How do we write the history of social science? There are problems even with the name. In English alone, “sciences of man,” “moral sciences,” “moral and political sciences,” “behavioral sciences,” and “human sciences” have been among its many predecessors and competitors. Their proliferation reflects the unsettled nature of this broad subject matter. All are capable of giving offense, both by exclusion and by inclusion. Many have long and contradictory histories.

Consider the career of the “moral sciences.” The phrase “sciences morales et politiques” was introduced in France about 1770. In 1795 it was enshrined as the official label for the “second class” of the Institut de France (the former Académie des Sciences was the first class), until this nest of critics was reorganized out of existence by Napoleon in 1803. Restored in 1832, the official institution of the moral and political sciences was now suitably conservative, emphasizing philosophy and individual morality. John Stuart Mill, an admirer of Auguste Comte’s “sociology,” included in his enduringly influential 1843 treatise on logic a section aiming to “remedy” the “backward state of the moral sciences” by “applying to them the methods of physical science, duly extended and generalized.” A German translation of Mill’s work rendered “moral sciences” as Geisteswissenschaften – not the first use of that German term, but an influential one. It referred to the sciences of Geist, which could be translated back into English as “spirit” or “mind.” In German, this remained a standard label until well into the twentieth century. It was understood to indicate that such studies had a moral and spiritual character, quite unlike the sciences of nature.

During the late nineteenth century, geography was institutionalized as a discipline with ties to both nature and culture, but it was divided into several distinct national schools and competing currents of thought. The chronology of ruptures over the past century also differed by country: The notion of a “modern” geography took hold in the early 1900s, while the diffusion of what was called the “new geography” occurred during the 1950s and 1960s in the United States, and during the 1970s in continental Europe. At the dawn of the twenty-first century, the expansion of geography had not altered the segmentation of the discipline. Nonetheless, several general tendencies – geographic, epistemological, and institutional – transformed the discipline during the second half of the twentieth century. Geographically, the center of gravity of the discipline shifted after the Second World War from the countries of “Old Europe,” where it had first flourished – in Germany, France, and Great Britain – toward the United States and the Anglophone world. Beginning during the same postwar period, geography was incorporated into the human sciences rather than the earth sciences, to which it had earlier been attached, inaugurating a greater variety of practices and interactions with the social sciences, especially economics, although after 1980 geography also began to explore its links with the humanities. Finally, the development of new markets after 1950 diversified this formerly professorial discipline, so that training in geography became oriented toward spatial planning, the environment, geopolitics, and social expertise.

Accounting is one of the most influential forms of quantification of the late twentieth century. It creates the apparently objective financial flows to which certain Western societies accord such significance, and it makes possible distinctive ways of administering and coordinating processes and people. For a vast range of occupations, from shop floor workers and divisional managers to doctors and teachers, the calculative practices of accounting seek to affect behavior and to constrain actions in a manner and to an extent unimagined a century ago. Yet accounting is also one of the most neglected and least visible of all the quantifying disciplines. While the concepts and practices of the economist, the statistician, and the actuary have received detailed academic scrutiny, those of the accountant have been left in the shadows or relegated to a subsidiary role within a larger story. Only recently has this begun to change.

When accounting does become the object of public scrutiny, this typically concerns the external face of accounting, the reporting of the financial condition of business enterprises to shareholders and other outside parties, and the auditing of such reports. But accounting also has a “hidden” dimension: the financial monitoring, reporting, and evaluating that takes place inside an organization, and is typically treated as confidential even within the firm. This aspect, called management or cost accounting, is made up of practices such as budgeting, costing, and investment evaluation. It is the focus of the present chapter.

PREFACE TO POSTMODERNITY: CONCEPT, CULTURE, OR CONDITION?

Those who attempt to define or to analyze the concept of postmodernity do so attheir own peril. In the first place, postmoderns reject the notion that anydescription or definition is “neutral.” Definitions may appear tobask in the glow of impartiality, but they invariably exclude something and henceare complicit, wittingly or not, in politics. A definition of postmodernity is aslikely to say more about the person offering the definition than it is of“the postmodern.” Second, postmoderns resist closed, tightly bounded“totalizing” accounts of such things as the “essence”of the postmodern. And third, according to David Tracy “there is no suchphenomenon as postmodernity.” There are only postmodernities. Given thesethree points, the task of writing an introduction may seem to be well nighimpossible: “Abandon hope all ye who enter here!”

In fact, “postmodern” has become a gregarious adjective, and canoften be seen in the company of such respectable terms as“literature,” “philosophy,”“architecture,” “art,” “history,”“science,” “cinema” – and, yes, even “biblicalstudies” and “theology. ” But what does the qualifier“postmodern” mean and how does it work? Does it carry the same forcewhen linked to history as to theology, to art as to biblical studies? Typically,introductory studies of postmodernity take one of two routes: some follow itsgrowth and trajectory in a single domain (for example, architecture, literature);others seek to give a theoretical account across a number of domains. With respectto the latter strategy, there is a further divergence: between theories thatdescribe a process in the history of ideas, on the one hand, and socioeconomicprocesses, on the other.

Lacan's discussion of the ethics of psychoanalysis is closely connected to his discussion of tragedy, yet one must not forget that this connection is not an immediate one. Ethics, as well as tragedy, is approached in relation to another central notion, that of desire. Whatever link there is between ethics and tragedy, it springs from this notion. One should also bear in mind that, in Lacanian theory, there is a very direct link between desire and comedy. Lacan introduces, develops, and illustrates his famous graph of desire through his reading of Freud's book on the Witz (Jokes and their Relation to the Unconscious), adding some of his own examples and bringing the discussion to its climax with a brief but poignant commentary on Aristophanes and Molière. At the end of the Ethics of Psychoanalysis, the seminar in which the central question of the relationship between action and the desire that inhabits us is explored in its tragic dimension, Lacan reminds us again of this other, comic dimension:

The Sophists

The fifth-century sophists were the first exponents of higher education in the West. 'Sophist' means 'professional practitioner of wisdom (sophia)'. To call someone 'wise' (sophos) without qualification was to ascribe the highest, most desirable, expertise. And in the relentlessly political atmosphere of the fifth-century Greek city states, the expertise most at a premium was skill in civic speech: debate, exhortation, pleading, formal eulogy. Whether the context was council-chamber or law-court, democratic assembly or a prince's cabinet, mediation at home or diplomacy abroad, success hinged on excellent communication. In this climate the sophists emerged and flourished.

Since most of what they wrote is lost, and since in any case much of their work consisted in teaching, not writing, our picture of the sophists is necessarily fragmentary and speculative.

This chapter is exploratory. It seeks to glimpse “an other Christology.” I make no exclusivist claims for the project; it is one Christology among others; and, if I am correct, it is hardly a new one. The exploration is informed by the premise that those who set out in search of the tradition's “other” may discover in the process the otherness of the tradition.

“Christ and Salvation” recalls the classic theologies, which generally treat first the person and then the work of Christ. In modern theology, however, the common, even predominant, practice has been to reverse the sequence, placing some prefatory notion of salvation before the treatment of Christ. This reversal reflects the Christian community’s struggle to respond to the skepticism of modern Western culture by demonstrating, in one fashion or another, a need for Christianity.

In such a situation, the need naturally comes first. The need may be portrayed in manifold ways: as need for some larger meaning in one’s life, for example, or as need for deliverance from sin. Whatever the specifics, the argument generally includes four elements. The first is a broad, generally acceptable description of common human experience with emphasis upon certain problems or discontents: for example violence in our society, the pressures of contemporary life, the prevalence of drugs. There follows a more specific diagnosis of the phenomena in terms of some underlying condition, for example the search for meaning, or anxiety in the face of death. There then follow a general recommendation (cf. in medicine, “You need an analgesic”), and a specific remedy (“I suggest brand X”). “Recommendation” as used here is a general category whereas the “remedy” is a specific reality. The concepts merge in the statement, “You need to find peace in God”; but the distinction is important, for history amply testifies that an effort to direct a person toward peace-in-God is often received as recommending “peace of mind” – found perhaps in God, perhaps elsewhere.

Introduction

Greek and Roman philosophy developed in a close and frequently adversarial relationship to various literary genres, especially epic and lyric poetry and tragic and comic drama. Moreover, philosophers themselves used some of these genres and created still others (such as the philosophical dialogue, the philosophical epistle); the literary form of philosophical texts is frequently an essential ingredient in their philosophical expression. Philosophers thought in subtle ways about what literary genres themselves express about human life and what is important in it; their contest with the tragedians and other authors was thus fought both on the level of content and on the level of form or style itself. At the same time, literary authors made their own claims to tell the truth about important human matters, going in some cases deliberately against the theories of philosophers. This being the case, the topic of philosophy’s relation to literature in ancient Greece and Rome is as vast as the subject of philosophy itself, and cannot be treated exhaustively.

Reconstructive postmodern theology derives its philosophical bearings from the movement in which Alfred North Whitehead is the central figure, with William James and Charles Hartshorne being, respectively, the most important antecedent and subsequent members. Although theology based on this movement has widely been known as “process theology,” not all process theology is properly called postmodern. Process theology is reconstructive postmodern theology insofar as it thematizes the contrast between the modern and the postmodern, emphasizes the distinctively postmodern notions in Whiteheadian philosophy, employs these notions for deconstruction of classical and modern concepts and for ensuing reconstruction, and relates the resulting position to other forms of postmodern thought. Although this form of postmodern thought has generally been called “constructive,”as in the title of the State University of New York Press Series in Constructive Postmodern Thought, the term “reconstructive” makes clearer that a prior deconstruction of received concepts is presupposed.

ORIGINS

Although the term “postmodern” was not used by Whitehead himself, the notion is implicit in his 1925 book, Science and the Modern World, in which he says that recent developments in both physics and philosophy have superseded some of the scientific and philosophical ideas that were foundational for the modern world. Whitehead’s most explicit statement about the end of the modern epoch occurs in a discussion of William James’ 1904 essay “Does Consciousness Exist?,” the crux of which Whitehead takes to be the denial that consciousness is a stuff that is essentially different from the stuff of which the physical world is composed.

If postliberal theology depends on the existence of something called the “Yale School,”then postliberal theology is in trouble. It is in trouble, because the so-called Yale School enjoys little basis in reality, being largely the invention of theological journalism. At best it represents a loose coalition of interests, united more by what it opposes or envisions than by any common theological program.

One indicator that the Yale School is mostly a fiction is that no two lists of who allegedly belongs to it are the same. Everyone agrees that the short list includes Hans Frei and George Lindbeck, both of whom taught at Yale over roughly the same period, more or less from the 1950s to the 1980s. After that, however, the nominees vary widely, though they can perhaps be divided into three categories: Frei’s and Lindbeck’s Yale colleagues, their Yale-related contemporaries, and their students. Does the Yale School include Brevard Childs, David Kelsey, and Paul Holmer? All were colleagues, and all have been nominated; but why other colleagues should be excluded, like Nils Dahl, Wayne Meeks, Gene Outka, or even Robert Clyde Johnson, is not clear. Does it include Stanley Hauerwas, a frequently mentioned contender, not on the Yale faculty, but with a Yale Ph.D.? Does it include William Placher, Bruce Marshall, Ronald Thiemann, Kathryn Tanner, David Yeago, Joseph DiNoia, James Buckley, or myself, to mention only a few? Who knows? We all did our doctoral work at Yale, which at least seems to have placed us in the running. Prima facie, however, one is looking at a fairly diverse bunch. Are there unifying interests or themes?

Introduction

The title of this chapter would have struck most Romans at the time of Cicero as provocative if not downright inapt. Philosophy had entered Rome as a Greek importation, and those who taught it mainly stemmed from Greece or from still further east of Italy. Romans who wished to study philosophy generally travelled to Athens or to other Greek-speaking centres. Early in the principate of Augustus (27 BC-AD 14), Quintus Sextius founded a school that combined Stoic ethics with such principles of Pythagoreanism as abstention from meat. But, apart from this short-lived and unremarkable sect, there were no exclusively Roman schools of philosophy, as distinct from the long-established Academics, Peripatetics, Epicureans and Stoics. The Cynic movement, which gained Roman adherents in the early Empire, did not count as a formal institution, and it too was originally Greek, looking back to Diogenes whom the Stoics had appropriated along with Socrates. There was no home-grown option of any consequence, and therefore no Roman philosophy as such.

Yet, with the benefit of hindsight, that verdict will hardly stand. On many thinkers from the early Renaissance to the middle of the eighteenth century, the influence of Cicero and Seneca was enormous, outstripping in its general diffusion the impact of even Plato and Aristotle (see further, chapter 12).

The volume Radical Orthodoxy bears the subtitle “A New Theology.” This could easily mislead readers, preventing them from understanding radical orthodoxy. It is not a “new” theology. If it were to present itself as such, it would merely take the form of one more “modern” theology, which radical orthodoxy is not. Although it could qualifiedly be labeled postmodern, radical orthodoxy is neither a newer nor improved version of modern theology, for an interminable “newness” characterizes modernity. As Gianni Vattimo tells us: “if we say that we are at a later point than modernity, and if we treat this fact as in some way decisively important, then this presupposes an acceptance of what more specifically characterizes the point of view of modernity itself, namely the idea of history with its two corollary notions of progress and overcoming.” Through overcoming the past, modernity progresses toward the new. Precisely because radical orthodoxy is not a “modern” theology it does not overcome the past - not even a modernity that can never be past - or progress toward the novel.

“Modern” theology looks for new categories within which to present a theological essence, usually understood in terms of a “mystery” that transcends the “new” categories used for its expression. Like modernity itself, modern theology is “progressive”; moving from the old toward the new, which never quite arrives. Thus modern theology is caught within a dialectic of presence and absence. It moves from what it lacks – the promised but absent “new” – toward what it hopes for – the presence of the new. In this movement the past is continually dissolved into an absent future, which promises to render the past and all its sacrifices meaningful. Progress becomes our fate and ethics is tied to a sacrificial economy. We are taught to sacrifice particular interests and commitments for the sake of the future arrival of the new. Postmodernity places this modern progress in question. Like postmodernity, radical orthodoxy seeks to escape the constraints of modern progress.

The nineteenth-century historical novel

Since the time of Napoleon's collapse, the historical novel has been an extremely popular genre. A type of narrative literature in prose, a fictional story set in a documented or documentable context which may also include actual persons who lived at the time, this genre has one foot in fact and the other in fiction, one in a kind of scholarship or erudition and the other in a kind of entertainment. Its purpose is to instruct and to divert. The heterogeneity of historical novels produced over time and in response to various audiences militates against a narratological, technical approach. The historical novel humanizes history and rediscovers land- and cityscapes.

In the history of Italian literature, historical fiction – whether in poetic and dramatic forms or in prose – preceded Manzoni’s I promessi sposi (1827 and 1840). One can refer to Manzoni’s own tragedies, Il Conte di Carmagnola (The Count of Carmagnola, 1820) and Adelchi (Adelchi, 1822), whose completion had been interrupted by the beginning of the novel, and to works originating in his Romantic circle in Milan: Tommaso Grossi’s Ildegonda (Ildegonda, 1820) and I Lombardi alla prima crociata (The Lombards in the First Crusade, 1826), both set at the time of the Crusades; or I profughi di Parga (The Exiles of Parga, 1823) by Giovanni Berchet (1783–1851), set in Albania during the struggle between the Turks and the English. One might also cite the earlier Platone in Italia (Plato in Italy, 1804–6) by Vincenzo Cuoco (1770–1823), who imagines that he has found a manuscript in which the Greek philosopher reported on a trip to Italy in pre-Roman times; or Alessandro Verri’s Notti romane al sepolcro degli Scipioni, a work indebted to the excavations that in 1780 brought to light two funerary inscriptions from the time of Scipio Africanus.

Lacan without paradox

Paradoxical formulas are not lacking in Lacan's texts and teachings. As far as the symptom is concerned, these paradoxes culminate in the idea that normative heterosexuality is itself a symptom, and that sexual partners are symptoms for each other. Is Lacan being facetious and indulging his notorious taste for paradox? Is he performing intellectual acrobatics? The questions can rebound endlessly, but I, for one, conclude from all my readings and my clinical experience that the Lacan we meet here is not paradoxical any more. In fact, with the symptom, each psychoanalyst should be prepared to be questioned, for what he or she has to say about symptoms provides a test for the consistency of his or her praxis and doctrine. No doubt Lacan has to be tested like all others on this point, and if he is, the verdict reached after we follow his successive elaborations will correspond to the rigor of a rationalism that is never canceled but always adjusted to the specificity of its field.

We just need to read Lacan closely. In some twenty years of teaching, his definitions of the symptom evolved. One can verify that, at each state, they were compatible with the overall theory, and in particular, with the successive definitions he gave of the unconscious. Thus, when he defined the unconscious as speech, which had been suggested by the technique of the talking cure, he treated the symptom as a kind of message, an encoded cipher for a gagged discourse containing a kernel of truth.

The beginnings of Physical Science

The earliest literary survivals from the Greek world, the epic poems of Homer and Hesiod, contain, inter alia, accounts of natural phenomena and of the origins of the universe. But the latter are speculative mythology, while the former invariably impute large-scale natural phenomena to supernatural forces: Zeus coruscates miscreants with thunderbolts; Poseidon shakes the earth in anger; Apollo visits plagues upon the impious. There is no attempt to explain events in naturalistic terms (that is, as the natural result of natural forces and the intrinsic properties of things), and no effort to reduce the apparent diversity of phenomena to a small set of explanatory concepts in terms of which they are to be accounted for.

The Greeks themselves considered that with Thales (fl. c.585 BC) there emerged a wholly new way of looking at things, one characterized by Aristotle as the search for the archai, or basic ‘principles’ of things. According to tradition, Thales, the first of the so-called Presocratics, made water his archē. Water was fundamental to the world and its processes, perhaps, as Aristotle says, because of the observation that moisture is necessary for life and that ‘heat comes from moisture’; moreover, the earth ‘rests on water’, a feature which accounts both for its general stability, and also (probably) for the occasional earthquake. Thales also claimed that magnets possess souls, presumably because they have that power to induce motion which is characteristic of animate life.

Many students of the arts and humanities probably first encounter the name of Jacques Lacan in one of the numerous studies of the French Structuralist movement, an intellectual paradigm which attained the zenith of its public success during the 1960s, and which has since occupied many an Anglo- American scholar's critical spotlight, either as a fashionable esoteric creed or as an original explanatory doctrine. Invariably associated with the contributions of Claude Lévi-Strauss, Roland Barthes, Michel Foucault, and Louis Althusser – the central quadrivium of Structuralism – Lacan's oeuvre has indeed frequently appeared as another influential instance of how Structuralist ideas managed to change the face of many research areas in the human and social sciences, in his case the field of Freudian psychoanalytic practice. Whereas his companions have been hailed or vilified for their Structuralist approaches to anthropology, literary criticism, philosophy, and politics, Lacan has entered history as the quintessential defender of the Structuralist cause in psychoanalysis, an acolyte so militant that he did not shrink from making the claim that Freud himself had always been an inveterate structuralist avant la lettre.

The main reason for Lacan’s recognition, and his intermittent selfidentification as a Structuralist is situated in his allegiance to the basic principles of Structuralist linguistics, as inaugurated by Ferdinand de Saussure in his famous Course in General Linguistics, published posthumously in 1916, and as elaborated from the late 1920s by Roman Jakobson, founding member and chief representative of the Prague Linguistic Circle.