily there on the surface of experience. You put it very
nicely. There you are in this situation in Samoa sitting there with your
back on a post and your legs crossed and the air is acrid with smoke and
the rest of it. There's something about that which is phenomenologically
immediate. Nobody writing it down is going to quite capture this. What
poets try to do in their language is somehow to find their way around the
ordinariness, the banality of this experience, to give you a shock of
recognition.
BS: In Susanne Langer's terms,22 what they try to do is use a
"discursive" language to convey what she terms "a presentational" form
of reality.
JB: Exactly.
BS: To say something which is somehow not directly conveyable
through language.
JB: I've been taking this little trip back through Hume's Treatise on
Human Understanding. I was particularly interested in the way he
dismisses "self' and then brings it back as a constructed notion. It's
perfectly plain that while Hume also played around with the idea of
primary versus secondary sensations, he too was treating the primary
senses as an abstraction. Hume is the kind of brilliant mind that is aware
of a lot of things. Hume is not easy, but there you are. I know why he
awakened Kant from his "dogmatic slumbers." Hume was a crypto-con-
structivist.
BS: While acknowledging that the sensorium is not simply a passive
recording device or receiver I still think that there is a significant
difference between knowledge which is highly linguistically mediated and
knowledge which is allowed to remain at a lower or different level of
sensory input.
JB: I know what you're saying.
BS: This issue is very important to anthropology. I am reminded of
Maya Deren-the wonderful filmmaker who wrote a marvelous little book
on Haitian Vodoun called The Divine Horseman.23
JB: Alas, I never read it.
BS: She was friends with Bateson and that whole crowd. In this book
she wrote a little chapter called, "Dance as a Meditation of the Body" or
something like that. Carol would really like this a lot.
JB: Carol would love it, as only an ex-dancer can.
BS: She says that religious knowledge which is incorporated in this
embodied way in dance movement is fundamentally different from the
kind of knowledge that becomes dogma, the knowledge that's translated
into linguistic form. Otherwise, given the evolution of language, one would
think that all human experiences would be immediately convertible into
this much more supple form of knowing called language.
JB: Supple but fixed. It's interesting. There is a marvelous book that
you may have read, but maybe not, a book by Michael Riffaterre called
Fictional Truth about how you recapture the immediacy of experience in
fiction.24
BS: That's it. A literal recollection of things past. And that has a
bearing not only on what we study and how we study it, but how we write
ethnography. What is it that we're conveying about people's lives when
we transmute their experiences into alien forms, or limited linguistic
terms.
JB: That's right. Now, I want to go back to your question about what
do I say about the phenomenological character of self. Some say that there
is some kind of ultimate truth that lies in that immediacy of experience.
How can one doubt it?
BS: That is really true. It is the anxiety associated with the tension
between the attack on "essentialism" and the call for "experience-near"
and deeply embodied ethnography. It provides for an acceptable replace-
ment for essentialism in the form of experiential authenticity.
JB: That's right. There is something about immediacy that is an
implicit essentialism, when you described to me some guy in his sixties
who comes to someone's house for dinner, a kind of a macho character,
and, though he doesn't know his host's wife well, greets her by kissing her
right on the lips, well, there is something about the immediacy of that act
that gets a message across in a uniquely powerful way that adjectives don't
capture. It says more than any personality-theory type description of that
person you can come up with. Somehow it carries almost a sense of
necessity about what that person is. Perhaps an implicit narrative neces-
sity. It carries about it a sort of a narrative necessity. Like in the wonderful
production of Benjamin Britten's Death in Venice at the Met last year. Not
everybody liked it, particularly people in the gay community. You would
have loved it. It was full of the senses. There's a scene in which the chief
protagonist is at the barber. It's done with bright spot lights. The barber
brushes talcum powder, to clean off Gustave von Aschenbach's neck, after
he's trimmed his hair. It produces a pinkish cloud. There's something
wonderfully ambiguous and immediate about it: vanity, a closed-in feel-
ing, a dangerous cloud. It captures something crucial that can't be said,
that evades banal categorization. That's art!
BS: Like Baudelaire's symbolistic notion of sensory correspondences
in the world, somehow put to words.
JB: That's also the mystery of our field.
BS: And anthropologists have been concerned since the earliest years
of anthropology with problems of representation in a way that often had
the senses as a hidden agenda. For instance Mead and Bateson developed
something called visual anthropology which they carried out in that
wonderful book Balinese Character.25 Long before it was fashionable,
they believed that there was something to be conveyed by a series of
photographs that would tell you something not easily conveyed in other
terms.
JB: And they did convey something. I still remember the dance
instructor moving the novice's hand to a certain point.
BS: It's interesting how that image has stayed with you. I remember
the exact image too.
JB: Take the support away and the child's hand still stays there.
BS: And we don't have a language for coping with that. I guess
psychologists now call it scaffolding, in the Vygotskian sense.
JB: That's right. And somehow when we find the language for coping
with it, it's going to lose some of its beauty.
THE OFCULTURE
POWER
BS: Your work has been for many of us a kind of beacon cast from
your field into ours. It is not only because of its intrinsic richness and
interest, but because you have been almost from the beginning one of the
very few psychologists to come out of the experimental tradition who has
raised up the banner of culture. So let me ask you some tough questions
about this business of culture.
JB: There are plenty of them.
BS: I'm not going to go on fishing for your assent here that culture
matters in accounting for human behavior, because we all know that. But
in what sense exactly can we say that "culture" really exists? And if it
does, then how do we conceptualize it? Because oddly enough, though
the concept is ours by right, anthropologists are not sure anymore about
this thing called "culture."
JB: Yes, I've noticed.
BS: Without a good set of conceptual tools, the culture concept is in
danger of becoming completely inarticulate and invisible to the very
people whose job was for decades to sell the power of culture to the public.
JB: No question about it. In fact, it's the question, in a way. Well I've
got a funny way of putting it. It had to do with my reading last year this
madly gifted but neglected Ignace Myerson. My notion of "culture" is going
to sound-at least on the surface-too much like material culture, but it
goes like this. I think the main effort that goes into maintaining a culture
is not the internalizing of something that's out there, but the externali-
zation of human works-the externalization of works into a form that has
some perdurance in a broader, longer-lasting culture.
BS: This is what I call, the "first birth" of culture-a projection into
external forms of an inner compulsion, or idea, or picture or desire.26
JB: Exactly. This externalization has to do with the production of
works, or, as Myerson would say, an oeuvre.
BS: So you would say that one of the primary characteristics of the
cultural is it's inside-out character, an inner form made public.
JB: External and shared. But this sharing requires some medium that
will carry the sharing.
BS: As you know this very issue of just how shared and consensual
cultural "facts" are has come to be considered a serious problem for
modern anthropology.
JB: Well, let me give you some examples, and I'll pick a vivid one.
Take something like a gallows or a guillotine. Monsieur Guillotine, who
was the inventor of the guillotine, regarded himself as extremely humane
because his was a nice, quick way to execute someone which wasn't as
painful as hanging or beating people to death. Now I found myself sitting
in a restaurant with a group of French friends-intellectuals-and one of
them, Fran9oise, said to do
me, "Jerry you realize that you're sitting under
a painting of Monsieur Guillotine?"
BS: A tribute to the most Cartesian (and literal) approach to capital
punishment, detaching the head from the body.
JB: [Laughter] I mean, what could be worse or what could be better,
this great French solution to capital punishment-Descartes and dualism.
The French create an oeuvre that detaches the head from the
body-neatly. So you externalize dualism in terms of objects. Objects
themselves are important. They include such art objects as guillotines.
These objects themselves don't make sense unless they fit into some kind
of explicative code. In its context it becomes a humane way of committing
a grossly inhumane act, and also a way of recognizing the mind-body
LEGACY
BS: How would you like to be remembered in psychology?
JB: I would want to be remembered as a person who moved psychol-
ogy to a much more proactive stance with respect to the nature of human
functioning. Away from a purely reactive passive stance. That really is
absolutely everything. If I could only be remembered as the person who
helped make psychology more proactive! For example, I wish there were
you say, "in the mind," and also in what you're doing. When people are
doing something like going to the store, or they're going home or they're
doing things that are culturally specified.
BS: Are you saying, like Rick Shweder says, that there is no psychol-
ogy that isn't cultural psychology?
JB: No, I'm not saying really that. I'm willing to grant perfectly well
that there is a dark-room psychology. Some dark-room psychology is
going to be useful and some of it is going to be worthless. But you know,
that remains to be seen. You have to be pretty damned brilliant to figure
a way of doing it well. Now, some psychologists say to me that the only
thing that matters is the conditioned stimulus/unconditioned stimulus
interval. I know some people believe that. I say, "Why do you think that's
so important? I mean, why are you going to devote your life to that?" And
they respond that it matters a lot in understanding pharmacological
problems of some kind. Some applied issues. I happen to know somebody
who is spending his life doing this kind of thing in psychology. He's not a
very bright guy, although he's got a full professorship at a major university
by virtue of his playing well and usefully within this little pool that we are
in. And he deserves it. I don't mean to preclude controlled experimenta-
tion. I've done enough experiments timing events in milliseconds to know
how useful these little "artifices" can be. I can give you an example of why
I feel a great tolerance for this other kind of stuff. It was a crazy study that
I did. The one with the playing cards with wrong-colored suits. I tried to
get an American playing card company to manufacture special cards for
us, but failed. I had even written on Harvard stationary so they wouldn't
tell me "I'mgoing to get the cops on you. What kind of scam are you trying
to pull off?" But it was worth the trouble.
BS: This resistance that they had to doing that was just as strong an
evidence of the importance of category classification as the experiment
was.
JB: Exactly. But I only realized that years later. I mostly thought they
were being a pain in the ass. And they were. So I went into an art shop
on Beacon Street with T.S. Eliot's sister-in-law, with whom I had taken
some drawing lessons. We brought in some playing cards and tried out
different pigments until we found the right one to paint them with. Why
was that study important? We were measuring recognition time in milli-
seconds by tachistoscopic exposures of canonical and noncanonical ob-
jects. How long does it take to recognize that the playing card you see in
the tachistopic flash is, say, a red four of diamonds as compared to the
time it takes to recognize a red four of clubs? What astounding results we
got!
BS: Isn't that the one where you had stained normally black cards
red and people claimed that they had seen a slightly pinkish card-dem-
then John Stuart Mill and his father, James Mill. Like the Berkeleyan
notion of "coach"-that you synthesize a coach out of having the smell
of leather, the sound of wheels, the shape of a coach, and so on. And from
this came this creative synthesis which was the meaning. But that didn't
strike me as adequate-saying that we've got the whole thing along the
way because we have primary properties that adhere together. And then
we have a secondary property that fit on top of it. That struck me as not
the way in which meaning was made at all. I say meaning lies in what this
situation is all about. So if this situation is all about that thing-a lamp-I
note it is a lamp used for illuminating a guy's desk. Oh yes, along the way
I could put it in categories and tell you that the lamp fits with the kind of
thing that miners wear on their head. And it fits with the kind of thing the
dentist wears with his mirror. All that kind of thing.
BS: You seem to be arguing for definition in terms of what George
Lakoff calls the "interactional properties" of things rather than through
intrinsic properties.30
JB: That's it.
BS: That they have to do with the kind of organism having a certain
body of a certain size, with particular perceptual equipment, using this
thing under certain conditions.
JB: But I wish George would get off this narrow business of therefore
all understanding has to do with body and space.
BS: Well a lot of it does. There's no question.
JB: Some of it does. But I wish he'd get off that and onto a broader
picture. He makes some very good points. I like his search for "natural"
primitives in semantics, more based on psychological functioning and on
interactional properties. That's much better than the more formal ap-
proaches to semantic primitives. I wish I'd had more contact with George
over the years; he's quite daring, don't you think?
BS: Speaking of interactive properties....
JB: I guess there is one other thing I would also want to be remem-
bered for. I'd hope part of my legacy would be to be remembered as the
person who somehow got psychology and education back together. That
was quite something. And it hasn't succeeded completely. Although it's
interesting to me that the psychology that I hear at the AERA [American
Educational Research Association] is a hell of a lot more interesting than
the most of the stuff that I hear at the APA [American Psychological
Association]. I don't go to the APA anymore. It's all little flirtations. The
kids are not learning with each other.
BS: One of the reasons why it might be more interesting is that
educational psychology is necessarily in touch with kids in real-world
situations.
JB: That's right, with kids. And it's in touch with power, and with
culture. My neighbor, David Hawthorn, is a very smart guy who's setting
up this program for NYU for retraining skills for people who were dis-
placed. Skills have become obsolete so fast. But the governors get together
down there in Charlottesville and they talk about math and science for
the kids because we need more of it. And at the same time, we're
downsizing engineering companies and firing engineers, and managers
trained in engineering and technology. And you say, "Hey wait a minute.
Whoa! One voice at a time. Or two voices together if we're going to make
music." So education really relates to the culture more broadly and also
to technology more broadly. I'll put the way a friend of mine, Ed Purcell
once put it. He said, "Jerry Bruner has had the great and interesting effect
of making education an intellectual subject. Which is true of nobody else."
NOTES
1. See Peirce 1991.
2. See Olson 1994.
3. See Shklovsky1984 and Jakobson1962.
4. See Astington1993.
5. See Hull1984.
6. "Andwe extend our concept of numberas in spinninga threadwe twist fibreon fibre.
And the strengthof the threaddoes not reside in the fact that some one fibreruns through
its whole length,but in the overlappingof many fibres"(Wittgenstein1958:55).
7. See Hempel1965.
8. See Levy 1984.
9. See Murray1981.
10. See Ricks1996.
11. See Mischel1968 and Bandura1986.
12. See Ricour1984-1988.
13. See Bohr1958.
14. See Geertz1988.
15. See Rivers1926.
16. See Berlinand Kay1969.
17. See Fechner1966.
18. See Rivers1906.
19. See Rivers1923.
20. See Feld 1982 and Schieffelin1976.
21. See Bogoras1975.
22. See Langer1957.
23. See Deren1983.
24. See Riffaterre1990.
25. See Batesonand Mead1942.
26. See Shore 1996.
27. See Bergerand Luckmann1966.
28. See Halbwachs1952.
29. See Donald1991.
30. See Lakoff1987.
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