Monday, January 27, 2020

This Title Only Appears To Convey Information


This Title Only Appears To Convey Information 

by Tim Sommers  3 Quarks Daily


What if most speech is worthless? Or, rather, what if most speech that purports to count as a contribution to “free expression” is mostly worthless? Take the internet. What’s on it? Lots of great information and great journalism and even art. But, also, pornography. Lots of pornography. Between 15% and 80% of net traffic is porn, depending on which study you believe. But if you count semi-nude pictures, it’s got to be at least…well, a lot. Lots of cat pictures, too. Then there are the blogs and comment threads and likes and dislikes. Even where these are about significant topics, most of opinions expressed are repetitive assertions of a fairly narrow range of already well-known opinions. And then there’s the insults, the invectives, and general nastiness. I am not against porn. I am not even against insults per se. What I wonder though is, whatever value porn, for example, has for you, or whatever expressive relief you get from typing insults, should we think that these things ought to count as worthy the high value and high level of protection we ordinarily afford free speech? Maybe. Maybe, not. 

There seems to be a lot of agreement that “free speech” is in crisis – on campuses, on the web, or on social media. But not a lot of agreement about what the crisis is supposed to be. There seems to be a lot of agreement that regulating, or interfering in any way, with free speech is bad. But not a lot of discussion of exactly what is bad about it. It sometimes seems that “freedom of speech” is just an empty phrase to be filled in by whatever you happen to think that it would be good not to have interfered with. (Maybe, you’ve encountered the internet joke that suggest you can now argue for anything by saying “what you want to argue for” and then asserting “Because freedom!”) And so, the “crisis” sometimes seems to be just people you don’t like interfering with something you do like. (Have you ever heard of a conservative pundit complaining about a liberal speaker being “de-platformed” or vice-versa?) My point is, unless we engage with what is good or bad about freedom of speech, it’s going to be hard to evaluate what the crisis is and whether we can regulate our way out of it. So, let’s start there. Or, rather, here: What is free(dom of) speech? 

I think it helps to think of speech more broadly as “expression”. Surely, we don’t just mean by “speech” here what we mean by “speech” in ordinary discourse. In fact, in ordinary discourse speech refers mainly to (what Brian Leiter has called) “mundane speech”: small talk, giving directions, coordinating when to meet for dinner. [Though I disagree on several points, I am influenced throughout by Leiter’s “The Case Against Free Speech” (file:///C:/Users/17249/Downloads/SSRN-id2450866.pdf)] Even though you are not supposed, for example, to talk during the movie, this is not the kind of speech that most people are worrying will, or even could, be regulated. Non-mundane expression presumably includes (at least) artistic, scientific, philosophical, and political discourse (construed as broadly as possible) – and has many modes: speaking, writing, singing, dancing, blogging, podcasting, painting, drawing, sculpting, texting, posting comments on internet threads, and basically anyway you can convey information, or express emotion, especially the kind relevant to non-mundane expression. 

What, then, is the “free” or “freedom” part of free expression? I think it’s easiest to illuminate by talking about what the arguments for that freedom are. There are three broad categories: autonomy arguments, “marketplace of idea” arguments, and “who regulates the regulators” arguments. 

The autonomy argument really has two sides. Autonomy is both the expression of, and an instance of, our freedom. That is, as a free person, I should be allowed to express myself and you shouldn’t be allowed to stop me. By definition, in a liberal democracy that kind of freedom gets a certain priority over other kinds of, for example, consequentialist considerations. 

But almost no one believes that considerations of autonomy trump everything. Consider that the courts have always acknowledged “time and place” restrictions on speech. You are not allowed to yell “fire!” in a crowded theatre, for example. (One thing you probably should know about that frequently invoked example, though, is what it was that the person who was in trouble had done that the court thought was the equivalent of yelling “fire!” in a crowded theatre. Here it is. They were standing on a street corner handing out pamphlets urging people to oppose America’s entry into World War I. It’s not the best example, in other words, but you see what I am saying.) Anyway, it’s not just time and place restrictions. Some kinds of speech are subject to “prior restraint”. In matters of life and death, say National Security, the government has the affirmative ability to silence you before you even start talking or reporting. (Given the widespread abuse of “national security” to not only cover up wrong-doing, but to simply keep average citizens in the dark, this is (again) not an unproblematic example.) Maybe more telling, then, is institutional constraints on freedom of speech. 

You don’t have anything like unlimited freedom of speech at your job. And there are ways in which the people you work for can limit your speech even when you are not at work or no longer work there at all (for examples, there are non-disclosure agreements that have been around a long time and a recent trend of employees being fired or disciplined over social media comments or photos of questionable taste). Also, the legal system and the courts have been rigidly constructed to limit free speech in the interest of coming to correct conclusions about the issues before them. And consider universities. Universities put all sorts of restrictions on who can speak and when. If you don’t believe me, come to one of my classes. Raise your hand if you want to speak. (Though I wouldn’t call the police on you if you refused to change seats. (https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/ball-state-professor-called-police-class-because-student-would-not-n1121201) Probably.) 

Long story short, whatever autonomy interests we have in speech still have to be balanced out against, not only benefits and harms, but what is conducive, in certain contexts, to the function of the institution. Here the interest in autonomy meets the idea that the value of free speech is that it creates a “marketplace of ideas”. 

We owe this phrase, the marketplace of ideas, to John Stuart Mill. Add to it that the remedy for bad speech is more speech (paraphrasing the legendary Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis) and you have the basic idea. One thing to notice is that if you already believe that we have good reasons to be skeptical about the outcomes of unregulated marketplaces in general, maybe you ought not be too sanguine about the outcomes of unregulated speech markets. 

Consider science. I think that science has been more successful than anything else at dragging us closer to the truth. And I think in certain ways science is a model of a kind of market place of ideas. The core idea is that anyone and everyone can contribute and that all the ideas and information are available to everyone. No one mandates anyone else’s opinions about, for example, what the best theory currently available in some area on some topic is. Instead, the success of a theory is that it gains adherents over time. If it becomes the dominant theory it’s only because the people who study whatever the theory is a theory about think it’s the best theory about that. But science is hardly an unregulated market. “Everyone” mostly means only people with certain qualifications. And to the extent that information is made available it’s through refereed journals. Outside of the strict confines of your field, you still have freedom of speech in general; but whether your speech counts as a contribution to your field is highly regulated. 

Ideally, though, science is self-regulating. The rules are formulated and enforced by participants. Attempts by outsiders to use money or politics or whatever to influence the views people are frowned upon, at least by scientists. (But sometimes still unavoidable. Political interference on certain issues like smoking, fire arms, and climate change is a problem. And the influence of outside funding across the board has always been an issue.) 

Which brings us to the third category of reasons why we need freedom of speech. Suppose you think that the efficacy of speech would be improved by regulating speech and you think that the benefits of that improvement would be great enough to outweigh the costs to our autonomy. Now, ask yourself, who is going to do the regulating? 

Pause to consider what some people count as current symptoms of crisis in free speech. Some people think that it’s a huge crisis that students at some colleges are protesting and disrupting invited speakers. It might be that some of these protesters think that calling out racism, misogyny, or homophobia is more important than free speech. But it might well be that the objection is not only to the speech itself, but the way the speech is legitimized by being presented in official or quasi-official university settings. As we have already noticed, universities are rife with restrictions on speech. And in this case the power imbalance, such as it is, tilts in the direction of officials of the university rather than a relatively (sometimes, absolutely) small group of students. If you think college-aged kids yelling at Charles Murray or Ann Coulter is a crisis of free speech, I think (at a minimum) you radically underestimate the strengths of the institutions – and the power of political actors – involved. 

Sometimes the claim is, more broadly, that brave, important voices in our culture are being marginalized. Unfortunately, people who say that don’t usually mean, for example, Colin Kaepernick, but more like the voices of the “Intellectual Dark Web”. I don’t want to beat a mostly dead horse, but there is no such thing as an “Intellectual Dark Web”. There is such a thing as a “Dark Web”. But none of these people, as far as I can tell, are on it. Rather, they are supposed to be a thing because they have all been marginalized for their unPC views in a world gone mad with PCness. What are these views? Sam Harris doesn’t like religion, but especially he doesn’t like Islam. (https://www.huffpost.com/entry/bombing-our-illusions_b_8615) And he thinks that whether or not people-of-color have lower IQs than white people is an idea that hasn’t been given a fair hearing. (https://www.vox.com/policy-and-politics/2018/3/27/15695060/sam-harris-charles-murray-race-iq-forbidden-knowledge-podcast-bell-curve) Christina Hoff Sommers (no relation to me) thinks feminism has gone to far. (https://www.amazon.com/Christina-Hoff-Sommers/e/B001H6WUC2%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share) And Jordan Peterson thinks something about Lobsters and hierarchy is inevitable or something. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=6ypVbUBEZHg) It’s hard to tell. 

How they have been marginalized is even harder to tell. They are mostly wealthy (Peterson was making over $60,000 a month on Patreon at one point and have good jobs (Sommers is a resident scholar at the American Enterprise Institute for Public Policy Research and Steve Pinker, another Dark Webber (https://twitter.com/sapinker/status/1186065313516924929?lang=en) is at Harvard). They have almost all written best-selling books and made many media appearances – and several have popular podcasts. Leaving aside the issue of the substance of their views, if you think they symbolize a crisis of marginalization in free speech; I respectfully suggest you don’t know what “marginalized” means. 

I could go on like this. Some people think #MeToo went too far. Which is odd because almost everyone called out by the movement has eventually admitted that they pretty much did what they were being called about. (https://www.vox.com/a/sexual-harassment-assault-allegations-list/steven-wilder-striegel) Or, maybe, “Cancel Culture” is out of hand. (https://mashable.com/article/cancel-culture-2019/) I don’t know. Shunning people has a long history. But I am not sure that internet shunning doesn’t fit the meet “speech with more speech” model – in terms of how to address it. 

Here’s my candidate for the crisis of free speech, then. We are drowning in it. The internet began as a shining vision of a new democratic regime of free expression previous impossible before this great technological and sociological leap forward. Now we have people questioning not just the massive scientific consensus on global warming, vaccinations, and the world being round, but things as mundane (and yet important) as whether we can count on the Congressional Budget Office to keep their accounting practices nonpartisan. Remember the Tea Party? It began as a massive protest against Obama raising taxes at the exact moment, in real-time, that Obama was actually cutting taxes. 

We’ve got plenty of speech. We’ve got precious little public agreement on basic facts. The reign of massive amounts of unregulated free speech has not led to democracy, it’s led to a world of “alternate facts”. 

If we want free speech that contributes to a marketplace of ideas then, despite the risks it poses to expressive autonomy and the frightening question of exactly who is going to do the regulating, we’ve got to find ways to regulate it. 

Here’s one thing we could try without going straight to regulating speech directly. We could use anti-monopoly law to break up internet, and especially social-media, monopolies. You could even argue that I am wrong to blame unregulated speech at all, and that it is the de facto regulation done by private (rather than state) entities that has caused the problem in the first place. Maybe, but in the end, I believe that, whatever the risk, we are going to have to start regulating the content of at least some kinds of speech – at least at the extremes. Feel free to have – and express – a different opinion. Obviously. 



Saturday, January 18, 2020

TEN YEARS AFTER “THE NEW JIM CROW”



THE NEW YORKER INTERVIEW

TEN YEARS AFTER “THE NEW JIM CROW”


By David Remnick The New Yorker

Photo Michelle Alexander

“The goal ought to be to view and treat all people of all colors with dignity, humanity, compassion, and concern,” Michelle Alexander says.


Sometimes a book comes along and, after it is absorbed into the culture, we cannot see ourselves again in quite the same way. Ten years ago, Michelle Alexander, a lawyer and civil-rights advocate, published “The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness.” This was less than two years into Barack Obama’s first term as President, a moment when you heard a lot of euphoric talk about post-racialism and “how far we’ve come.” “The New Jim Crow” was hardly an immediate best-seller, but after a couple of years it took off and seemed to be at the center of discussion about criminal-justice reform and racism in America. The book considers not only the enormity and cruelty of the American prison system but also, as Alexander writes, the way the war on drugs and the justice system have been used as a “system of control” that shatters the lives of millions of Americans—particularly young black and Hispanic men.



As part of an hour-long examination of mass incarceration for The New Yorker Radio Hour, co-hosted this week by Kai Wright, of WNYC, I caught up with Michelle Alexander, who is now teaching at Union Theological Seminary, in New York.




When “The New Jim Crow” came out, a decade ago, you said that you wrote it for “the person I was ten years ago.” Take me back to those times and to the work you were doing for the A.C.L.U. What were you finding out?



That would have been twenty years ago from today. It was just as I was beginning my work with the A.C.L.U. I was well aware that there was bias in our criminal-justice system, and that bias pervaded all of our political, social, and economic systems. That’s why I was a civil-rights lawyer: I was hoping to finish the work that had been begun by civil-rights leaders who came before me. I had a very romantic idea of what civil-rights lawyers had done and could do to address the challenges that we face.



My impression back then was that our criminal-justice system was infected with racial bias, much in the same way that all institutions in our society are infected to some degree or another with racial and gender bias. But what I didn’t understand at that time was that a new system of racial and social control had been born again in America, a system eerily reminiscent to those that we had left behind.



In fact, I was heading to work my first day at the A.C.L.U. directing the Racial Justice Project when I happened to notice a sign posted to a telephone pole that said, in bold print, “The Drug War Is the New Jim Crow.” I remember pausing for a moment and scanning the text of the flyer and seeing that a small, apparently radical group was holding a meeting at a church several blocks away. They were organizing to protest racial profiling, the drug war, the three-strikes laws, mandatory minimum sentences, and police brutality. The list went on and on. I remember thinking to myself, Yeah, the criminal-justice system is racist in a lot of ways, but it doesn’t help to make comparisons to Jim Crow. People will just think you’re crazy. And then I hopped on the bus.



So it was really as a result of myself representing victims of racial profiling and police brutality, and investigating patterns of drug-law enforcement in poor communities of color, and attempting to assist people who had been released from prison as they faced one closed door and one barrier after another to mere survival after being released from prison that I had a series of experiences that began what I have come to call my awakening.



What was that awakening like? What were you seeing in your work so that the scales were falling from your eyes?



Well, there were a number of incidents. It was partly beginning to collect data and trace patterns of policing. It was coming to see how the police were behaving in radically different ways in poor communities of color than they were in middle-class, white, or suburban communities. I mean, this wasn’t a shock to me in any way, but the scale of it was astonishing: seeing rows of black men lined up against walls being frisked and handcuffed and arrested for extremely minor crimes, like loitering, or vagrancy, or possession of tiny amounts of marijuana, and then being hauled off to jail and saddled with criminal records that authorized legal discrimination against them for the rest of their lives. I mean, witnessing it and interviewing people one after another had its impact on me.



But there was one incident in particular that really kind of rocked my world. It involved a young African-American man who was about nineteen, who walked into my office one day and forever changed the way I viewed myself as a civil-rights lawyer and the system I was up against. He walked in my office carrying a stack of papers a couple of inches thick. He had taken detailed notes of his encounters with the police over about a nine-month period: every stop, every search, every time he had been frisked or someone he was riding with had been stopped, searched, or frisked. He had names of officers, in some cases badge numbers, names of witnesses—just an extraordinary amount of documentation.



At the time, I was interviewing people for a possible class-action suit against the Oakland Police Department. We had already filed a major class-action suit against the California Highway Patrol, alleging racial profiling in their drug-interdiction program, and we had launched a major campaign against racial profiling in California, and we were looking to sue other police departments, as well. And we had set up a hotline number for people to call if they had been stopped or targeted by the police on the basis of race. Within the first few minutes of us announcing this hotline number on the evening news, we received thousands of calls, and our system crashed temporarily. So I was spending my day interviewing one young black or brown man after another who had called the hotline.



This man’s story was so compelling. I thought, Wow, maybe we have finally found our dream plaintiff. I start asking him more questions. He’s sharing more details and information. And then he said something that made me pause: Did you just say you’re a drug felon?



We had been screening people for criminal records when they called our hotline number. We would ask them a bunch of questions about their experience with the police. We sent a form for them to fill out. And one of the questions was: Have you ever been convicted of a felony? We believed we couldn’t represent anyone with a felony record because we knew that, if we did, law enforcement would be all over them, saying, Well, of course we’re keeping an eye on the criminals and stopping and harassing them. This isn’t about race. It’s about us cracking down on the criminals.



And we knew we couldn’t put someone on the stand as a named plaintiff in a class action alleging racial profiling if they had a felony record, because we'd be exposing them to cross-examination about their prior criminal history and turning it into a mini-trial about a young man’s criminal past rather than the police conduct.



So we’d been screening out people with felony records, and this young man hadn’t checked his box. I’m looking at him, saying, “O.K., you’re a drug felon. Are you telling me you’re a drug felon?” And he gets very quiet and stares down at the table and then finally looks up and says, “Yeah, yeah, I’m a drug felon. But let me tell you what happened. Police planted drugs on me, and they beat up me and my friend.” And he starts telling me this long story about how he’d been framed and drugs have been planted on him. And I just start shaking my head. I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t represent you with a felony record.” And now he’s trying to give me more details and explain more about that case. And I keep telling him, “I’m sorry, I just can’t represent you.” And he becomes more and more agitated and upset. And then, finally, he becomes enraged, and he says, “What’s to become of me? What’s to become of me?”



And he starts explaining that he’d just taken the plea because he was afraid of doing the time. They told him that if he just took the plea, you just walk out with just felony probation. And he said, “But what’s to become of me? I can’t get a job anywhere because of my felony record. Do you understand? I have to sleep in my grandma’s basement at night. I can’t even get into public housing with a drug felony. It’s, like, how am I supposed to take care of myself? How am I supposed to take care of myself as a man?” He’s, like, “I can’t even feed myself. .?.?. Do you know I can’t even get food stamps because of my drug felony? Good luck finding one young black man in my neighborhood they haven’t gotten to yet. They’ve gotten to us all already.”




What was so provocative about the handbill that you first saw on the telephone pole, and in what became the title of your book, is that it flew in the face of what politicians said their motivation was for things like the crime bill in the mid-nineties, during the Clinton Administration. In other words, they said they were passing this legislation because crime rates were so high and drugs were out of control. What you’re saying, what that handbill said, is no, in fact, this is the establishment of a means of social control of young black and brown men in particular. How conscious was that? How would you argue that it was a conscious decision to establish a successor, in a sense, to Jim Crow, and what came before Jim Crow?



There were mixed motives. One of the things that I laid out in the book was the history of the Southern strategy, the deliberate political strategy of divide and conquer, of using “get tough” racial appeals in order to appeal to poor and working-class whites, particularly in the South, who were fearful of and resentful of the progress that had been made by African-Americans since the civil-rights movement, who feared that they now had to compete for limited jobs in the era of deindustrialization with black folks. They were resentful of affirmative action.



Fearmongering and scapegoating was at the heart of the Southern strategy, which used racially coded and not so coded political appeals defining black and brown men in particular as the enemy, as criminals, as drug users, as superpredators, in order to appeal to poor and working-class white voters in the South and flip those blue states to red. That Southern strategy fuelled the “get tough” movement, helped to birth the war on drugs, and was in part about turning the clock back on racial progress to a time when white folks didn’t have to compete on equal terms with black and brown folks.



But it’s also the case that racial stereotypes are a result of really racist media portrayals of drug users during the crack epidemic, which created conscious as well as unconscious stereotypes in law enforcement and the public at large. This helped to fuel this notion that we should get tough on them, the racially defined Others.



So the drug war was in part a politically motivated strategy, a backlash to the civil-rights movement, but it was also a reflection of conscious and unconscious biases fuelled by media portrayals of drug users. Those racial stereotypes were resonant with the same stereotypes of slaves and folks during the Jim Crow era.



A lot of people think of mass incarceration and “get tough” policies as the result of right-wing politics. But in what ways have liberals also played a part in this history?



I view liberals as equally guilty of birthing the system of mass incarceration as right-wing conservatives. President Bill Clinton escalated the drug war that had been originally declared by President Richard Nixon and then escalated by Ronald Reagan. Clinton escalated the drug war beyond what many of his Republican predecessors ever dreamed. And he did so in part to prove that he could be tougher on them, the black criminals, than his Republican counterparts.



I think it must also be acknowledged that there were black politicians and black communities calling for tough responses to rising crime in inner-city communities that were suffering from economic collapse. But it’s important to draw a distinction between black politicians and black communities that were desperate for intervention as factories closed and disappeared, and work disappeared, as William Julius Wilson described so powerfully in his book “When Work Disappears.” There was a period of time when hundreds of thousands of jobs vanished practically overnight in poor black communities, and they suffered depression and economic collapse. Crime rates rose and people were desperate for a meaningful, quick response.



But it would be wrong, in my view, to say that mass incarceration was supported by black communities. Black communities have organized for and demanded many large-scale interventions to address economic inequality, crime, educational inequality over the years. And it has only been in the area of crime that our nation has been willing to respond with massive investments in police, prisons, mass surveillance.



You were writing this book as Barack Obama was starting out his Presidency. Did his election make it harder for people to hear your argument at first? In fact, your book did not really take off the way it did for a little while.



Yes, that’s absolutely right. Many people think that “The New Jim Crow” was an instant best-seller.



But it took a couple of years, right?



Yes. People didn’t want to hear that we were still locked in a cycle of racial progress, backlash, retrenchment, and reformation of systems of racial and social control. It seemed much more likely that we were in an era of post-racialism, a time of color blindness, or at least on our way towards that Promised Land. I spent a couple of years on the road pretty much non-stop, speaking to small crowds and churches and groups of students and activists, really desperate to sound an alarm and to help people to see that, no, we are not free of our racial history. Our nation has, in fact, done it again. We have birthed a system of mass incarceration unlike anything the world has ever seen. Millions of people have been relegated yet again to a permanent second-class status in which they are stripped of basic civil and human rights, including the right to vote, the right to serve on juries, and the right to be free of legal discrimination in employment, housing, access to education, and public benefits. It wasn’t a message people were eager to hear, but I think it is much easier to see today, ten years later, that our nation is not yet free of its racial history, and that we continue to create new systems of racial and social control.



Decades ago, politicians were promising to build prison walls and new prisons. Today, politicians are promising border walls and the same politics of divide and conquer, fearmongering, and scapegoating that helped to give rise to the “get tough” movement, and the war on drugs is being used to fuel anger and resentment towards immigrants and mass deportation and mass detention.



While you were writing this book, your husband was working as a federal prosecutor. Did you have disagreements on the ideas that you were laying out? How did you discuss this with somebody so close to you?



My husband and I kind of came to these issues from very different perspectives. I had been working for years as a civil-rights lawyer. When we got married, he decided to become a federal prosecutor. While we both shared a commitment to racial and social justice, it was very difficult for me to accept that he was working for justice on the inside. We definitely had different disagreements over the years. But I also found him to be a very helpful reader. He has always given insightful and useful feedback on my writing and has been incredibly supportive of my work over the years, and so I’m grateful for that. I think it has been helpful in many ways for me to be challenged in my thinking by someone who has seen through the eyes of law enforcement.



There’s been no shortage of books about race and mass incarceration. Why do you think it was your book that captured the public in the way that it did, and still does?



I think the book was published at the right time. Our nation was reeling from an economic crisis that was forcing former “get tough” true believers to take a hard look at the system of mass incarceration. Former governors who had been calling for harsh mandatory minimum sentences and had been fierce drug warriors were suddenly realizing that it was not possible to continue to expand this massive prison state without raising taxes on the predominantly white middle class. And so suddenly people were beginning to ask questions and to be open to the possibility that perhaps this race to incarcerate had been misguided.



At the same time, the uprisings in Ferguson, Missouri, forced a conversation about race and our criminal-justice system that our nation had been determined to avoid for a very long time. The activism and the organizing and the passion and heartbreak that flowed from the killing of Trayvon Martin, the killing of Michael Brown, the deaths of Kalief Browder and Sandra Bland opened up a space where people began searching for answers regarding how we got to this place.



I know from your new preface to the tenth-anniversary edition that you got thousands of letters from people who wrote you about the book, many from people who were formerly incarcerated. What were they telling you?



Yeah, it has been overwhelming, over the years, to receive thousands of letters. I’m embarrassed and sad to say that I haven’t been able to read all of them. Some people have written just thanking me for the book and for speaking a truth that they may have been trying to speak in their own communities.



There’s also a lot of people writing me from prison, begging for help. Those are the most heartbreaking letters to read because, often, not only am I not able to help them but there’s no one who I can recommend who can. There is just not available legal support for people who are in prison trying to fight their charges or reduce their sentences.



In the preface you wrote for the tenth-anniversary edition, you kept coming back to this idea of “Everything and nothing has changed.” What’s changed, and what hasn’t? Are we better off now than we were a decade ago, when your book was first published?



Well, certainly, in some ways, on the surface, it appears that everything has changed. When my book was first published, President Obama had just been elected. It seemed that we were on the right path: still had a long way to go, but were headed in the right direction. At least, that was the sentiment that was shared by many, many people. It seemed as though this dream of a multiracial, multi-ethnic, egalitarian democracy was within our reach, and there was an incredible amount of hope for positive change. And yet we were also living in a time of tremendous denial.



As I wrote, a system of mass incarceration had been born in America, a system of racial and social control that turned back much of the racial progress we thought we had made, and people were unwilling to talk about it and to face it. Criminal-justice issues weren’t even really on the radar of civil-rights organizations at that time, with the exception of the A.C.L.U. and some work on racial profiling that was beginning to be done by the N.A.A.C.P. and other organizations. When the Leadership Conference on Civil Rights, in 2008, sent out a letter listing the most pressing issues on civil rights, criminal-justice issues didn’t even make the list. And when, in 2009, the Congressional Black Caucus sent out a list of a couple dozen issues that might be of concern to black communities, criminal justice didn’t make the list. This was just as the drug war was raging and the race to incarcerate was going full bore. And so there was a way in which we were asleep and in denial.



Today, that has changed. The election of President Trump has completely decimated whatever fantasies we had that we are living in a post-racial America. We now can see that systems of racial and social control are alive and well, not only due to the uprisings in Ferguson and the many, many publicized police killings of unarmed black people and the growing movements to end mass incarceration. We’ve also come to see how yet another system of racial and social control has been born in this country, the system of mass deportation and mass detention. So we have this paradox in which, on the one hand, it seems that everything has changed, yet the politics of white supremacy have remained largely unchanged during the Obama years. Now we are forced to reckon with racial realities that we had long attempted to avoid, and I think we are finally beginning to see how the politics of divide and conquer, the politics of racial scapegoating and fearmongering, have been used again and again.



Some of the scholars who have been in dialogue with you about your book have taken issue with your focus on the war on drugs and nonviolent drug offenses. John Pfaff, in his book “Locked In,” says that only about sixteen per cent of state prisoners are serving time on drug charges, and very few of them—maybe about five or six per cent of that group—are both low level and nonviolent. And what he and the other scholars are saying is, even if you released all the people in prisons who were there for drug offenses, nonviolent drug offenses, that would not put a real dent in the prison population.



Well, that’s absolutely right. It is true that roughly half of the people who are held in state prisons today have been convicted of offenses that are labelled violent, and that a small minority of people in prison today have been labelled drug offenders. But one of the main points of “The New Jim Crow” is that it is a profound mistake to think of the system of mass incarceration as simply a system of prisons.



There are twice as many people on probation or parole today as are locked in prisons or jails. When people think about the system of mass incarceration, they typically just think about who’s in prison at any given moment. But what I hope to draw people’s attention to is that this system of mass incarceration is actually a system of mass criminalization. It is a system that criminalizes people at very young ages, often before they’re old enough to vote. It labels them criminals and felons, and then strips them of basic civil rights, the very rights supposedly won in the civil-rights movement. And this happens even if you’ve been sentenced only to probation.



So when people look at prison statistics and say, Oh, well, most people who are in prison are there for violent offenses, so our primary concern must be violent crime, or they think, Oh, well, this prison system is really about responding to violent crime, they get it very wrong.



About five per cent of people who are arrested every year have been convicted of violent crimes or charged with violent crimes. People who have been convicted of violent offenses typically get much, much longer sentences than people who have been convicted of nonviolent crimes like drug offenses. And, therefore, they comprise a much larger portion of the prison population. However, ninety-five per cent of those who are arrested and swept into the criminal-justice system every year have been convicted of nonviolent crimes. And the largest category of arrests are drug arrests. That was true in 2010, and it’s true today.



The war on drugs has been a primary vehicle for sweeping people into a criminal-justice system, branding them criminals and felons, and then relegating them to a permanent second-class status for life. That doesn’t mean we should be unconcerned about violent crime or the harm that it does to communities, nor should we be unconcerned about the extremely long sentences and inhuman treatment that people often receive being caged. But what it does mean is that we have to stop thinking about the system of mass incarceration as simply a prison system.



Michelle, let’s talk about the cages in general. There have been calls in recent years for prison abolition. And I wonder what you make of the prison-abolition movement. I’ll ask you what Angela Davis asks in the title of her famous book from 2003, “Are Prisons Obsolete?”



I think prisons are absolutely obsolete. I hope that one day our nation will look back on this practice of putting human beings in literal cages, often treating them worse than we would treat a dog at the pound, sometimes locking them in solitary confinement for decades, allowing them little or no access to sunshine or human contact—I hope that one day we will look back on this practice with as much shame and horror as we view the practice of slavery, or the practice of cutting off limbs and hands of thieves. I hope that we find much more humane, constructive ways of responding to the real harms of violence and of crime than subjecting people to deliberate humiliation, stigmatization, suffering, and caging.



We can do better than this. In my experience, most folks understand that caging people and then stripping them of basic civil and human rights upon their release isn’t productive. In fact, it’s more likely to encourage criminal behavior in the future and make it more difficult for people to survive on the outside without resorting to crime. It’s likely to traumatize people in ways that will be harmful to themselves, to their families, and to their communities. Most people understand that when you talk about drug abuse or drug addiction. People understand that it is much more productive for people to get drug treatment rather than be in a cage. But when it comes to violence, people have a much more difficult time imagining that there are solutions beyond inflicting violence and caging people.



But I’m so encouraged by the work of restorative- and transformative-justice advocates today who are challenging us to think about ways of responding that are more humane and more effective, both for survivors as well as for those who have committed acts of violence.



What do you envision specifically as an alternative to cages, to prisons, to jails? Is there a place in the world that has a justice system that you can point to and say, We definitely should move toward something more like that?



Well, there’s been a lot written in recent years about systems in Norway and Germany that are much more humane than the system of caging that we have in the United States. I would really encourage people to read Danielle Sered’s book “Until We Reckon,” specifically about a program that she operates in New York City called Common Justice. Common Justice is a restorative-justice program that provides alternatives to incarceration for people who have been convicted of or who are facing charges for violent offenses. And what’s interesting about what she has found in the program is that ninety per cent of survivors of violent crime, when given the option of participating in a restorative-justice program, or the opportunity to confront the person who has caused them harm and to devise a plan for that person to try to make up for what they have done in some way, choose to participate in a restorative-justice program rather than to pursue criminal charges and incarceration. This kind of flies in the face of the research that suggests that survivors of violent crime always want people locked up and the key thrown away. In fact, it turns out that survivors of violent crime and the people who have committed harm can come together in many cases, far more often than we imagine, and together develop fair solutions for responding to the harm that’s been caused.



One of the things that is standing in the way of such reform is the fact that a huge number of prisons—seventy per cent, in fact—are located in rural communities and go a long way in bolstering the economies of these communities. I mean, the fact is that prisons are a big source of income for many people living around them. And you make this very clear.



The profit motive is significant. And very often people think about the profit motive simply in terms of private prisons making money off of caging human beings. However, as the book “Prison Profiteers,” edited by Tara Herivel and Paul Wright, points out, there is a very large range of corporate interests that make an enormous amount of money off of our prison system—everything from private health-care providers to Taser-gun manufacturers to companies that are now creating these electronic monitors, G.P.S. tracking systems for people when they are released from prison or jail.



Yes. One of the things that worries me most today is the emergence of e-carceration, or digital prisons, as some activists refer to them. Many people are now being forced to wear electronic monitors, G.P.S. tracking devices, upon release from prisons and jails. These devices will limit people’s range of movement, confining them to their homes or to their neighborhoods, sometimes making it impossible for them to go to work or pick up their children from school. These tracking devices send off alarms to police departments if people travel out of their designated zones. In many ways, these tracking devices are creating entire neighborhoods that are under a kind of lockdown, as an electronically enforced kind of virtual concentration camp, where large percentages of the population are confined to small areas.



But what do you say to people who argue that these technological solutions are more humane than prisons and jails?



Well, certainly, most people, myself included, would rather have an electronic monitor, a G.P.S. tracking device, attached to my ankle than to be sitting in a literal cage. However, I find it very difficult to call a system of e-carceration and the emergence of digital prisons progress. Progress would be decriminalizing our communities, not subjecting them to new, high-tech forms of surveillance and control.



It is entirely possible that, in the years to come, as private corporations begin investing more and more money—billions of dollars are now being invested in the electronic surveillance of people who have been criminalized—that we will have entire communities and neighborhoods that are trapped in digital prisons. It will be cheaper to surveil and control millions of people electronically than through old-fashioned brick-and-mortar prisons.



So I don’t think we should celebrate the rise of electronic monitoring as a step in the right direction or progress. A step in the right direction would be massive investments in education, drug treatment, health care, and job creation, in trauma support in the communities that have been devastated by the war on drugs and mass incarceration.



We all know that the safest communities are not the ones that have the most police, the most prisons, or the highest percentage of people on electronic monitors under constant surveillance and control. No, what creates safety in our communities are good schools, plentiful jobs, quality health care, and a thriving social fabric.



The racial disparities in prisons over the last decade have actually declined. Is there any reason for hope in that?



It’s absolutely a positive development that racial disparities have declined to the extent that it means that we are relying less and less on criminalization and incarceration of all people, including people of color.



I worry about those who focus primarily on racial disparities in our criminal-justice system as a measure of injustice. In fact, there is some research that suggests that racial disparities have narrowed in part because more white people have been incarcerated or saddled with criminal records as a result of the opioid epidemic, or because, as some people have argued, many Latinos are being mislabelled as white in our criminal-justice system, distorting the data. But I wouldn’t celebrate that kind of progress. The goal here is not to subject people of all colors to unnecessary suffering. The goal ought to be to view and treat all people of all colors with dignity, humanity, compassion, and concern.



However, there is also significant evidence indicating that racial disparities have narrowed in large part because many states, New York included, have moved away from many of the harsh drug-war policies that resulted in enormous racial disparities in incarceration and conviction rates. And that is cause for celebration.



I think, again, we have to make sure that we’re not simply addressing symptoms rather than underlying causes. True progress depends on us caring and demonstrating care, compassion, and concern for poor people, and people of color, and being willing to invest in their well-being and their health and their education and their thriving rather than simply in their punishment and in their control.



All the front-runner candidates for the Democratic nomination support some form or another of criminal-justice reform. Do you have a favorite among them?



No, I am not endorsing anyone at this time.



But, on this issue, is there anybody who seems particularly advanced or to your liking?



Well, I would have to say that I have found Elizabeth Warren’s and Bernie Sanders’s criminal-justice platforms to be very encouraging. They’re taking a comprehensive approach to criminal-justice reform and not simply tinkering with the machine by promising to reduce sentencing, for example. Meaningful criminal-justice reform requires taking a very holistic view and insuring that people who are released from prison have meaningful opportunities for education and access to health care and drug treatment and mental-health treatment and support, and that there is a strong commitment to taking the profit motive out of incarceration entirely. And, you know, viewing criminal-justice reform through a racial-justice lens. So I am encouraged that virtually all of the Democratic candidates have stated a willingness to embrace criminal justice-reform to some degree. But for me, personally, I’m less interested in the reform of our criminal-justice system than its transformation. I think we must reimagine the meaning of justice in America, not simply reform our existing criminal-justice institutions. I think that work depends on building and organizing and the engagement of our communities. We can’t simply look to our politicians to have the answers



Finally, I hope you don’t mind if I ask you what seems to be a personal professional question. Your main teaching post has been at an institution that has religion and faith at its center, the Union Theological Seminary. Does that choice represent a change in your thinking on criminal justice or in your own life?



After spending many years working as a civil-rights lawyer and then as a legal, academic, and policy advocate, I became frustrated with the very narrow scope of acceptable discourse in those spaces. As I see it, the crisis of mass incarceration is not simply a legal or political problem to be solved, but it’s a profound spiritual and moral crisis, as well. And it requires a reckoning, individually and collectively, with our racial history, our racial present, and our racial future. Many academics and lawyers are reluctant to face or engage in this reckoning, in part because it seems so big, so overwhelming. Lawyers are accustomed to defining problems in legal terms so that they can solve them. Academics want to study problems. Legal academics want to study problems in a very narrow and often data-driven way, without really asking the deeper questions around, Who are we in relationship to one another? What does justice mean?



And I have found, much to my surprise, that, in progressive seminaries like Union Theological Seminary, there is or there seems to be much greater enthusiasm for wrestling with those deep moral questions of the meaning of justice in a nation forged through genocide and slavery, a multiracial, multiethnic nation that is struggling to overcome its racial history. What does it mean to do justice in this context, in this moment in time?



And I jokingly, although it’s not so much of a joke, tell people who just say to me, “I want to go to law school,” I say, “Well, law school is a place where you learn the rules of the game and how to play it. But it isn’t a place where people think deeply about justice. And I can’t say that’s true for every law school, but it’s true for too many of them. And I’m just grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to be affiliated with Union Theological Seminary, which has such a long history of taking questions of justice very seriously and approaching them not just from a legal or political perspective but from a deeply moral one.



Does this mean that religion and faith-based traditions have become more in the center of your thinking and research and writing and your own personal evolution?



Yes, absolutely, although I don’t consider myself a religious person. I’m probably more of a spiritual but not religious person. But, yeah, I think, ultimately, these questions are about: What does it mean to be in the right relationship to one another? Who belongs in a community, in a nation? How should we treat the least advantaged? What do we owe to one another? How do we repair harm? What does it mean to face irreparable harm in a constructive and responsible way?



Are these questions at the center of a next book?



Yes, they are. I’m working on a book that is very different from “The New Jim Crow.” It’s much more personal, and it’s about my journey going from a liberal civil-rights lawyer who was tinkering with the machine, and believed that we could somehow get to the Promised Land if we just filed the next best lawsuit, or met with the governor, or organize the right number of people for the next protest, to someone who now believes that much more revolutionary change is required, and it’s not simply a political revolution. A moral and spiritual revolution is also required of us now.



David Remnick has been editor of The New Yorker since 1998 and a staff writer since 1992. He is the author of “The Bridge: The Life and Rise of Barack Obama.”











Wednesday, January 15, 2020

The Ascent of Affect

The Ascent of Affect


 By Clive Barnett (University of Exeter, UK), Felicity Callard (Birkbeck, University of London), Phil Hutchinson (Manchester Metropolitan University), James Russell (Boston College) and Ruth Leys (Johns Hopkins University) 


Ruth Leys’s The Ascent of Affect: Genealogy and Critique offers its readers many things: A wide-ranging history of the study of emotion in the period after World War II, charting the emergence of affect as an object of analysis for the human sciences (psychology, neuroscience, philosophy and more); a devastating critique of some of the foundational research in the field of emotion studies (and hence, of much contemporary research that still depends on those findings and paradigms); and a sharp polemic against “non-cognitivist” and “anti-intentionalist” theories of affect, which have been immensely influential in the humanities and social sciences. We asked a number of scholars and scientists to respond to Leys’s arguments; their contributions, and Ruth Leys’s reply, are in this issue’s Tank. 

* Barnett 



* Callard 



* Hutchinson 



* Russell 



* Leys 

Clive Barnett 

Logical Geographies of Action: What are debates about emotions about? 

Ruth Leys’s The Ascent of Affect is the third in a trilogy of books that explore shifts in public and scientific discourses of emotional life.1 It intervenes into a crowded field in which the influence of neuro-discourse has become a pervasive feature in all sorts of areas of policy making, journalistic commentary, and social science research, through selective reference to cognitive psychology, evolutionary biology, behavioural economics, or neuroscience.2 Leys’s new book is a sustained critical engagement with debates within and over the sciences of emotion, and especially with the so-called “basic emotions” paradigm or “affect program theory” associated with the work of experimental psychologists Paul Ekman and Sylvan Tomkins. According to this paradigm, there are a small number of basic emotions–fear, anger, sadness, disgust, joy, surprise–and these are presented as “evolved, genetically hard-wired, reflex-like responses of the organism.”3 It is an understanding that informs the idea that there is both a universality and an autonomy to emotionallife–expressed in the usage of the concept of “affect” as a generic object. In excavating debates within and around these fields of science, Leys thereby also draws into view some affinities between the rise of affect theory in recent cultural theory and the philosophical and methodological issues at work in the fields of science often invoked as unquestionable authorities in the humanities and social sciences. She pinpoints a shared discursive frame that connects what otherwise might appear to be very different scientific theories of basic emotions and socio-cultural theories of affect. Leys concern in this book is therefore not simply to provide a genealogy of particular fields of scientific research. Her broader concern, within which her account of scientific disputes is framed, is to pinpoint and challenge the ways in which claims of scientific authority underwrite a motivated reconfiguration of what counts as political in the humanities in particular, as well as in certain fields of social science, and in public life more generally. 

Leys’s book challenges the rhetorical appeal of naturalist accounts of emotional life, thereby raising much broader questions not just about the validity of this field of research, but about practices of interdisciplinary inquiry more generally. The relevance of her argument for the humanities and social sciences is to demonstrate that the authority of arguments concerning the primacy of the affects over rationality and intentionality cannot be straightforwardly secured by appeals to the external authority of psychology or neuroscience. She makes this case above all by tracing the degree to which those fields of scientific inquiry are not consensual fields at all. Her starting point is the observation that “there is no consensus regarding the science of emotion’s most basic assumptions.”4 It’s an observation that should give pause when reading any authoritative reference to “science” in arguments about the primacy of affects over reason, intention, or meaning. These fields are shaped by disputes and disagreements and controversies of the sort that are constitutive of science of any sort, but also by a more obviously institutional and professional politics that is often hidden from view in the appeal made to the neutral authority of science. 

In recounting the genealogy of various fields of research on the emotions, Leys also identifies some key critical questions about experimental design, inference, and generalization that should be asked of any scientific field when its ideas begin to travel. The critical relevance of Leys’s genealogy of sciences of emotion for practices of interdisciplinarity is highlighted by her discussion in the final chapter of the book, an extended and revised version of an earlier contribution to Critical Inquiry, which called into question the coherence and validity of anti-intentionalist and non-representationalist theories of affect in the humanities and social sciences.5 In this chapter Leys interrogates the use of three exemplary scientific experiments from neuroscience and psychology by leading affect theorists–literary theorist Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, philosopher Brian Massumi, and human geographer Nigel Thrift. She restores to view the sense of controversy around each of their chosen experiments, and reveals the way in which the appeal to scientific authority in affect theory tends not so much to be a generalizing one, but rather a kind of allegorical one–the apparently settled findings from one field come to stand for more universal claims about the relations between embodiment and cognition. 

The Ascent of Affect turns on the contention that what is most at stake across various intellectual debates, from the humanities to neurosciences, is the conceptual status and normative value of the idea of intentionality, that is, of the idea that there is a relationship between “the mind” and things, or properties, or states of affairs of some sort. The question of how to understand the “aboutness” of mental states the long-standing theme of philosophical debates about intentionality.6 Leys structures her discussion around a conundrum which is, she suggests, pivotal to a whole series of contemporary debates in the philosophy of mind, neuroscience, psychology, as well as traditions of critical social thought. The conundrum, she proposes, arises from the conflict between two equally compelling observations. On the one hand, there is the long-standing concern with making sense of the intentionality of the emotions, understood in terms of “the fact or idea that emotions are directed at cognitively apprehended objects and are sensitive to ‘reasons.'”7 On the other hand, emotions also appear to be common to both humans and non-human animals. Often enough, the latter observation is used to refute any sense of the intentionality of emotions, as if the idea of intentionality necessitated a highly rational, linguistic, cognitive view of reasonable action. The apparent incompatibility between holding to the intentionality of emotions and acknowledging the continuities between human and non-human rationality underwrites the divide between cognitivists–who remain keen to investigate intentionality but find it difficult to acknowledge emotions in nonhuman animals–and noncognitivists–who emphasise “the importance of bodily changes and subpersonal processes in the emotions but are seen to have difficulty explaining how it is that emotions have meaning.”8 

In the course of her discussion of the sciences of emotion, Leys slowly demonstrates that the oscillation between these two apparently incommensurable positions might be avoided by simply loosening the assumption that conceptual activity is equivalent to clearly articulated propositional reason. To deflate the dramatic importance often claimed for the rediscovery that action has various “unconscious” conditions, Leys raises two related queries: “If a thought process occurs below the threshold of consciousness or awareness, does this necessarily mean that it is non-intentional in the sense of lacking all semantic or conceptual or cognitive content? If a process occurs very rapidly, does this exclude the intervention of conceptuality?”9 These are, of course, rhetorical questions. For Leys, the answer is emphatically “No” in both cases. 

The shape of action 

To appreciate Leys’s point in raising them–to insist that non-conscious activities can be understood as intentional, and that conscious actions can be quick rather than dully deliberate–perhaps requires a certain degree of sympathy with the philosophical reference points that she uses to frame her own analysis. She locates the findings of the psychology of the emotions and neuroscience in an active philosophical debate about the relationships between naturalism and normativity.10 Leys reference point is best represented by the recent “debate” between John McDowell and Hubert Dreyfus over rationality, mindedness, and how best to interpret the relations between nonconceptual and conceptual dimensions of action.11 As Leys describes it, this debate is about “how to characterize the kinds of embodied copings that nonhuman and human animals exhibit when they negotiate their relations with the world and others in a highly skilled and apparently ‘automatic’ fashion.”12 The subject of the Dreyfus and McDowell exchange is how to understand unreflective, embodied action. Dreyfus has developed a distinctively non-representational view of embodied action as unreflective, non-rational, non-conceptual–as “unminded.” He accused McDowell of still holding to “the myth of the mental by presuming that the deconstruction of any clear divide between mind and the world shows that that perception is conceptual ‘all the way out.'”13 Dreyfus’s position is that phenomenology–by which he means primarily Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty–teaches us that the capacity to routinely carry out any number of ordinary embodied actions of different levels of complexity without thinking about them is fundamentally a non-conceptual, intuitive capacity, shared with animals and infants. In an entertaining reversal, McDowell accuses Dreyfus of being the one who holds fast to a Cartesian dualism, by seeking to completely separate mindedness from intuitive embodied coping. McDowell also reads phenomenology as supporting his recasting of rationality as thoroughly embodied, and suggests that it is Dreyfus who is clinging to a detached conception of rationality, as a kind of useful straw figure. 

The Dreyfus/McDowell debate is, it’s worth noting, a dispute between two types of non-representational account of action, not between a non-representational view and a representational view. Dreyfus stands for a view in which phenomenological insights correct mistaken views about activity being permeated by conceptual rationality. McDowell thinks phenomenological insights are a “supplementation,” as he puts it, to that view, re-ordering how we think of rationality rather than requiring a commitment to notions of non-conceptual or non-rational coping. 

There is an important subtext to the debate between Dreyfus and McDowell that, once noticed, better helps to appreciate the force of Leys’s own negotiation of these issues. In no small part, the disagreement between these two thinkers revolves around the ways in which spatial metaphors are mobilized in their arguments. McDowell’s work has involved the re-imagination of ideas of inside and outside to reconfigure the image of mind-body relationships.14 And Dreyfus’s criticism of “the myth of the mental” turns on a set of architectural metaphors of the upper floors mindedness and lower floors of embodied coping.15 One lesson from this debate is, then, that it is worth taking some time to think through the implications of the “logical geographies” that characterize different accounts of human action. The phrase is, of course, Gilbert Ryle’s.16 I am proposing to use it in a rather less prescriptive way than he did, not as a prompt to correct other people’s flawed understandings (and certainly not as mean of criticizing the use of spatial terms as excessively metaphorical). Paying careful attention to the logical geographies of theories of action is a defining characteristic of styles of thought influenced by ordinary language philosophy in some way or other.17 It is consistent with taking seriously the grammar of different strands of thought, where this means paying attention to the actions being performed in the use of words and concepts.18 Attending to the logical geographies of theories of action suggests reading the use of spatial and temporal figures in intellectual debates with an eye to what it is that is really at stake in their expression–it helps us to establish what it is that spatial and temporal vocabularies are used to do in the course of developing arguments.19 

In light of this sense of the different logical geographies deployed by Dreyfus and McDowell, we might notice how in debates about neuroscience, the autonomy of affect, or the existence of basic emotions, there is a recurrent appeal to specific ideas about the relations between insides and outsides, between different systems, and between distinct processes. For example, as Leys observes,20 nonrepresentatoinal theories and theories of affect routinely appeal to a simplistic contrast between reason, rationality and language, on the one side (which it is argued have been given far too much weight in recent theoretical debates), and corporeality and embodiment and emotion and affect on the other. In this rhetorical move, affect (often spoken of as a singular, generic noun) is presented as essentially non-cognitive, sub-personal and corporeal, working automatically prior to and below any conscious processing by a self-reflective mind or subject. In fact, figures of temporal priority and spatial layering–of things happening prior to and before certain other things, or of some autonomous levels causing events at other, more dependent levels–are pervasive within the scientific fields surveyed by Leys, in the interdisciplinary pilfering that underwrites the rise of affect theory, as well as in popularisations in public discourse more generally. This is most clearly evident in the recourse to a “layer-cake” view of the priority of the latter over the former terms in each pair.21 This view is apparent in the causal references to ideas of the prepersonal, the presubjective, the preindividual, or the unthought in much commentary on the relevance of recent scientific research for understandings of action, thinking, and free will. The combination of a vocabulary of levels with a vocabulary of temporal priority is the recurrent rhetorical feature of a whole genre of affect theory, and it connects it with a much broader cultural world of psychologised neuro-commentary. This image of layering is now central to the lessons drawn and claims made about the temporality of embodiment, cognition, intentionality, and action across varied fields of science, social science, and the humanities. Arguments for the autonomy of affect in the humanities and social sciences, and arguments about basic emotions in science both hold fast to a strong separation of the conceptual and nonconceptual, thought and action, cognition and affect. 

And herein lies the importance of Leys’s critical intent in developing her genealogy of scientific controversies in the sciences of emotions. She helps us move beyond the relentlessly dualistic oscillation that frames so much discussion of brains, emotions, and feelings. She does so by presenting an alternative choice: not between a highly rationalistic view of conscious rationality and a wholly embodied view of automated impulses, but between two different spatial pictures of how the mind relates to the world. 

On the one hand, there is a view of the mind as a bounded entity, an inside causally mediated by representations with an external world. Cognitive psychology holds to this resolutely individualised picture. The noncognitivist counter to this view is no less individualised, and no less dualistic; it simply dispenses with the representational mediation of inside and outside, and presents the emotions as fully naturalised filters between isolated monads and the external world. Either way, one has a view of the mind that depends on what McDowell has characterised as a fully disenchanted view of nature, one which can find no place in its picture of the natural for the interactive, interpretative dynamics of meaning and interpretation.22 Both the cognitivist view in which behaviour is about individual mental representations in the mind/brain, and the noncognitivst and anti-intentional interpretation of the emotions hold to images of isolated monads, housing a brain, buffeted by external stimuli. In both views, the social stands as a separate, exterior environment. In particular, the noncognitivist strand of scientific research on emotions–with its emphasis on the stark separation and hierarchical ordering of systems of knowing and feeling; its clear divisions between insides and outsides; its emphasis on information processing and stimulus response; and its attachment to identifying sub-personal mechanisms–informs an imagination of the social reduced to monadic pre-individuals immersed in totalising atmospheres and subjected to triggers and impulses that wholly shape them. 

On the other hand, Leys elaborates on an alternative tradition of “ecological” or “ethological” thinking about the mind.23 Here, mindedness is a quality that is located in situated interactions between humans or nonhuman animals. She presents this counter-tradition of scientific research on the emotions as one that holds to a view of mindedness as contextual and ecological. It therefore has lots more to say about issues of intentionality than the dominant basic emotions paradigm–the contextual emphasis means that the “aboutness” of emotional responses is restored to view. Leys insists that it is indeed possible to explain the emotions naturalistically while retaining a sense that meaning is a crucial dimension of any such naturalistic account. To bolster this argument, she endorses the “embodied world taking cognitivism” developed by the philosopher Phil Hutchinson.24 On his view, as for McDowell, perception is presented as conceptual “all the way out.” What this means for Leys is that we need to embrace an account of the emotions that amounts to “a cognitivism that emphasizes the ways in which humans and other animals are alive to aspects of the world–not to the disenchanted world of the modern natural sciences that stands external to minds, but to the cognized, conceptualized world.”25 The type of “embodied world taking cognitivsm” that Leys recommends is shared both by the minor traditions of emotions research that she champions in this book, as well as a broad philosophical tradition working over the theme of the ordinary. For example, it is a sense of the ordinary as a name for the pervasive vulnerability to doubt that conditions all action that is central to Leys’s characterisation of Ekman’s work as hubristically presuming to have solved the philosophical puzzle of Other Minds–of banishing scepticism itself–in developing a paradigm that presumes to be able to hold a mirror up to the soul and determine scientifically when a person is being sincere or when they are lying.26 

To be quite clear, the contrast at stake between the bounded and the ecological view of the mind is not between a scientific view of mind and a humanistic one found in the social science and humanities. The fault lines around the interpretation of intentional action that Leys reconstructs run across these putative disciplinary divides, and cleave specific disciplines internally–and Leys shows that this is no less true of scientific research fields than it is of cultural studies or political theory. 

On my reading, then, rather than settling for one side or other of a dualism between highly cognitive views of mindedness and assertively nonrepresentational views, Leys reframes the intellectual terrain of discussion about rationality, emotion, and embodiment around a contrast between the inverted Cartesianism characteristic of so much contemporary neuro-discourse and affect theory on the one hand, and on the other hand a resolutely ecological view that restores to view the centrality of issues of intentionality. But to fully grasp the significance of focusing on how Leys rearranges the logical geographies of intentional action, we need to follow the implication of another strand of Leys’s argument in The Ascent of Affect. Her reconstruction of the conceptual assumptions that shape the experimental design and interpretation of emotions research reveals the degree to which this range of work consistently falls back on the idea that mental processes can be divided into two systems–a rational, reflexive, cognitive system, and an automatic system of unconscious motivations. In emotions research, Leys shows, assumptions drawn from cybernetics and information theory lead to a strongly dualistic, hierarchical view in which automatic activation of emotional response and conscious decisions occur in different systems, one after the other. 

Leys makes clear that scientific discourses of emotions revolve around debates about how to interpret the relations between concepts of automaticity and intentionality. The meaning ascribed to these concepts is crucial for how unconscious mental activity is interpreted. In both affect theory and the basic emotions paradigm, as well as in popularization of brain research more generally, the term “automatism” draws on a simple, medical-legalistic sense of actions undertaken “unconsciously”–that is, without or prior to conscious deliberation and decision.27 There is, of course, an alternative sense of automatism associated with modernist art–the surrealists most obviously–as well as in the cultural theories of Roland Barthes and Stanley Cavell. Here, automatism is not a term in an opposition between the intentional and the automatic, but for a redistribution of agency across media, genres, and skillful action.28 I take this also to be one of the central concerns of the “nonsite school” of cultural criticism, if there is such a thing–thinking through the implications for concepts of intentionality and interpretation of the automatism built into various artistic mediums, and painting, photography, and film in particular. In all of these fields of debate, automatism is a concept most creatively used according to what one might call a horizontal modularity of action, in which intentionality is folded into broader ecologies of deliberation, habit, reflection, routine, and technology (you could just call it “practice”).29 

The relevance of these different views of automatism and intentionality is captured by Leys through passing reference to the shift in the meaning of ideas about unconscious mental activity. She suggests that the rise of universal theories of the basic emotions has had the effect of displacing a dynamic image of the relations between different aspects of embodied action—an image indebted to Freud. As she observes, in psychoanalysis the concept of the unconscious is a “a dynamic-conflictual one involving the role of an ego capable of banishing the subject’s unacceptable desires and wishes from conscious awareness.”30 There are two points worth making about how recalling Freud’s example can help to reorient discussions of affect, embodiment, emotions, and intentionality. First, Freud himself was careful to acknowledge the temptations of taking the spatial analogies involved in conceptualising and investigating the mind too literally.31 The innovation that he claimed to have instituted into the understanding of mental life was to displace “a topographical way of representing things” with a more dynamic view of the unconscious.32 The importance of this shift from a topographical to a dynamic view, he suggested, lay in replacing a view of the mind as consisting of two distinct systems with a view of the mind being shaped by the interactions of two kinds of processes.33 This shift in what I am calling the logical geography of action is related to the second important dimension of Freud’s thought that bears on the discussion here. In Freudian terms, unconscious processes are not merely a background condition of some sort, waiting to be noticed, nor even mere “aspects” revealed by a change of perspective. They are not present to consciousness because they are actively repressed. Accordingly, Freud distinguished between two senses of “unconscious,” referring both to those “excitations” that are “inadmissible” to consciousness and those that can reach consciousness.34 It is the latter sense that is crucial to the dynamic view that Leys identifies as having been more recently displaced. The dynamic view of the unconscious only makes any sense on the assumption that subjectivity is in important respects intentional, but not wholly so. As Todd Cronan puts it, Freud “called those actions that are yours but that you do not fully understand unconscious.”35 

In short, Freud’s crucial achievement was to separate the concept of intention from its subordination to the concept of consciousness.36 And it is this innovation that is rejected by the more “scientific” views whose recent ascendancy Leys traces, as well as nonrepresentational theories of affect. As Leys observes, “with the rise of information-processing theories of mental function, the dynamic unconscious of Freud was transformed. Unconscious activities were now viewed as forms of automatic, non-conscious information processing occurring in computer-style subsystems capable of acting independently of the mind’s conscious control.”37 It is this second sense of “unconscious,” with or without the scientific references, that is the operative usage in fields which either champion or bemoan the extent to which apparently wilful action is in fact influenced, primed and manipulated in all sorts of ways that are beyond the mind’s control. As Leys puts it, what is involved in the information processing view is the “reformulation of the dynamic unconscious into an information-processing ‘cognitive unconscious.’”38 This conceptual shift is evident in the frequent recourse to ideas of the automatic, the subpersonal, the preattentive, or the unthought in accounts of emotions, affect, and embodied attunement. 

Leys therefore helps us see that the ascendancy of affect–in science just as much as in the humanities and social sciences–effectively reverses the conceptual innovations introduced by adopting a dynamic view of unconscious processes. She also demonstrates that the shift in the master metaphors of the sciences of the mind back to topographical images of layering and temporal images of causal priority is in no small part shaped by the accessibility of mental processes to certain sorts of experimental designs–those which emphasize the discrete, visible, and therefore calculable and correlatable attributes of action. And so it is that, in reverting to the easy satisfactions of a topographical imagination, the problem of intention is elided in favor of what is essentially an early modern view in which the mind is equated with a fully self-present consciousness, so that the naivety of this view can be all the more easily presented as ripe for elimination. In reverting to a topographical view of the mind in preference to the tragic sensibilities associated with a more dynamic view of the relations between intentionality, unconscious processes, and automatism, contemporary naturalistic discourses of brains, emotions, and affects succeed only in reproducing a thoroughly disenchanted view of the natural world. 

Intentionality is ordinary 

In closing, I want to commend Leys’s reconstruction of the recent history of the sciences of emotion as essential reading for anyone who is interested in the philosophical issues raised by current debates about intentionality, embodiment, naturalism, and rationality. The Ascent of Affect reveals a fundamental divide between two styles of contemporary critical analysis. In one style, discussions of affect, emotions, brains, and embodiment are oriented to developing authoritative-sounding ontologies of materialism and vitality. In an alternative style, exemplified by Leys’s own work, the concern is with genealogical re-contextualisation of fields of authoritative scientific knowledge.39 As I have suggested, the genealogical emphasis in Leys’s account is on restoring to view the disputes and disagreements within scientific fields, and in so doing she presents a critical challenge to conventional models of interdisciplinarity. Importantly, too, Leys outlines an account of intentionality that is, I think, rather different in its implications than that associated with the “nonsite school,” which has been primarily focused upon redeeming a somewhat traditional-looking concept of artistic intentionality closely associated with claims to aesthetically mediated access to objective truth.40 She helps us to see that there is certainly no good reason to hold fast to the vertical framing of conscious and automatic systems that underwrites so much emotions research, neuroscience, and affect theory. Rather than thinking of a dichotomy between autonomous reason and the force of automatic conditioning, we might better think of perception and action, reflecting and doing, as going on alongside each other, arrayed horizontally, rather than imagining them as vertically mediated. Somewhere between the over-inflated claims of “science” and the defensive assertions of “the humanities,” there is a whole world of social inquiry waiting to be explored where the trials and tribulations of creative action are elaborated in all of their ordinariness.41 

NOTES 

1.See also Ruth Leys, Trauma: A Genealogy. (Chicago: University of Chicago, 2000) and From Guilt to Shame: Auschwitz and After (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007).? 

Rosewood