Intellectual Impostures

by Alan Sokal

  If the claim were merely that we should use the same principles of sociology and psychology to explain the causation of all beliefs irrespective of whether we evaluate them as true or false, rational or irrational, then we would have no particular objection.114 But if the claim is that only social causes can enter into such an explanation – that the way the world is (i.e., Nature) cannot enter – then we cannot disagree more strenuously.115

  In order to understand the role of Nature, let us consider a concrete example: Why did the European scientific community become convinced of the truth of Newtonian mechanics sometime between 1700 and 1750? Undoubtedly a variety of historical, sociological, ideological and political factors must play a part in this explanation – one must explain, for example, why Newtonian mechanics was accepted quickly in England but more slowly in France116 – but certainly some part of the explanation (and a rather important part at that) must be that the planets and comets really do move (to a very high degree of approximation, though not exactly) as predicted by Newtonian mechanics.117

  Here’s a more homely example: Suppose we encounter a man running out of a lecture hall screaming at the top of his lungs that there’s a stampeding herd of elephants inside. What we are to make of this assertion, and in particular how we are to evaluate its ‘causes’, should, it seems clear, depend heavily on whether or not there is in fact a stampeding herd of elephants in the room – or, more precisely, since admittedly we have no direct, unmediated access to external reality – whether when we and other people peek (cautiously!) into the room we see or hear a stampeding herd of elephants (or the destruction that such a herd might recently have caused before exiting the room). If we do see such evidence of elephants, then the most plausible explanation for the entire set of observations is that there is (or was) in fact a stampeding herd of elephants in the lecture hall, that the man saw and/or heard it, and that his subsequent fright (which we might well share under the circumstances) led him to exit the room in a hurry and to scream the assertion we overheard. And our reaction would be to call the police and the zookeepers. If, on the other hand, our own observations reveal no evidence of elephants in the lecture hall, then the most plausible explanation is that there was not in fact a stampeding herd of elephants in the room, that the man imagined the elephants as a result of some psychosis (whether internally or chemically induced), and that this led him to exit the room in a hurry and to scream the assertion we overheard. And we’d call the police and the psychiatrists.118 And we daresay that Barnes and Bloor, whatever they might write in journal articles for sociologists and philosophers, would do the same in real life.

  Now, as we explained before, we do not see any fundamental difference between the epistemology of science and the rational attitude in everyday life: the former is nothing but the extension and refinement of the latter. Any philosophy of science – or methodology for sociologists – that is so blatantly wrong when applied to the epistemology of everyday life must be severely flawed at its core.

  In summary, it seems to us that the ‘strong programme’ is ambiguous in its intent; and, depending on how one resolves the ambiguity, it becomes either a valid and mildly interesting corrective to the most naive psychological and sociological notions – reminding us that ‘true beliefs have causes too’ – or else a gross and blatant error.

  The supporters of the ‘strong programme’ thus face a dilemma. They could, if they choose, adhere systematically to a philosophical scepticism or relativism; but in that case it is unclear why (or how) they would seek to build a ‘scientific’ sociology. Alternatively, they could choose to adopt only a methodological relativism; but this position is untenable if one abandons philosophical relativism, because it ignores an essential element of the desired explanation, namely Nature itself. For this reason, the sociological approach of the ‘strong programme’ and the relativistic philosophical attitude are mutually reinforcing. Therein resides the danger (and no doubt the appeal for some) of the different variants of this programme.

  Bruno Latour and his Rules of Method

  The strong programme in the sociology of science has found an echo in France, particularly around Bruno Latour. His works contain a great number of propositions formulated so ambiguously that they can hardly be taken literally. And when one removes the ambiguity – as we shall do here in a few examples – one reaches the conclusion that the assertion is either true but banal, or else surprising but manifestly false.

  In his theoretical work, Science in Action,119 Latour develops seven Rules of Method for the sociologist of science. Here is the Third Rule of Method:

  Since the settlement of a controversy is the cause of Nature’s representation, not the consequence, we can never use the outcome – Nature – to explain how and why a controversy has been settled.

  (Latour 1987, pp. 99, 258)

  Note how Latour slips, without comment or argument, from ‘Nature’s representation’ in the first half of this sentence to ‘Nature’ tout court in the second half. If we were to read ‘Nature’s representation’ in both halves, then we’d have the truism that scientists’ representations of Nature (that is, their theories) are arrived at by a social process, and that the course and outcome of that social process can’t be explained simply by its outcome. If, on the other hand, we take ‘Nature’ seriously in the second half, linked as it is to the word ‘outcome’, then we would have the claim that the external world is created by scientists’ negotiations: a claim that is, to say the least, a rather bizarre form of radical idealism. Finally, if we take ‘Nature’ seriously in the second half but expunge the word ‘outcome’ preceding it, then we would have either (a) the weak (and trivially true) claim that the course and outcome of a scientific controversy cannot be explained solely by the nature of the external world (obviously some social factors play a role, if only in determining which experiments are technologically feasible at a given time, not to mention other, more subtle social influences); or (b) the strong (and manifestly false) claim that the nature of the external world plays no role in constraining the course and outcome of a scientific controversy.120

  We could be accused here of focusing our attention on an ambiguity of formulation and of not trying to understand what Latour really means. In order to counter this objection, let us go back to the section ‘Appealing (to) Nature’ (pp. 94–100) where the Third Rule is introduced and developed. Latour begins by ridiculing the appeal to Nature as a way of resolving scientific controversies, such as the one concerning solar neutrinos:121

  A fierce controversy divides the astrophysicists who calculate the number of neutrinos coming out of the sun and Davis, the experimentalist who obtains a much smaller figure. It is easy to distinguish them and put the controversy to rest. Just let us see for ourselves in which camp the sun is really to be found. Somewhere the natural sun with its true number of neutrinos will close the mouths of dissenters and force them to accept the facts no matter how well written these papers were.

  (Latour 1987, p. 95)

  Why does Latour choose to be ironic? The problem is to know how many neutrinos are emitted by the Sun, and this question is indeed difficult. We can hope that it will be resolved some day, not because ‘the natural sun will close the mouths of dissenters’, but because sufficiently powerful empirical data will become available. Indeed, in order to fill in the gaps in the currently available data and to discriminate between the currently existing theories, several groups of physicists have recently built detectors of different types, and they are now performing the (difficult) measurements.122 It is thus reasonable to expect that the controversy will be settled sometime in the next few years, thanks to an accumulation of evidence that, taken together, will indicate clearly the correct solution. However, other scenarios are in principle possible: the controversy could die out because people stop being interested in the issue, or because the problem turns out to be too difficult to solve; and, at this level, sociological factors undoubtedly play a role (if only because of th
e budgetary constraints on research). Obviously, scientists think, or at least hope, that if the controversy is resolved it will be because of observations and not because of the literary qualities of the scientific papers. Otherwise, they will simply have ceased to do science.

  But we, like Latour, do not work professionally on the solar-neutrino problem; we are unable to render an informed guess as to how many neutrinos the sun emits. We could try to get a rough idea by examining the scientific literature on the subject; or failing that, we could get an even rougher idea by examining the sociological aspects of the problem, for example, the scientific respectability of the researchers involved in the controversy. And there is no doubt that, in practice, this is what scientists themselves do when they don’t work in the field, for lack of a better alternative. But the degree of certainty provided by this kind of investigation is very weak. Nevertheless, Latour seems to accord it a crucial role. He distinguishes between two ‘versions’: according to the first, it is Nature that decides the outcome of controversies; according to the second, the power struggles between researchers play that role.

  It is crucial for us, laypeople who want to understand technoscience, to decide which version is right, because in the first version, as Nature is enough to settle all disputes, we have nothing to do since no matter how large the resources of the scientists are, they do not matter in the end – only Nature matters. ... In the second version, however, we have a lot of work to do since, by analysing the allies and resources that settle a controversy we understand everything that there is to understand in technoscience. If the first version is correct, there is nothing for us to do apart from catching the most superficial aspects of science; if the second version is maintained, there is everything to understand except perhaps the most superfluous and flashy aspects of science. Given the stakes, the reader will realise why this problem should be tackled with caution. The whole book is in jeopardy here.

  (Latour 1987, p. 97, italics in the original)

  Since ‘the whole book is in jeopardy here’, let us look carefully at this passage. Latour says that if it is Nature that settles the controversies, the role of the sociologist is secondary, but if that is not the case, the sociologist can understand ‘everything that there is to understand in technoscience’. How does he decide which version is the correct one? The answer appears in the subsequent text, where Latour distinguishes between the ‘cold parts of technoscience’, for which ‘Nature is now taken as the cause of accurate descriptions of herself’ (p. 100), and the active controversies, where Nature cannot be invoked:

  When studying controversy – as we have so far – we cannot be less relativist than the very scientists and engineers we accompany; they do not use Nature as the external referee, and we have no reason to imagine that we are more clever than they are.

  (Latour 1987, p. 99, italics in the original)

  In this quotation and the previous one, Latour is playing constantly on the confusion between facts and our knowledge of them.123 The correct answer to any scientific question, solved or not, depends on the state of Nature (for example, on the number of neutrinos that the sun really emits). Now, it happens that, for the unsolved problems, nobody knows the right answer, while for the solved ones, we do know it (at least if the accepted solution is correct, which can always be challenged). But there is no reason to adopt a ‘relativist’ attitude in one case and a ‘realist’ one in the other. The difference between these attitudes is a philosophical matter, and is independent of whether the problem is solved or not. For the relativist, there is simply no unique correct answer, independent of all social and cultural circumstances; this holds for the closed questions as well as for the open ones. On the other hand, the scientists who seek the correct solution are not relativist, almost by definition. Of course they do ‘use Nature as the external referee’: that is, they seek to know what is really happening in Nature, and they design experiments for that purpose.

  Let us not, however, leave the impression that the Third Rule of Method is only a triviality or a gross error. We’d like to give it one more interpretation (which is undoubtedly not Latour’s own) that makes it at the same time interesting and correct. Let us read it as a methodological principle for a sociologist of science who does not himself have the scientific competence to make an independent assessment of whether the experimental/observational data do in fact warrant the conclusions the scientific community has drawn from them.124 In such a situation, the sociologist will be understandably reluctant to say that ‘the scientific community under study came to conclusion X because X is the way the world really is’ – even if it is in fact the case that X is the way the world is and that is the reason the scientists came to believe it – because the sociologist has no independent grounds to believe that X is the way the world really is other than the fact that the scientific community under study came to believe it. Of course, the sensible conclusion to draw from this cul de sac is that sociologists of science ought not to study scientific controversies on which they lack the competence to make an independent assessment of the facts, if there is no other (for example, historically later) scientific community on which they could justifiably rely for such an independent assessment. But it goes without saying that Latour would not enjoy this conclusion.125

  Here lies, in fact, the fundamental problem for the sociologist of ‘science in action’. It is not enough to study the alliances or power relationships between scientists, important though they may be. What appears to a sociologist as a pure power game may in fact be motivated by perfectly rational considerations which, however, can be understood as such only through a detailed understanding of the scientific theories and experiments.

  Of course, nothing prevents a sociologist from acquiring such an understanding – or from working in collaboration with scientists who already have it – but in none of his Rules of Method does Latour recommend that sociologists of science follow this route. Indeed, in the case of Einstein’s relativity, we can show that Latour did not follow it himself.126 This is understandable, because it is difficult to acquire the requisite knowledge, even for scientists working in a slightly different field. But nothing is gained by biting off more than one can chew.

  Practical Consequences

  We don’t want to give the impression that we are attacking only some esoteric philosophical doctrines or the methodology followed by one current in the sociology of science. In fact, our target is much wider. Relativism (as well as other postmodern ideas) has effects on the culture in general and on people’s ways of thinking. Here are a few examples we have come across. We have no doubt that the reader will find many other examples in the culture sections of newspapers, in certain educational theories, or simply in day-to-day conversations.

  1. Relativism and criminal investigations.

  We have applied various relativist arguments to criminal investigations in order to show that, since they are thoroughly unconvincing in that context, there is little reason to give them credence when applied to science. That is why the following excerpt is surprising, to say the least: taken literally, it expresses a rather strong form of relativism concerning precisely a criminal investigation. Here is the context: In 1996, Belgium was shaken by a series of kidnap-murders of children. In response to public outrage at the inept police work, a parliamentary commission was set up to examine the errors committed during the investigation. In a spectacular televised session, two witnesses – a policeman (Lesage) and a judge (Doutrèwe) – were confronted and questioned concerning the transmission of a key file. The policeman swore he had sent the file to the judge, while the judge denied having received it. The next day, an anthropologist of communication, Professor Yves Winkin of the University of Liège, was interviewed by one of the main Belgian newspapers (Le Soir of 20 December 1996):

  QUESTION: The confrontation [between Lesage and Doutrèwe] was stimulated by an almost ultimate search for truth. Does truth exist?

  ANSWER: ... I think that all the work o
f the commission is based on a sort of presupposition that that there exists, not a truth, but the truth – which, if one presses hard enough, will finally come out.

  However, anthropologically, there are only partial truths, shared by a larger or smaller number of people: a group, a family, a firm. There is no transcendent truth. Therefore, I don’t think that judge Doutrèwe or officer Lesage are hiding anything: both are telling their truth.

  Truth is always linked to an organization, depending upon the elements that are perceived as important. It is not surprising that these two people, representing two very different professional universes, should each set forth a different truth. Having said that, I think that, in this context of public responsibility, the commission can only proceed as it does.

  This answer illustrates, in a striking way, the confusions into which some sectors of the social sciences have fallen through their use of a relativist vocabulary. The dispute between the policeman and the judge concerns, after all, a material fact: the transmission of a file. (It is, of course, possible that the file was sent but got lost on the way; but this remains a well-defined factual question.) Without a doubt, the epistemological problem is complicated: how is the commission to find out what really happened? Nevertheless, there is a truth of the matter: either the file was sent or it wasn’t. It is hard to see what is gained by redefining the word ‘truth’ (whether or not it is ‘partial’) to mean simply ‘a belief shared by a larger or smaller number of people’.

  In this text, one also finds the idea of ‘different universes’. Little by little, some tendencies in the social sciences have atomized humankind into cultures and groups having their own conceptual universes – sometimes even their own ‘realities’ – and virtually unable to communicate with one another.127 But in this case it reaches a level bordering on the absurd: these two people speak the same language, live less than a hundred miles apart, and work in the criminal-justice system of a French-speaking Belgian community comprising barely four million people. Clearly, the problem does not arise from an inability to communicate: the policeman and the judge understand perfectly well what is being asked, and they most likely know the truth; quite simply, one of them has an interest in lying. But even if they are both telling the truth – i.e., the file was sent but got lost in transit, which is logically possible though unlikely – it makes no sense to say that ‘both are telling their truth’. Fortunately, when it comes down to practical considerations, the anthropologist admits that the commission ‘can only proceed as it does’, that is, seek the truth. But what incredible confusions before getting there.