argumentx

Opening Pandora’s box: A sociological analysis of scientists’ discourse

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Wed, 19 Dec 2012 12:48:00 +0000

Reviewed: (Gilbert & Mulkay, 1984)

Gilbert & Mulkay’s Opening Pandora’s Box: A sociological analysis of scientists’ discourse is something of a classic in discourse analysis. In less than 200 pages, the authors propose a method of sociological analysis, argue for its benefits, explain it in a fair amount of detail, and finally show how it works – with scientific discourse as case in point – and why it works the way it does. For this reason, their thesis is clear and compelling.

G&M explicitly place themselves against a certain way of doing analysis of social action by proposing an alternative:

One of our central claims in this book is that sociologists’ attempts to tell the story of a particular social setting or to formulate the way in which social life operates are fundamentally unsatisfactory. Such ‘definitive versions’ are unsatisfactory because they imply unjustifiably that the analyst can reconcile his version of events with all the multiple and divergent versions generated by the actors themselves (p. 2)

Blisset’s Politics in science is taken as the exemplary work built using the analytical technique G&M are opposing. In principle, what Blisset is doing and what G&M want to avoid is an imposition of concepts over social actions based on the way actors describe (refer to, orient towards etc.) that particular social action. It cannot be assumed, G&M write, that regularities within a collection of statements “indicate the existence of correspondence regularities in social action” (p. 7) This negative, almost pessimistic, judgment is derived not only from pragmatic insights on the variability of meaning according to context (e.g. Halliday), but also from their qualitative study of scientific discourse. No discourse, and in particular no long stretch of discourse such as an academic paper, lecture or conversation, can be taken “as simply descriptive of the social action to which it ostensibly refers” (p. 7).

Actors – in our case, scientists – continually re-interpret their actions in a sort of retrospective “story-telling” (p. 9) as their discourse is meant to obtain concrete goals. Thus, for G&M, the discourse itself becomes the primary focus and not the (improbable) finding of an underlying social action. They do not look at the texts as some sort of window towards “what science really is”, but concern themselves with the interpretive methods used by scientists in order to accommodate (i.e. account for) actions and beliefs. Their attempt (p. 14) is to describe regularities of interpretive methods, “to reflect upon the patterned character of the participants’ portrayal [of what they are doing]” (p. 17)

The authors begin with a brief history of the scientific field they take as their case-in-point. Bioenergetics, a research specialty in the field of biochemists, deals with organic processes that create, transport and store chemical and other kinds of energy. The scientists they are concerned with are particularly interested in the formation of a complex molecule called ATP. G&M identify a (very Kuhnian) transition of the field from a paradigm to another. The material they use was drawn from interviews carried out between 1979 and 1980 with 34 bioenergeticists that have published papers on the subject of ATP formation. A “David vs. Goliath” theme runs through the history, with the main figure (they call Spencer) proposing a theory against practically everybody else in the field.

The first point G&M wish to make is that “participants’ discourse, although varied, displays certain observable patterns” (p. 39). The pattern they identify is the use of two distinctive discursive repertoires they label as “empiricist” and “contingent”:

More specifically, we shall show that when scientists write experimental research papers, they make their results meaningful by linking them to explicit accounts of social actions and belief; that [these accounts] are couched in terms of an empiricist representation of scientific action; but that this empiricist repertoire exists alongside an alternative interpretative resource which we have called the contingent repertoire. (p. 40)

The claim that these repertoire exists is supported by a qualitative study of discourse samples from the conducted interviews. Further, if these two are taken as valid analytical claims, then they raise further analytical problems connected, this time, precisely with their obvious incompatibility[1]. In any case, once the differences between the formal and the informal are recognized, the way in which scientists manage the two is “systematic and meaningful” (p. 51). To substantiate this, they compare the methods-section in various papers of the Biochemical Journal with the description of experimental procedures in interviews. Sure enough, whereas the formal research papers sound like this,

Heavy beef heart mitochondria were prepared by the method of Wong and stored in liquid nitrogen. Well coupled mitochondrial particles were prepared by a modification of the procedure of Madden. These particles… (p. 51)

the informal interviews sound like this:

Ideally, the scientific paper should make it possible, assuming that a library is available, for a Martian to come and do your experiment. But that’s largely wishful thinking (p. 53)

The methods section appear to be constructed (stylistically, grammatically and lexically) “as if all the actions of researchers relevant to their results can be expressed as impersonal rules; as if the individual characteristics of researchers have no bearing on the production of results; as if the application of these rules to particular actions is unproblematic” (p. 52). All this, while it is widely assumed that actual perfect replication is impossible. In the personal half of the story the contingent repertoire is based on the principle that the scientists’ claims might have been different if their biography contained other events.

The conclusion G&M are drawing is perhaps no surprise, but the simple association between the two repertoires should smell fishy. If the convention of writing like that are meaningless – that is, if everybody knows naming methods left and right will not de facto solve the problem of replication – then why is this convention kept? The closeness of the two repertoires is evidently apparent in G&M’s analysis of how scientists account for error. To put it crudely, explaining how a very competent scientist can be grossly mistaken works like this: (1) identify a theoretical position and attribute that position to the adversary, (2) explain why the view is scientifically wrong, (3) provide some kidn of account which enables your audience to understand why the otherwise competent scientist adopted that theory (p. 67). The point is that the discourse exhibiting “accounting for error” events were pattern-like, and that the empiricist and contingent repertoires can be distinctively seen as work in (2) and (3) respectively.

So, again, the question can be raised:

If scientists regularly draw upon and move between two quite different repertoires, how is it that potential contradictions between these repertoires do not require special attention? (p. 90)

Moreover, if the repertoires are applied to the same events, then the contradictions are even more likely to arise and, why not, ask for some sort of resolution. According to G&M, the potential incompatibility is resolved (and signaled) by the use of a specific interpretive pattern or device. They call this device the Truth Will Out Device (TWOD)[2].

The device is used as a “reconciliation device” (p. 92) to resolve the difficulties arising from the speaker’s use of a contingent as well as empiricist repertoire” (p. 92). What TWOD does is to “introduce the time element” in order to explain why the obvious oscilation between the two views is not problematic. (In all this, one must keep in mind that the people interviewed are scientists talking about scientists, so every general conclusion that can be drawn from a speaker’s description of social action will a fortiori apply to himself too).

Gradually, it is implied, the realities of the physical world will be recognized; and idiosyncratic, social, distorting influences will consequently be seen as such (p. 94)

The trut.h will out, then. In this way, the statements of the contingent repertoire are not withdrawn, nor are those made in the empiricist repertoire. Another difficult option is also avoided, i.e. the attempt to reconcile the two after all. The rhetorical position the “scientist-describing-science” finds himself in is that in which he would like to use both repertoires (as the convention goes), but given a certain background philosophy, only one of the two, the empiricist repertoire, will legitimize him in his position. What is introduced then is a (again, Kuhnian) dissociation between science – the one that is practiced by everyday scientists in everyday laboratories – and Science – the one that survives because it carries itself out, it regulates itself. In science, personal prejudice is present, and even important; in Science, personal prejudice disappears. In the short run, contingent factors occur; in the long run, empirical factors become increasingly effective.

TWOD enables the speakers to reaffirm the scientific legitimacy of his position where this has been put to question by his own speech (p. 99)

As one scientist put it “if the theory is right, don’t worry, it will have its day” (p. 101).

References

Gilbert, G. N., & Mulkay, M. (1984). Opening pandora's box: A sociological analysis of scientists' discourse. London/New York: Cambridge University Press.

Gross, A. G. (2006). Starring the text: The place of rhetoric in science studies. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press.

van Rees, A. (2009). Dissociation in argumentative discussions: A pragma-dialectical perspective. Amsterdam: Springer.

[1] This sort of contradiction between two philosophies of science running together through scientists’ available repertoire is a theme in (Gross, 2006)

[2] I think this technique is very similar to what van Rees identified as dissociation (van Rees, 2009).

One rhetoric for all science

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Wed, 17 Oct 2012 12:50:00 +0000

Reviewed: (Prelli, 1989)

Overview

The purpose of this book is to show what kind of rhetorical transaction science is by studying the inventio of scientific discourse. The fact that to do science is, to an important extent if not fully, to behave as a rhetor is taken by Prelli as a starting point. The Burkean definition rhetoric as “suasory use of language as a symbolic means of inducing co-operative acts and attitudes in symbolizing beings” (p. 14) easily allows such assumptions. As for the philosophical side, Prelli sets camp mid-way between foundationalists (the early position of logical positivism), methodologists (Popper, Lakatos) and relativists (Fayerabend, Latour). That is to say his purpose is not to dissolve science into rhetoric. For Prelli, in scientific activity rhetorical aspects go along with the “logical face” and neither is reducible to the other.

I believe that there is in addition to the formally logical face of science an interpretive one that presents nonlogical but not irrational features (p. 3)

Focusing on invention, Prelli undertakes to offer a theory of rhetorical choices that would enhance our understanding of argumentative practices within scientific communication. For that, he employs the classical notions of stasis and topoi, which, he insists (p. 5, p. 61, p. 158 & p. 257), are finite and thus lend themselves to rhetorical categorization.

The book is divided into two parts, symmetrically organized: in the first part, Prelli expounds his chosen conception of rhetoric, in the second part, he applies this conception to scientific argumentation.

Theories of rhetoric and the Theory of Rhetoric

Is there such a thing as a “core-conception” of rhetoric? Is there a common ground shared by Isocrates, Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Quintilian, Ramus, Vico, Campbell, Whately, Burke, Perelman, Weaver (and others)? According to Prelli, there is. This common ground is represented by a set of methodological and philosophical assumptions which together give shape to a certain “nature of rhetoric”. In the first chapter, Prelli sets out to describe this nature.

According to Prelli, any concept of effective expression will reflect assumptions about (1) the role of language, (2) situation, and (3) audience(s), (4) the criteria by which materials for expression are evaluated and (5) the methods for finding these materials in composing rhetoric. These elements are each discussed in separate sections, entitled accordingly: “Rhetoric is the suasory use of symbols”, “Rhetoric is situational discourse”, “Rhetoric is addressed discourse”, “Rhetoric is reasonable discourse”, “Rhetoric is invented discourse”.

First, then, rhetorical theorists must engage the difficult question of what role words, language, or symbols have in effective expression. In this regard, Prelli’s conception of rhetoric is an “exploded” version of the classic, language-as-instrument, view. According to him, language is not merely instrumental in presenting a certain reality since, quite simply, there is no reality outside what can be mediated through symbols.

The central point is that because the human being is a symbol-using animal, it names its experiences, and through this symbolic act it creates, to a great extent, what it takes to be the world (p. 15)[1]

Second, rhetoricians must detect the relationship between the rhetorical transaction and the occasion in which it emerges. Theories of rhetoric as early as Aristotle’s – for whom the rhetorician finds the available means of persuasion in a given case – stress that in any situation the rhetor should be aware of the relevant exigencies.

Third, the theorist must study rhetoric’s adaptive function, that is, the “function of adjusting ideas to people and people to ideas” (p. 24) Claims of all kinds require communal authorization before they become officially incorporated into a community’s stock of knowledge. Nevertheless, it is not always obvious which audience is the authorizing audience and which one is (or should be) the one addressed by the rhetor in his speech. The job of the rhetorician is not to determine the truth of the matter, but to see “how and why the discourse succeeded or failed to meet the standards of reasonableness held by the audiences that responded to it”

Fourth, the theorist must study the evaluation procedures that accompany the use of symbols. Prelli summarizes as follows:

The standards are communally shared standards of what is “reasonable”. The standards are fluid, being under the influence of historical, situational forces. However, because they are shared standards they also have considerable stability, solidity and endurance. They are not personal, idiosyncratic rules. They reflect commitments and expectations of a community, however enduring or temporary that community may be. (p. 31)

Finally, the rhetorician must give an account of rhetorical invention. This account consists of identifying (1) rhetorical goals, (2) the “question at issue”, (3) rhetorical choice (p. 32). In classical rhetorical theory, the last two points are dealt with by stasis theories and topoi theories respectively.

Within this overall, general structure of rhetorical theory, Prelli selects the last point as his subject matter. As the subtitle indicates, he is writing a book about “inventing scientific discourse”. The issues he must address are: the rhetorical goal(s) of scientific communication, the stases governing scientific communication, and finally, the topoi (general and special) available in scientific communication.

Rhetorical dimension of science

Prelli explicitly follows Thomas Kuhn’s view of science and adapts it so as to underwrite a rhetorical approach:

The first point of importance about Kuhn’s perspective on science is that persuasion is a prominent feature of discourse that brings about scientific maintenance and change. There is a nascent rhetorical perspective in Kuhn’s analysis of science (p. 83)

More in particular, the idea of paradigm can be seen from a rhetorical as a set of exploitable topoi which scientists are free to appeal to if they wish to persuade the ones who have “stepped in” the community defined by that paradigm. In this view, discourse aims at having others adopt certain attitudes in view of those paradigmatic beliefs and values which are “invoked” by an argument (p. 89). Values are usually attached to research methods, critical tests, observation techniques and the like. However, inter-paradigmatic scientific discourse is not a rare sight. Aside from “preaching to those already saved”, a scientist can attempt a form of discourse which recognizes the difference in the other party’s “disciplinary matrix” (p. 90). In all cases, either the paradigm or the rules of inter-paradigmatic discourse will function as constraints. As Prelli exemplifies:

For example, within an S-R [stimulus-response] or even S-O-R [stimulus-organism-response] paradigm of human behavior, concepts of soul or mind have no place, regardless of where discourse occurs; but within a psychological paradigm based on cognitive processing, mental processes not purely reflective of electrical circuitry may be posited, regardless of situation. In such ways scientific paradigms define exigencies and constraints of what in rhetorical theory is called ‘a rhetorical situation’ (p. 100)

I will now concentrate on Prelli’s more concrete study of scientific invention. There are other general insights which could be added here, but I believe the kind of conception he tries to establish is unproblematic anyway. As I see it, a judgment of academic acceptability needs to be passed not on the general idea that science is rhetoric – an idea which could after all be understood and applied in many ways – but on specific theoretical products stemming from this idea.

Rhetorical invention in science

The first specification of what it means to think and act as a scientist concerns science-specific rhetorical ends. This end is connected to the manner in which social actors perceive the “institutional point” of doing science, and Prelli translates it as follows:

All reasonable scientific thought, action, and language is expected to be dedicated toward maintaining and expanding a scientific community’s comprehension of natural order (p. 121)

This general end influences all communication in science. The community of scientists will of course be divided into fields and sub-fields, but to the extent that one is a scientist and one pursues a rhetorical end, his end must be subordinated to, and thus compatible with, this general one. The purpose of a paper, that of a monograph, one’s reply or one’s speech – all of them must orient towards this general goal regardless of the particular, activity-specific, goals they are pursuing This being the goal, it follows that all scientific discourse must address (or resolve) a problem, an obstacle which hampers understanding[2]. As Prelli generalizes,

To be judged reasonable and persuasive in any specific situation, scientific discourse must be perceived as identifying, modifying or solving problems that bear on a specific scientific community’s maintenance and expansion of their comprehension of natural order (p. 122)

There are four kinds of problems a rhetor can address, or present himself as addressing, if he is to be perceived as doing science (pp. 123-124). The scientist must attempt to resolve at least one of the four ambiguities:

(1) concerning what does or does not exist

(2) concerning the meaning of theoretical constructs

(3) concerning the value of claims advanced

(4) concerning the actions required

Each of these ambiguities comes along with a certain set of exigencies. These exigencies work two-ways: they tell the rhetor what to do and they tell the audience what the rhetor is engaged in doing. Each science, each approach has its own methods of dealing with these exigencies – “discursive strategies”, as Prelli calls them – but again, the reader is given the following general claim which is meant to hold across sciences and across fields[3]:

The uniquely scientific methods of dealing with ambiguities are experimentation and scientific observation. The scientist seeks to resolve problems of order by testing hypotheses about puzzling phenomena in the laboratory or the field. […] True, scientists might pursue other kinds of problems which directly concern, say, theologians and philosophers. […] But these are problems to be reflected on rather than experimentally explored or systematically observed; they are not primary concerns of scientific activity. Thus, scientific rhetoric must speak the language of observation and experimentation if what is said is to be accepted as reasonable. (p. 124)

According to Prelli, each of the problems above gives a distinctive (i.e. scientific) class of stases (pp. 144-182) and distinctive class of topoi (pp. 185-215). At this point Prelli changes the tone: whereas until now he showed himself very much (perhaps overly) concerned with possible counter-claims and objections, when he develops his systems of stasis and topoi it is as if the critical reader becomes the uninformed student. Categories and divisions are simply given, sometimes without any further detail as to their source and possible justification. Prelli introduces concepts and ideas most abruptly, as it is apparent in the following passage:

Scientific discourse shows there are four general kinds of “stoppage” or “stands”. These I shall call superior stases. Superior stases identify arguable points concerning the four grand functions of doing science: adducing evidence, interpreting constructs and information, evaluating the scientific significance of matters discussed, and applying scientific method. (p. 145)

Is this a claim about all scientific discourse? And does it always show? If there’s any study backing up this claim, one would very much like to go through it and check whether the proposed division is indeed the most valuable (practical, accurate etc.) And are these functions something that is reconstructed from actual scientific texts or are they theoretically posited in the form of a model? Reading the following, I would be inclined to interpret Prelli’s account as a normative (as opposed to descriptive) one: “Discussants must agree on such matters or scientific activity cannot expand comprehension of natural order” (p. 145). The problem is one also finds claims which seem to be intended as descriptive generalizations: “Points at issue in science always concern one or more of problems about existence, meaning, value, and action” (p. 147)[4].

Further, there are also four subordinate stases (which again, unfortunately, fall out of nowhere):

Within the realm of each of these broad classes of issues or stases, subordinate problems have to be settled. There are questions about such matters as the availability, the meanings, and the usefulness of evidence, constructs, judgments and procedures (p. 145)

Once more the reader asks: How did the author identify them and are they to be understood as normative (i.e. “this is how science should be”) or descriptive (i.e. “this is how science is”). In both cases, Prelli has a burden of proof. As for their origin, aside from Prelli’s intuition – which could otherwise be trusted on other grounds –, the reader should like to refer to empirical studies supporting such descriptive claims. As for their use, Prelli should support his normative model on methodological grounds. Both options are tenable; the problem is Prelli swings from one to another, entertaining himself an ambiguity which remains unresolved.

The four-by-four stasis matrix appears as follows (p. 146):

Subordinate stases	Superior stases
Subordinate stases	Evidential	Interpretive	Evaluative	Methodological
Conjectural	Is there scientific evidence for claim x?	Is there a scientifically meaningful construct for interpreting evidence?	Is claim x scientifically significant?	Is procedure x a viable scientific procedure?
Definitional	What does the evidence mean?	What does construct y mean?	What does value z mean?	What does it mean to apply procedure x correctly?
Qualitative	Which empirical judgments are warranted by available evidence?	Which interpretive applications of construct y are more meaningful?	Which claims are more significant, given value z?	Which investigations exemplify appropriate applications of procedure x?
Translative	Which evidence more reliably grounds claims about what does and does not exist?	Which scientific constructs are more meaningful?	Which scientific values are more significant?	Which procedures more usefully guide scientific actions?

Aside for the question of systematicity, one might observe that the general method of science, as announced by Prelli, will not apply to some of the points from this matrix. Especially with regard to the evaluative stasis, one cannot settle a dispute with respect to, e.g. quality (“What does value z mean?”) by using or appealing to empirical methods.

Prelli’s topoi system fits into his overall view of scientific invention as explained: “Once one has discovered what significant points of stasis need to be addressed, the next question is, What is the best way of addressing these exigences in the situation in which the communication will be heard or read?” (p. 185) According to Prelli, the rhetor answers (or should answer…) this question by using topoi, which Prelli introduces with a short example. As an example, let us consider the the class of problem-solving topoi.

Generally speaking, the problem-solving lines of thought in science are used to establish (or disestablish) firm connection between observational and theoretical claims and what is accounted for by accumulated data or theory (p. 186)

This class of topoi comprises:

(1) Experimental competence

(2) Observational competence

(3) Experimental originality

(4) Corroboration

(5) Explanatory power

(6) Taxonomic power

(7) Quantitative precision

(8) Significant anomaly

(9) Anomaly-solution

There are two critical questions which one might formulate with respect to these categories: (1) Do they exhaust all the possible topoi of that theme? and (2) Are they distinct from one another? Also, the normative/descriptive distinction becomes even more complicated because effectiveness comes in. In other words, this list is meant neither as a generalization (e.g. “All argumentation around problem-solving in science is based on these topoi”), nor as a norm (e.g. “All reasonable arguers in science should make use of one or more of these topoi”). Rather, they are meant as advice, since, “the arguments of this class appeal to scientific communities’ interests in solving problems” (p. 186)[5]. Prelli’s concluding remarks are a perfect illustration of this vagueness of purpose for his topical system:

The general point I wish to make are: (1) that there are in fact identifiable lines of thought that are used again and again in the sciences [i.e. description], (2) that these lines of thought legitimize scientific observations and claims because they derive from what is accepted and valued in scientific communities [i.e. norm], (3) that if we want to see what the logical formulas and characteristics of scientific discourse are, we must grant that these topoi identify structures of thought that scientists (and often others) find situationally reasonable [i.e. advice]. These themes constitute a stable, ever-present collection of discussable options that are, as it were, culturally “authorized” by all scientific communities. (p. 216, my addition)

Conclusion

The book ends with two extended studies of argumentation within academic controversy in which Prelli identifies clear instances of some stases being addressed and clear instnaces of some topoi being used. The drawback is that neither of the claims Prelli is making can be supported by exemplification. For each of the topoi and for each of the stases, one case from an academic discussion (or many, for that matter) will not in itself count as sufficient argumentation to the kind of claim Prelli is making. To simplify: If Prelli is making a claim about how science works, he should show the reader why the examples are representative of all (or most) scientific communication; if Prelli is making a claim about how science should work, he should clarify the source of this normativity; finally, if Prelli is making a claim about how and why rhetors are effective, he should provide a broader explanation of this process – even though, granted, much of the explanation has to do linguistic, strategic choices. In either case, putting forward an example will not suffice.

Merton, R. K. (1973). The puritan spur to science. In N. Storer (Ed.), The sociology of science: Theoretical and empirical investigations (pp. 228-254). Chicago/London: The University of Chicago Press.

Prelli, L. J. (1989). A rhetoric of science: Inventing scientific discourse. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press.

[1] This abstract, you-know-what-I-mean way of putting ideas on paper seems to be Prelli’s pet-move. Throughout the book he indulges at times into a kind of philosophizing the usefulness of which is, to my mind, doubtful, e.g. “For good or ill, humanity cannot but accept the conditions of the symbolic world that it must live in” (p. 15), or “We make rhetoric to induce others to cooperate with us in thought and deed, to participate in our ways of looking at a situation and its relationships, to share our terministic orientations” (p. 21)

[2] A social and historical explanation of how this goal emerged as the principal one is offered in (Merton, 1973)

[3] This generalization is, in my opinion, questionable. If the terms “experimentation” and “observation” are given the common meaning they receive in natural sciences, then it is hard to see how any of them can resolve an ambiguity about the meaning of theoretical constructs. Indeed, these constructs will be put forward as labeling some state of affairs, and in investigating this state of affair the two empirical methods are most appropriate, but a difference of opinion with respect to the labels themselves (their usefulness, their appropriateness, their clarity etc.) will not involve reference to experimentation and observation.

[4] The descriptive interpretation is confirmed in later passages, e.g. “Scientists may not be conscious that they do this, but they do it nonetheless” (p. 185)

[5] Same, “Knowing what these options are is helpful to any scientist deciding what to say and how to say it” (p. 216).

Shaping written knowledge: The genre and activity of the experimental article in science

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Mon, 08 Oct 2012 08:32:00 +0000

Reviewed: (Bazerman, 1988)
PDF is made available here http://wac.colostate.edu/books/landmarks.cfm

Overview

One reads this over and over again: interaction does not appear out of nowhere, it is situated in context. Features of social context shape (and determine the appropriateness of) language use. This process of shaping, however, passes mostly unperceived at least to the language users engaged in the interaction. During one’s education and one’s socialization in institutional circles, one internalizes a more or less precise set of rules needed for producing and comprehending texts. In fact, in side-stepping this set of rules, one can even be surprised to notice oneself socially constrained in the most natural of intellectual activities. “I couldn’t see what a text was,” Bazerman notes at one point, “without looking at the worlds these texts served as significant activity” (p. 4).

Bazerman’s work comprises a series of attempts to detect the influences of social context in scientific writing – or in rhetorical terms “the interconnectedness of written language with the worlds around it” (p. 23). This goal is pursued differently in each chapter, putting to use not one but a series of methodological tools. For how do you build a social-constraint-detector? Where do you look? And, if you think you found such a constraint, how can you probe it is indeed a constraint and that it functions as such?

Three examples of academic discourse

Bazerman first compares three texts from three different disciplinary fields: molecular biology, sociology and literary criticism[1]. These fields are purposely chosen so as to contrast with one another in terms of constraints: broadly speaking, one would expect scholars in molecular biology to have different expectations from scholars in sociology and both, in turn, to have different expectations from a literary critic. This variance is Bazerman’s “control method”: if the discipline is different, then the texts should appear as different and so should the constraints. And fluctuating constraints can be detected by “accentuating textual features through contrasts” (p. 24)

Bazerman starts with a division of “context”:

Three texts, from different sorts of knowledge-creating communities will be examined in relation to four contexts, as these contexts are referred to, invoked, or acted on in the texts: [1] the object under study, [2] the literature of the field, [3] the anticipated audience, [4] and the author’s own self (p. 24)

The purpose then is to specify in what way a text “refers to, invokes and responds to” each of the four contextual determinations. First, he looks at how information is conveyed about reality: what kinds of objects are identified, how they are identified, with what degree of precision etc. Second he looks at how the text inter-relates with other texts: previous literature on the subject, mainly, but also the received body of accepted claims within a certain field. Third, he looks at how the texts embody a certain view of the audience by anticipating the kind of conventionalized attitudes ranging from total consent to total opposition. Finally, he looks at the way the text conveys information about the author himself, the mind standing between the audience and reality, its motives, its observations, idiosyncrasies etc. The result is a four-way interaction channel between text and context: language and reality, language and tradition, language and society and language and mind. The speaker or writer, in deciding which words to commit to paper[2], must weigh these four contexts and establish a balance between them:

A text is, in a sense, a solution to the problem of how to make a statement that attends through the symbols of language to all essential contexts appropriately. More explicitly, an article is an answer to the question: Against the background of accumulated knowledge of the discipline, how can I present an original [[3]] claim about a phenomenon to the appropriate audience convincingly so that thinking and behavior will be modified accordingly? (p. 26)

The three texts are introduced as such solutions. Bazerman tries to get pass the initial, natural but hopeless, observation that “each text seems to be making a different kind of move in a different kind of game” (p. 46). It is not the moves themselves that are important, interesting solutions as they may be, but rather, “the hints about the game-board revealed by the moves” (p. 47).

The paper A structure for deoxyribose nucleic acid (Crick & Watson, 1953) tries to establish, quantitatively and qualitatively, a geometric structure for something that is found in nature. This already brings to surface sets of limitations. For instance,

The act of geometric naming depends on the substance being discrete and robust and its structure being consistent through repeated observations for otherwise the names will not convey a distinct and stable meaning to all observers (p. 27).

The first contextual determination, the interaction between language and reality, is in molecular biology the primary source of constraints. All other contextual determinations are subordinated to this one, Bazerman says, so much so that the article needs to be “talking only about nature”. However, other forms of language-context interaction are also present. For instance, one can easily identify the scientific persona or ethos Watson & Crick try to establish by their writing – a characteristic also observed by (Halloran, 1997) in his study. As Bazerman observes, the authors’ solution to the language-mind interaction is to create their image as that of “proud among colleagues” yet “humbled before nature” (p. 28). Similarly, the language-literature interaction shapes the text by providing the set of “usable” assumptions from the field. Amongst these assumptions, the central one seems to be the assumption that nature does arrange itself in geometrical ways.

The authors do not defend such a claim since it is already established as a starting point by the community. One might also note other basic starting points such as “the isolation of elements and the theory of chemical combination” as well as “the idea that substances can be analyzed chemically” (p. 29).

A sentence such as “this structure has novel features which are of considerable biological interest” must then be perceived as an implicit argument addressing the expectations of the field: “novelty” and “practical interest”. This just an example but it is a clear one (“purpose -> expectation -> convention -> constraint” is how the context shapes the use of that sentence).

Another example – this time on the language-literature axis – is the authors’ remark “It has not escaped our notice that the specific pairing we have postulated immediately suggests a possible copying mechanism for the genetic material”. About this, Halloran remarked: “one can almost feel the elbow in one’s ribs” (Halloran, 1997, p. 43). For Bazerman, it is important again to fix analytical observations on the abovementioned axis: purpose (relating to previous work) -> expectation (new work must fit somewhere and must offer prospects for future developments) -> convention (tell your colleagues what to do with what you discovered) -> constraint (don’t leave your conclusions isolated as if all possible work is done). Watson & Crick’s short remark is an intelligent solution to this expectation for, as Bazerman notices, its shortness and parenthetical tone express confidence that “the single added piece of information [i.e. the structure they propose] will allow biology to move forward in directions determined by its own logic. It would be presumptuous and unnecessary for Watson and Crick to lecture on the subject.” (p. 31) It is up to nature to persuade the readers, not the authors.

The second text, Robert Merton’s essay The ambivalence of scientists, presents a different linguistic solution to a different kind of rhetorical problem. To begin with, much less is shared in terms of starting points and methodological assumptions. Also, the phenomenon which makes the subject-matter of the study is not universally recognized as a discrete phenomenon and much of the language that is needed to refer to it does not have unambiguous reference. The “ambivalence of scientists” is, therefore, something to be established in ways different from those used by Watson & Crick to establish their structure for DNA. As Bazerman observes,

Paradoxically, the great power and broad implications of Watson and Crick’s structure of DNA result from the claim’s tight constraint within a highly elaborated framework of thought; the narrow claim reverberates through the whole system. A broader claim in a less tightly strung system may have a more damped effect (p. 35)

Also, since the topic of ambivalence involves a critique of the field (that of uneven use of academic values according to momentary interests) “the writer has a special problem with respect to the scholarly audience [thus, on the language-audience axis, my addition e.p.] all of whom presumably are subject to the cognitive lapse which is under discussion. Merton must challenge the readers while still maintaining their good will and attentiveness” (p. 36) And he does, for in the end the charge to the audience is quite directive. As Bazerman summarizes it:

[H]ave courage to overcome your own ambivalence to begin a systematic study of priorities, for not only will this study add to knowledge, it will be therapeutic for all of science, including sociology

Merton, then, is attempting to persuade his audience not of a specific claim, but “an entire framework of knowledge”. Being new, this framework puts the author on the main seat, in a “follow-my-lead” manner. In opposition to Watson & Crick’s article, the language-audience and the language-mind axes are predominant. Whether the phenomena identified are indeed as described, the academic change should be undertaken – this, in a nutshell, is the point Merton tries to achieve. The use of metaphors (“forces”, “attraction” between values etc.) and the use of the expression “can be conceived of” to introduce the new phenomenon is also an indication of the loose (that is, less exigent) relationship between language and reality.

On a scale of precision, the third text (Hartman’s essay) should be placed nearest the extreme of relaxed, almost opaque, language. Hartman is trying to make a claim … without making a claim. This is immediately visible in the essay’s structure, which

[…] denies the reader the closure of a specific claim fixed within a coherent framework of knowledge. The essay only prepares the reader’s sensibility to relive imaginatively the Wordsworthian sensibility (p. 41)

All in all, Hartman is committed to nothing. It functions only as a psychological pre-requisite for approaching a poet with the required – the “Hartmannian” – sensibility. Harman brings in his entire critical vocabulary and references, his long experience with Longinus, Milton, Joyce and others, in order to mediate the experience of reading Wordworthian poetry. “The fundamental reality” is not something that can be described, or referred to, it is the reader’s/critic’s experience – un-externalized, so un-describable. Can nothing be more opposed to Watson & Crick’s endeavor.

The diversity is not of course unforeseen. Even one mildly familiar to academic discourse will expect biological, sociological and critical texts to be distinctly codified. Rather, the point Bazerman is making is that science has its own mechanism, a mechanism which, once contrasted with various relatives, can easily be perceived. The three-way comparison worked only as a prelude to more detailed accounts that follow in the next chapters. That is, in discussing science Bazerman tries to develop the right kind of tools of discussing science: he sharpens his tools as he goes along. And it is a useful sharpener, Bazerman argues, for (1) statements made through scientific discourse have been socially and culturally significant, (2) some have been highly successful gaining almost universal acceptance, (3) due to its great success, habits of scientific discourse have influenced almost all other areas of intellectual inquiry and finally (4) because scientific writing hides itself.

We know that poetry, laws and newspapers are active products of word-hagglers. The only ploy to minimize linguistic agency in these endeavors is to invoke divinity, muses or the depths of human psyche. Yet to write science is commonly thought not to write at all, just simply to record the facts (p. 13)

The development of the scientific article

The second method of detecting contextual influences on scientific communication is to follow the history or “growth” of a single genre (in this case, the experimental report) as a response to exigencies. The assumption is that a change in the text is determined by change in the context: a new expectation (given by a newly emerged convention) or a modified expectation (usually given by the old one becoming more rigid).

The experimental report, as any other literary genre, was invented in response to a literary situation and evolved through the needs, conceptions, and creativity of the many authors who took it up. (p. 59)

By examining the emergence of a genre we can identify the kinds of problems the genre was attempting to solve and how it went about solving them. The history of the experimental report shows how a certain kind of detailed picture of a laboratory event became the standard and how particular information became essential to a successful telling. (p. 63)

The main evolving feature is identified by Bazerman in accountability, i.e., the constant commitment of the scientist to some representation of reality. Here, the evolving norms are most apparent in the way the habits and procedures of restricting un-accountable discourse:

Other types of communities may have other fundamental accountabilities and means of enforcing and elaborating these accountabilities. Sacred texts, for example, provide the constant ground, pattern, and reference point for communication in some religious communities. […] Legal text is held accountable on one hand to a hierarchically arranged series of court decisions, laws and constitutions, and on the other to evidence gathered through procedures defined by the system. […] In certain types of literary critical discourse, as exemplified by [Hartman’s essay] the fundamental reference point is a subjective experience of the text. (p. 61)

Scientific discourse is built on accountability to empirical fact over all possible accountabilities.[4] In this sense, the experimental report is the prototypical genre of scientific enquiry. That is to say that the ideal scientific article consists of commitments to empirical facts (in the form of descriptive statements) and nothing else. Of course, due to the “situatedness” of the genre, the ideal scientific article could never be written, but the scientist will always refer to this ideal for language-shaping constraints (Bazerman gradually starts using the metaphor of “forces” that “shape” the language, p. 62).

Bazerman’s second study consists of an examination of experimental articles that appeared in the Philosophical transactions of the Royal Society from the seventeenth century onwards. The study is qualitative, rather than quantitative. The examination focuses on several questions such as “To what kind of events does the term ‘experiment’ refer?” or “How fully are apparatus and methodology presented?” In this chapter, Bazerman simply notes the changes, without offering many analytical commentaries. For instance, he notes the increase in precision of descriptions of experimental settings or the shift from a “here-are-the-bare-facts” style to an increased awareness of a scientist’s rhetorical (thus, not only informative) task. Changes in organization and format are also noted and even certain distinct “stages” are outlined.

In general, the institutional point of the experimental article changed from an uncontested report of events to an argument over results, where cumulative description of methodology and agreed-upon assumptions worked to stabilize a result as “true”. Also, approaching the nineteenth and the twentieth century, scientists became aware that interpretation of results is also something upon which the community might cast doubt. Thus, they started paying attention to the meaning of the events under discussion (the usual “Discussion” paragraph or section). As Bazerman summarizes this development:

With the journal serving as a forum, contention grows. This contention pushes the individual author into recognizing that he is not simply reporting the self-evident truth of events, but rather is telling a story that can be questioned and that has a meaning which itself can be mooted. (p. 78)

There are several other observation Bazerman formulates with respect to his chosen corpus. However, as he notes, none of them is as relevant as the two transformations mentioned above. This itself can be of some significance. Namely, one might conclude that the evolution of the article as a genre concentrated on refining the argumentative aspects and disregarding other aspects (e.g. length, which varies without pattern).

The gatekeepers & the audiences

The social structure of scientific communication was not “there to be found” by self-proclaimed scientists after the Scientific Revolution of the sixteenth century. The persons became “scientists” and what they were doing became “science” in a gradual process. The structure emerged in the form of institutions, social roles and conventions[5].

For the rhetorician this process offers yet another source of insights: Bazerman’s “constraints-detector” is set now, not on the field or the genre, but on the audience(s). The activity of Henry Oldenburg, the first editor of the first scientific journal in English (The Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London, founded in 1665) is Bazerman’s first target. Initially, Oldeburg was nothing more than a moderately-informed letterbox: he started correspondence with a number of scientists, becoming the mid-point between various professors and personalities. He encouraged scientists to maintain this communication channel, ever-complimentary in his tone aimed at preserving co-operation. However, he sensed that scientific practice is dialogical (or, as Bazerman puts it, “agonistically”) set:

[E]ach player – seeing the moves of the others – makes countermoves attempting to defend his position and to eliminate his opponents from the field. […] As long as such conflict was played out in the semi-privacy of correspondence it did not lead to serious hostilities (p. 130)

The format of the letter (and, subsequently, that of the journal article) sustained the dialogic set-up, with its expectations of replies, and replies to replies etc.

The slowness of book publication, the limited distribution and the increasing popularity of vernaculars had kept the scientists’ audiences and communicants limited. Moreover, books tend to present self-contained universes, accounts complete in themselves with little opportunity for response except in the muffled comments of the unsatisfied reader. Communication through books minimizes confrontation, disagreement, discussion, and sense of competition. (p. 130)

In the earliest issues, Oldenburg was still very much a correspondent, writing an extended newsletter of all items of interest that had come to his attention: a new book, a presentation he had witnessed etc. All was filtered through his voice as he selected and focused attention on those aspects he thought news- and noteworthy. Gradually, his activity necessitated changes.

Oldenburg increasingly lets the contributors speak for themselves, turning them into authors. He rapidly increases the amount and length of quotations from his sources until he soon prints entire letters with only a short editorial introduction. Eventually that editorial introduction vanishes as does the form of the letter, leaving freestanding authored articles (p. 132)

While Oldenburg vanishes from the pages of the journal – though still actively involved in editing the content – the journal author appears. However, this is not without its drawbacks: “the new publicness,” Bazerman adds, “would prove a serious irritant to potential authors” (p. 132). In this new setting, the reward system changes. Oldenburg has to:

offer other lures, such as public exposure of ideas, priority, fame, cooperation of amateur fact-gatherers and participation in a great universal undertaking. Competitiveness was recast in the threat that competitor might win these rewards first (p. 132)

Following these changes, the audience became what we know it today. There are at least three social roles individuals can fulfill with respect to journal publication. First, there are other authors, other experts, the discussants engaged in convincing each other of the acceptability of their claims. Second, there is the gatekeeper (Oldenburg, in this case) who judges the prima-facie value of a contribution. Third, there is the lay-audience: the people who are interested in novelty, practical applications, curiosities etc.[6] Since these audiences do not share the same standards and expectations (compare the appreciation of wonder-like events vs. the appreciation of accuracy) the author is for the first time confronted with a role-conflict: journal contributors are caught between publicizing and defending.

The situation didn’t last too long either.

As the articles in the Transactions became more concerned with professional argument, other more popular journals (such as Weekly Memorials of the Ingenious and The Athenian Mercury) filled the gap between professional and popular audience. Since the general audience was no longer the more powerful force for the authors, authors in the primary journals no longer served the needs of the general audience so well (p. 135)

Oldenburg and others like him sensed this change, and began to respond to it:

Editors began to eliminate articles of insufficient professional interest and quality. In 1752 referees were introduced to maintain professional interests and quality further (p. 136)

Once the audiences are clearly separated, however, the efficiency of the reward system might be reduced. With little publicity and counter-claims threatening every claim, authors needed to some other form of reward. It was not Oldenburg or any editor who came up with this reward system, rather, it emerged as an effect of specialization and as the “shoulders of giants” commonplace gradually disappeared. Namely, publication in journal became an “identity-granting” social activity. Now you could only play the game if you played the game! Citations began as a recognition of debt, but gradually developed into the general practice of recognizing others as players. Thus,

Although at first criticism may have seemed a rather irritating by-product of public exposure, particularly within such a motivatedly critical crowd, this became seen as a necessary though unpleasant medicine. (p. 138)

This context, with the audiences so differentiated and the multifarious reward system, is what we know nowadays as publishing[7].

To this day a successful publication must satisfy gatekeepers to get published, must defend itself against critics to maintain credibility, and must appear useful enough to readers to be cited and incorporated in future work. It is not easy to dance to all three masters, as evidenced by the many articles that get published and avoid criticism, yet never are cited, or the articles that get published but then become the objects of controversy from which they do not emerge whole (p. 143)

Conclusion

The last chapters of Bazerman’s work are a bit anticlimactic. Some, like chapter 9 where he discusses the APA style, are purely historical with only little gloss here and there as to how technical writing constraints might influence the communication. Some are fully oriented toward practical advice (e.g. chapter 11 & 12) but they read as collections of very general advices: “consider your investigative and symbolic tools”, or “consider your immediate rhetorical situation”. The emptiness of these advices is visible, I think, in the following passage:

The more clearly you understand this emergent rhetorical situation, the more precisely and effectively you can choose what you do next. Assessing the situation helps you judge what kind of statement is called for, if any. (p. 326)

References

Bazerman, C. (1988). Shaping written knowledge: The genre and activity of the experimental article in science. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.

Crick, F., & Watson, J. (1953). A structure for deoxyribose nucleic acid. Nature, 171, 737-738.

Eemeren, F. H. van (2010). Strategic maneuvering in argumentative discourse: Extending the pragma-dialectical theory of argumentation. Amsterdam; Philadelphia: John Benjamins.

Gross, A. G., Harmon, J. E., & Reidy, M. S. (2002). Communicating science: The scientific article from the 17th century to the present. New York: Oxford University Press.

Halloran, S. M. (1997). The birth of molecular biology: An essay in the rhetorical criticism of scientific discourse. In R. A. Harris (Ed.), Landmark essays on rhetoric of science: Case studies (pp. 39-53). Mahwah, NJ: Hermagoras Press.

Johnstone, H. W. (1978). Validity and rhetoric in philosophical argument: An outlook in transition. University Park, PA: Dialogue Press of Man & World.

Prelli, L. J. (1989). A rhetoric of science: Inventing scientific discourse. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press.

[1] The papers examined are James Watson & Francis Crick’s A structure for deoxyribose nucleic acid (1953), Robert Merton’s The ambivalence of scientists (1963) and Geoffrey Hartman’s Blessing the torrent: On Wordsworth later style (1964). Rhetorical analyses of (Crick & Watson, 1953) can also be found in (Halloran, 1997) and (Gross, Harmon, & Reidy, 2002). Interestingly enough, some of Bazerman’s conclusions pertaining to this paper differ to a considerable extent from those of Halloran.

[2] Notice the rhetorical approach, which centers on choice, i.e. selection of linguistic means for certain purposes - see (Prelli, 1989).

[3] Hard to say why Bazerman chose originality as the guiding academic value for texts. In my opinion, it restricts analysis unnecessarily. The “added value” of a certain text might be a bulk of academic values, some more clearly represented than others, which differ from context to context. A very original, yet, say, overly-complicated, proposal might be discarded within certain communities.

[4] An interesting question here would be whether philosophical discourse is “built” in the same way on some kind of general accountability (Johnstone, 1978)

[5] In this view, Bazerman follows Robert Merton who defines “social structure” as the making and re-making of individual choices (pp. 129-130)

[6] Nowadays, we might add the funding agencies as a fourth audience.

[7] What Bazerman calls “conflict mediation” is very close to the concept of strategic maneuvering(van Eemeren, 2010) In the same sense, the author has to “mediate” or “negotiate” between being in in many ways at the same time, fulfilling many roles before various audiences. Different from strategic maneuvering, the mediation is not between a dialectical and a rhetorical goal, but between different rhetorical goals (e.g. “getting published” for gatekeeper audiences vs. “making oneself clearly understood” for larger audiences). Still as a difference, note that these goals might change or disappear altogether (as opposed to the theoretically-set dialectical & rhetorical goals).

Whose text? Whose context?

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Mon, 01 Oct 2012 08:07:00 +0000

Reviewed: (Schegloff, 1997)

In this essay Schegloff discusses one of the principal methodological steps in human sciences: “analysis”. Be it of human behavior, generally, or of communicative interaction, in particular, “analysis” is the author’s artifact: it is what the analyst does, après guerre, to humans, human conduct and the context of this conduct in view of theoretical options. The question Schegloff wishes to discuss is dovetailed: it is both a methodological one (How should one go about doing analysis?) and an epistemological one (What should be the basis for such an analysis?). Although generalizable in principle, the discussion is restricted to the analysis of verbal interaction.

That there is more than one answer to the questions introduced in the title is something Schegloff takes for granted.[1] The multiplicity of textual and contextual descriptions is something any language user should be acquainted to. Schegloff illustrates this with a witty reflexive example:

The observations which I just made [that persons can be characterized in more than one way at the same time: male, liberal, dog-lover, American etc.] were in the context of introductory remarks to a talk, in the context of a panel on politics and aesthetics, in a potentially polemical context, in the context of American Association of Applied Linguistics meeting, of professional convention, in the American Midwest, in the Intercontinental hotel, in a setting specially attuned to multicultural concerns, in the absence of my wife etc. (p. 166)

As a result of this “embarrassment of truths”, the epistemological problem becomes clear: since all of the descriptions above are true, the fact that they are true cannot constitute a warrant for their production and use. Add this observation to the methodological predicament (intuition? see footnote 1) that not all of them are equally legitimate, and one arrives at the questions from the title:

But how should one discriminate? [methodological] On what grounds should some characterization of any of these aspects of a sociocultural event be preferred to another? [epistemological] (p. 166)

The “positivistic” approach

One solution has been the introduction of a well-cherished criterion, that of explanatory adequacy:

On this view, that way of characterizing social actors, the context in which they act and the things

they say and do – that way is best which most reliably yields “findings”: repeatable, reliable, objective, significant (for some, statistically significant) observations about the world. (p. 166)

Given the ‘quantitative’ method of checking the legitimacy of an analysis, Schegloff dubs this approach positivistic – which, he admits, nowadays sounds almost like an insult! He adds:

There is a kind of theoretical imperialism involved here, a kind of hegemony of the intellectuals, of the literati, of the academics, of the critics whose theoretical apparatus gets to stipulate the terms by reference to which the world is to be understood (p. 167)

Another solution, the approach Schegloff is defending, is to start with the interactants’ orientation (the “endogenous orientations of the participants in those events”), and have this, and not the analyst and his theoretical options, function as a prima-facie description of a cultural object, say a piece of interaction. Thus, before undertaking to relate the object to a social, economic and political context – indeed as a prerequisite for deciding context is relevant in the first place – one should endeavor to characterize the object “in its own terms” (p. 171), the way actors (not theorists) relate to it. Schegloff doesn’t officially label his approach, but later in the paper he refers to it as “technical”, “formal” and opposes it, as a matter of principle, to an “ideological” and “socio-political” one.

An example of “formal” analysis

In order to illustrate this view, Schegloff introduces the following piece of interaction. In the following instance, Tony has called his ex-wife Marsha about the return of their teenage son Joey, who ordinarily lives with him, after the son’s holiday visit to his mother in a city some four hundred miles away. It turns out that there is trouble: Joey’s car has been vandalized, and this has happened, as they say, on Marsha’s watch (‘right in front of my house’). What is worse, nobody has bothered to inform John.

1 ((ring))

2 Mar: Hello:?

3 Ton: Hi: Marsha?

4 Mar: Ye:ah.

5 Ton: How are you.

6 Mar: Fi::ne.

7 (0.2)

8 Mar: Did Joey get home yet?

9 Ton: Well I wz wondering when ’e left.

10 (0.2)

11 Mar: ˙hhh UhLd) did Oh:.h Yer not in on what

12 ha:ppen’.(hh)(d)

13 Ton: No(h)o=

14 Mar: =He’s flying.

15 (0.2)

16 Mar: En Ilene is going to meet im:.Becuz the to:p wz

17 ripped off’v iz car which is tih say someb’ddy

18 helped th’mselfs.

19 Ton: Stolen.

20 (0.4)

21 Mar: Stolen.=Right out in front of my house.

22 Ton: Oh: f’r crying out loud,=en eez not g’nna eez not

23 g’nna bring it ba:ck?

24 Mar: ˙hh No so it’s parked in the g’rage cz it wz so damn

25 co:ld. An’ ez a matter fact snowing on the Ridge Route.

26 (0.3)

27 Mar: hhh So I took him to the airport he couldn’ buy a

28 ticket.

29 ( ˙)

30 Mar: hhhh Bee- he c’d only get on standby.

31 (0.3)

32 Ton: Uh hu:[h,

33 Mar: [En I left him there et abou:t noo:n.

34 (0.3)

35 Ton: Ah ha:h.

36 (0.2)

37 Mar: Ayund uh,h

38 (0.2)

39 Ton: W’t’s ’e g’nna do go down en pick it up later? er

40 somethin like ( ) [well that’s aw]:ful

41 Mar: [H i s friend ]

42 Mar: Yeh h[is friend Stee- ]

43 Ton: [That really makes] me ma:d,

44 (0.2)

45 Mar: hhh Oh it’s disgusti[ng ez a matter a’f]a:ct.

46 Ton: [P o o r J o e y ,]

47 Mar: I- I, I told my ki:ds. who do this: down et the Drug

48 Coalition ah want th’to:p back.h · ˙hhhhhhhhh (1.0)

49 SEND OUT the WO:RD.hhh hnh

50 (0.2)

51 Ton: Yeah.

52 Mar: hhh Bu:t u-hu:ghh his friend Steve en Brian er driving

53 up. Right after:: (0.2) school is out. En then hi’ll

54 drive do:wn here with the:m.

55 Ton: Oh I see.

56 Mar: So: in the long run, ˙hhh it ( · ) probly’s gonna save 57 a liddle time ‘n: energy.

58 Ton: Okay,

59 Mar: But Ile:ne probably (0.8) is either at the airport er

60 waiting tuh hear fr’m in eess

61 (0.7)

62 Ton: O:kay.

As an example of a theory-oriented approach, thus “positivistic” in the sense introduced above, Schegloff produces the elementary analysis quoted below. Entertaining how it may be to see Schegloff so scrupulously imitate the language of the humanities, the reader is prompted to note the initial plausibility of such an analysis.

As it might be formulated both vernacularly and for the purposes of critically oriented analysis, we have here an interaction across gender lines, in which the asymmetries of status and power along gender lines in this society are played out in the interactional arena of interruption and over-lapping talk, and this exchange needs to be understood in those terms. In this interactional contest, it may be noted, Marsha is twice ‘beaten down’ in a metaphoric sense but nonetheless a real one, being twice induced to terminate the talk which she is in the process of producing (line 41 and again at line 42), thereby indexing the power processes at work here. On the other hand, in the third interruption in this little episode (lines 45-46), although Marsha does not this time yield to Tony’s interruptive talk, neither does Tony yield to Marsha’s. He starts while Marsha is talking, and brings his exclamation of commiseration to completion in spite of Marsha’s ongoing, continuing talk. One could almost imagine that we capture in this vignette some of the elements which may account for these people no longer living together. (pp. 173-174)

There is much analysis along these lines “out there”, Schegloff notes, in both more and less sophisticated terms. The problem Schegloff wishes to stress is that such analyses leave no room for the concerns the participants themselves display, the terms in which they relate to one another, “the relevancies to which they show themselves to be oriented” (p. 174). To show that there is such an alternative analysis, Schegloff proceeds to provide an analytic rendering of this exchange the goal of which is “to establish what was going on in it for the participants, in its course [Schegloff’s emphasis]” (p. 174).

Schegloff begins with two observations. First, the reappearance of the word ‘down’ in both Tony and Marsha’s turns. (‘down at the Drug Coalition’, ‘go down and pick it up’, ‘driving down with friends’ etc.). It’s hard to tell whether the parties are responding to each other’s use, but the fact is they design their turns in similar fashion. As Schegloff adds, “if the parties are hearing that way and responding that way, we are virtually mandated to analyze it that way” (p. 175). Second, the overlapping in turns 39-44. Before calling them “emotional responses” or anything else, Schegloff urges the reader to observe that they are assessments of what has happened: the event (‘well, that’s awful’) and Tony’s reaction (‘that really makes me mad’) are brought into a completely different discussion about what to do with the car. Also noteworthy is that Marsha abandons her answer-explanation (started twice with ‘his friend…’ and ‘his friend Stee-…’) and reacts to this assessment episode.

Marsha’s reaction to Tony’s expressive episode is an attempt to manifest agreement by upgrading one’s claim: ‘Oh, it’s disgusting’ is a stronger way to characterize a mischief than ‘that’s awful’, hence it is meant to function as an agreement of Tony’s assessment. Here, a further observation is possible. Whereas the episode could have ended here – that is, Marsha & Tony could have continued their talk about Joey’s plans with Steve, as they in fact do starting turn 52 – Marsha adds:

Mar: hhh Oh it’s disgusti[ng ez a matter a’f]a:ct.

46 Ton: [P o o r J o e y ,]

47 Mar: I- I, I told my ki:ds. who do this: down et the Drug

48 Coalition ah want th’to:p back.h · ˙hhhhhhhhh (1.0)

49 SEND OUT the WO:RD.hhh hnh

Not only is she disregarding Tony’s third interruption, but she adds something to the discussion. The expression “as a matter of fact” is a known coincidence marker which is used to mark a claim as relevant independent of the grounds for saying it. Schegloff explains Marsha’s addendum by noting the possible suspicion that the previous line (‘oh, it’s disgusting) has been coerced by Tony’s expressive episode. In other words, if the episode had ended at that point, it would have been one fully directed by Tony: Tony asks a question, she starts a response, Tony interrupts the response to express feeling, she agrees with feelings etc. By describing own justification for ‘oh, it’s disgusting’, Marsha shows that she is not just playing along, that the evaluation is “a view she had held independent of Tony’s coaxing” (p. 178).

In concluding his analysis, Schegloff asks (rhetorically): can critical discourse analysis miss such a source of insights, by going directly into phase two where ideology plays a role? A “formal” (or technical) analysis involves: (a) specifying the conversational practice underlying a way of speaking (e.g. overlapping, finishing a previous turn, repeating etc.), (b) showing what the practice seems designed to do (responding, agreeing, asking a question, assessing etc.) and (c) showing that the products of that practice are understood by interactional co-participants as doing that action, that is, showing

[…] that this understanding is not merely the imposition of an external academic or professional analyst, but is the understanding of the co-participant (p. 179)

The main way of showing this is by linking the practice with certain projects (or outcomes) which can be attributed to the interactants.[2] Schegloff concludes:

The analysis of Tony re-entering the talk with ‘That really makes me mad’ as responsive to the weakness of Marsha’s ‘yeh’ as a response to his prior assessment ‘well that’s awful’ is, then, not a causal characterization nor one warranted by claimed commonsense plausibility or by the cogency of some theoretical apparatus. Each of these ‘contributions’ has the prima facie appearance-in-context of the exercise of a members’ practice of talking. (p. 179)

In the end, Schegloff stresses that his view neither underscores nor undermines the critical approach. Completely disregarding the co-construction of interaction, however, is a booboo critical analysts should avoid[3].

Bibliography

Schegloff, E. A. (1997). Whose text? Whose context? Discourse & Society, 8(2), 165-187.

[1] Note a key assumption within this question, i.e., that there is such a correct description. The text is someone’s and the context is someone’s! The explanation for such a methodological stipulation only appears in the last paragraphs of Schegloff’s article. The alternative, which Schegloff describes as an entropy of correct analyses – thus, no one’s text and no one’s context –, leads to “relativisation and perspectivation” which “threatens the virtual disintegration of stable meaning” (p. 183). With relevance “flying in all directions […], the text’s center cannot hold in the face of the diverse theoretical prisms through which it is refracted” (p. 183). Schegloff’s philosophy of language, then, is not unlike that of Searle, both of them attempting to set up some kind of theoretical enclosure to protect meaning from Wittgensteinian whiteout.

[2] In a broad sense of the term, then, the analysis is rhetorical not formal: it follows the interactants’ choices in view of contextual goals.

[3] “Otherwise,” Schegloff threatens, “the critical analysis will not ‘bind’ to the data and risks ending up merely ideological”

The Elephant in the Moon

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 14:12:00 +0000

By Samuel Butler

A learned society of late,
The glory of a foreign state,
Agreed, upon a summer's night,
To search the Moon by her own light;
To make an inventory of all
Her real estate, and personal;
And make an accurate survey
Of all her lands, and how they lay,
As true as that of Ireland, where
The sly surveyors stole a shire:
T' observe her country, how 'twas planted,
With what sh' abounded most, or wanted;
And make the proper'st observations
For settling of new plantations,
If the society should incline
T' attempt so glorious a design.

This was the purpose of their meeting,
For which they chose a time as fitting;
When at the full her radiant light
And influence too were at their height.
And now the lofty tube, the scale
With which they heaven itself assail,
Was mounted full against the Moon;
And all stood ready to fall on,
Impatient who should have the honour
To plant an ensign first upon her.
When one, who for his deep belief
Was virtuoso then in chief,
Approved the most profound , and wise,
To solve impossibilities,
Advancing gravely, to apply
To th' optic glass his judging eye,
Cried, 'Strange!' - then reinforced his sight
Against the Moon with all his might,
And bent his penetrating brow,
As if he meant to gaze her through;
When all the rest began t'admire,
And, like a train, from him took fire,
Surprised with wonder, beforehand,
At what they did not understand,
Cried out, impatient to know what
The matter was they wondered at.

Quoth he, 'Th'inhabitants o'th Moon,
Who, when the sun shines hot at noon,
Do live in cellars underground,
Of eight miles deep, and eighty round,
In which at once they fortify
Against the sun and th' enemy,
Which they count towns and cities there,
Because their people' civiller
Than those rude peasants, that are found
To live upon the upper ground,
Called Privolans, with whom they are
Perpetually in open war;
And now both armies, highly enraged,
Are in a bloody fight engaged,
And many fall on both sides slain,
As by the glass 'tis clear, and plain.
Look quickly then, that every one
May see the fight before 'tis done.'
With that a great philosopher,
Admired, and famous far and near,
As one of singular invention,
But universal comprehension,
Applied one eye, and half a nose
Unto the optic engine close.

Quoth he, 'A stranger sight appears
Than e'er was seen in all the spheres,
A wonder more unparalled,
Than ever mortal tube beheld;
An elephant from one of those
Two mighty armies is broke loose,
And with the horror of the fight
Appears amazed, and in a fright;
Look quickly, lest the sight of us
Should cause the startled beast t'imboss.
It is a large one, far more great
Than e'er was bred in Africa yet;
From which we boldly may infer,
The Moon is much the fruitfuller.

A program for rhetoric of science

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Mon, 17 Sep 2012 16:58:00 +0000

Reviewed: (Wander, 1976)

Philip Wander’s short essay appeared in 1976, at a moment when the “historical split between science and the humanities” (p. 226) had not yet been breached by analysis attempts coming from rhetoricians of science. Following Harris’ chronology in introduction to Landmark essays… (Harris, 1997), the rhetorical turn in science studies had not yet taken off. Thus, Wander’s essay is at the same abstract enough to be programmatic and concrete enough to delineate a new field.

The big picture rhetoric of science starts with is summarized by Wander as follows. Knowledge is not some form of Platonic intuition, but the product of an evolving set of human agreements. However, this agreement is not stable. At any given moment one might encounter multiple, competing images of reality. Because of their logical features, or because of the vested interest of their proponents, these images might not be able to live with one another. Consequently, each society evolves a body of rules by which one version of reality might be legitimated and the other discredited[1]. Once the agreed-upon reality is established, “all other versions of reality must seem whimsical and arbitrary and, above all, in error” (p. 226). But how is this reality agreed-upon? This question should direct the rhetorician of science who’s task is to investigate with how language is used in scientific debate. By “scientific debate”, Wander means both the public policy deliberation based on scientific matters, but also peer-to-peer deliberation in scientific fields.

Science and public policy deliberation

Reliance on technical language in public debate is rhetorically significant because

in a democracy, whatever its practical imperfections, the people have a right, on the important public issues, to know the relevant social and economic facts as well as the policy conclusions to be drawn from them (p. 227)

When the language of public debate becomes to specialized, the laity is encouraged to remain silent. When the jargon of science is employed, the layman is intimidated. Hence, it can be voluntarily adopted (Wander offers the example of the “massive public expenditure on the space program”, p. 229). In the areas of public policy,

[t]he use of science as a rhetorical topic for legitimizing expenditure […] and it is in this context science or the use of science in public deliberation begs rhetorical investigation (p. 229)

Science and the rhetoric of scientists

Although science sometimes plays an important part in public deliberation, “the archetypal speaking situation for the scientist occurs in addressing an audience of fellow scientists and the archetypal form of discourse is the research report” (p. 230) This, too, may be examined rhetorically – Wander adds. A scientific report is not just the giving of information, it is an attempt at persuasion.

In order to grasp what this means, we must again consider the institutional context of science. In itself, a research paper is of little value. It is not likely to be widely read nor, if read, carefully studied. Why? Because it has not undergone the acid test of scientific research, peer group review. (p. 230)

The practical outcome of is that the typical scientist addresses, if he or she wishes to publish, not just his peers in an abstract way, but the editorship of the appropriate professional journals. In other words, he must “reach” this audience before he can reach the larger professional audience which reads the journals[2]. In his attempt to reach these audiences, the author might point out that the subject is worth talking about, that the speaker knows what he or she is talking about, that the findings ought to be integrated in some way into the existing fund of human knowledge etc.[3]

The use of statistics (and more generally, of formal languages) has gradually come to be the preferred strategic choice for the language of modern scientist. Some (Weigert, 1970) have warned against this practice in social sciences, thinking that statistics might be ultimately be just a way of posing as a scientist (i.e. involved in the advancement of knowledge) while being a rhetorician (i.e. interested in ‘mere’ persuasion of his peers). Wander also speaks of a “pedigree rhetoric of underground references” (p. 232). Thanking certain people, reading papers at conventions before publishing them and then noting the fact in the footnote, the widespread practice of citing one’s earlier work, “all of which […] asserts a certain eminence in the field” (p. 232).

Conclusion

If it makes sense to talk about the rhetoric of science in research reports, then it is just as sensible to treat it in public deliberation. These are the two areas in which the rhetorician of science will activate. Wander concludes:

A rhetorical investigation into science is not desirable in and of itself, and if all it represents is an entre into the bickering between scientists and humanists, or a new field within which to display professional skills, then I have not said what I intended to say. The issues reach beyond provincial quarrels and professional posturing. Science and all that it represents stands at the center of our civilization. There is an increasing interest, both within and without the academy, in the rhetoric of science and I believe, despite the irony implicit in the request, that there is an need for further research. (p. 235)

References

Harris, R. A. (1997). Introduction. In R. A. Harris (Ed.), Landmark essays on rhetoric of science: Case studies (pp. xi-xliv). Mahwah, N.J.: Hermagoras Press.

Merton, R. K. (1973). The normative structure of science. The Sociology of Science, 267, 275-277.

Prelli, L. J. (1997). The rhetorical construction of scientific ethos. In R. A. Harris (Ed.), Landmark essays in rhetoric of science: Case studies (pp. 87-104). Mahwah, N.J.: Hermagoras Press.

Wander, P. C. (1976). The rhetoric of science. Western Journal of Communication, 40(4), 226-235.

Weigert, A. J. (1970). The immoral rhetoric of scientific sociology. The American Sociologist, 5(2), 111-119.

[1] Although Wander does not mention it, a good example of sociological study of these set of rules is (Merton, 1973), an overview of which is given by Prelli (1997).

[2] In a paper in Science, John H. Wilson observed that the goal of the modern scientist is “to get a paper published that will impress their peers, and if nobody else understands, so much the better” (quoted in Wander, p. 230).

[3] These all seem like very basic, very general observations, and Wander does not undertake to make them more concrete. He later adds that, since specific rhetorical problems are solved by specific rhetorical genres, it “would make sense to talk about a rhetoric of [e.g.] grant proposals” (p. 231)

Arguing in different forums: The Bering crossover controversy

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Wed, 12 Sep 2012 08:51:00 +0000

Reviewed: (Fahnestock, 1989)[1]

Archeologists have long disagreed about the exact date of the first human migration into the Americas. The traditional figure is “12.000 years ago”, but some archeologists would push the date much further back. The figure eventually caused a field controversy. Fahnestock analyses this controversy from a rhetorical perspective, with the aim of describing “the variety of persuasive techniques employed in popular and review publications by scientists who find themselves in a disciplinary stalemate” (p. 26). Since some of the authors who were engaged in the debate have written for publications with different audiences (lay-persons and fellow-experts), Fahnestock considers the subject to be “a test case for the rhetorician interested in how written arguments vary according to the audience addressed” (p. 26).

The Bering crossover controversy in specialized literature

In the words of one archeologist, Kunt R. Fladmark, ‘the initial entry of humans into the New World remains one of the major unsolved problems of American archeology’ (quoted in Fahnestock, 1989, p. 27). The debate has persisted for more than thirty years – although this should partly be explained also by the nature of the subject and the specific empirical methods in archeology[2]. The two camps are: the early daters, who believe that human occupancy in the Americas is prior to 12.000 years ago, and the late daters, who believe that humans have only penetrated the territory 12.000 years ago. “In general”, Fahnestock says, “the crossover controversy has proceeded by the early daters finding evidence and the late daters debunking it” (p. 32)

Although easily distinguishable (notice that you cannot be on both sides, “earlier” in archeology meaning 10-15.000 years back), it is not completely decided who is to take the position of the proponent in this debate. As Fahnestock observes, this unresolved issue becomes rhetorically exploitable – and this in a curious fashion. Although “one would think that it would be more desirable to depict a position as favored by the majority” in this controversy, “invoking the ethos of the minority seems more advantageous” (p. 29).

Although it seems like the height of foolishness to claim that most people in your field disagree with you, it is obviously a way to represent your opponents as stodgy and your own as progressive. (p. 29)

In addition, both parties of archeologists seem to be aware (“perhaps unfortunately”, Fahnestock adds) of new trends in philosophy of science and thus bring up Kuhn’s work (Kuhn, 1996)whenever they feel like referring to their work as a paradigm shift. Unlike the process envisaged by Kuhn, however, there is no claim to an increase in certainty as the debate progresses; neither party could assert the possession of that irrefutable proof. The outcome of this is that the discussion is often stuffed with appeals to ethos in the form of proclamations of self-conviction:

Throughout this assessment, [X] uses statements of personal doubt and belief: ‘My feeling is,’ ‘I cannot believe,’ ‘I have great faith.’ […] The arguer who makes strong statements of personal belief relies greatly on ethos to carry the day. One might even read an ethical a fortiori argument here: if I can believe then so should you. Because [X] has a long and distinguished career in American archaeology, evidenced in the introduction and in the dedication of the volume to her, it seems likely that her ethical appear is warranted for the particular audience addressed by the collection (p. 31)

Not all authors have been that frank in separating what they believe and what has been shown, more or less reliably, by empirical data. In a review article, Richard E. Morlan (whose entire career has been devoted to supporting the pre-12.000 thesis) makes the human agency a matter of fact by casually referring to it in subordinate clauses: ‘Among the vertebrate fossils are altered bones, antlers and tusk fragments, some of which were artificially worked in fresh condition’ [3] (quoted in Fahnestock, p. 32, my italics).

Furthermore, Morlan has made what we might call a Freudian grammatical slip when he speaks of ‘the interpretation of artificially fractured and flaked mammoth bones’ instead of ‘the interpretation of fractured and flaked mammoth bones as artificial’ (p. 32)

In 1985 the early daters were dealt with what seemed to be a decisive blow. The early daters’ most cherished piece of evidence (a caribou tibia unmistakably carved by human hand into a tool for scraping hides) was dated 27.000 years old by using “carbon-14” dating technique. Several years later, when the dating technique came to be considered unreliable, the piece of bone was re-evaluated. New radiocarbon dating was used and revealed the flesher to be only about 1300 years old. (The original date was … 26.000 years off!). An article reporting the re-dating appeared in May 1986 (Science) and there were virtually no statements to its contrary.

The Bering crossover controversy in popularization literature

The papers on this subject that appeared in popularizing magazines (Fahnestock looks especially at Natural History, a publication of the American Museum of Natural History in New York) are written “in variable styles, but they generally conform to what one would expect of occasional pieces in a glossy magazine” (p. 34). Nonetheless, they are not purely descriptive. They are after all written by professional archeologists, and thus one might expect not just neutral information-giving, but cases being argued.

The form of these cases is expectedly different due to the nature of the medium. For one thing, ethos-building by personal-attribution is fairly accepted. One anthropologist speaks of “4000 personally studied individuals” and that “over the past twenty-five years, I have studied more than 200.000 prehistoric teeth from the new world” etc. Second, while scholarly formats generally dictate the use of passive voice, the style of Natural History could be characterized as “more journalistic” and constrains writers to the creation of human agents (I did, he discovered etc.)

“The most outspoken of the articles in favor of the [early date] thesis” was written by a professor of anthropology at the University of Toronto, William Irving. Professor Irving devoted much of his career to the establishment of these findings as evidence of pre-12.000 human presence. Still, the new carbon-dating technique revealed most of it to be falsely pushed back some 26.000 years. Thus, his rhetorical situation was more peculiar than that of other writers:

Because he was perfectly aware when he wrote the Natural History article that in a sense his life’s work had been challenged, he has serious repair work to do, and it is perhaps strange that he chooses to do it in the format of a nonspecialist’s publication. (p. 35)

Further, Fahnestock sharply observes:

But publication in specialist journals is essentially closed to him unless he has new data to present, and the occasions for review articles are infrequent. Irving has the quickest access to the largest audience in a popular form, though precisely what he can accomplish in such a forum is unclear. (p. 35)

Irving also must have been aware that although the majority of his Natural History audience knows nothing of the dating controversies (i.e. that “their purpose for reading is entertainment or a kind of scientific voyeurism”, p. 35), some “old partners in contention” will read his column while being aware of the current state of evidence. Irving’s solution to the puzzle of two disparate audiences is the adoption of a narrative structure and to give a strict chronological account of research events and process of investigations. Fahnestock identifies this with the genre of apologia, the choice of which can function as a defense of his entire career.

First, Irvin’s narrative emphasizes the slowness with which he came to believe in an early date and the “careful and rational process of investigation that he and his colleagues conducted”. He describes himself and his colleagues as being “very skeptical” and even “puzzled”. He adds things like “of course, there were other possible explanations to consider” and “we realized that much more work would be needed” (quoted by Fahnestock, p. 35). Fahnestock’s reconstruction of these tactics is unswerving: according to her, the underlying appeal is “If I, who know so much more, had my significant skepticism overcome by the evidence, so should you” (p. 36).

Second, Irving describes his “shift” to the early daters as an Eureka event, a moment when his prepared mind encountered the convincing evidence. This, too, is described in the tone of a high skeptic who, despite all his (professional) efforts, could not help himself being convinced.

So what about the re-dating? Irving basically dismisses the subject by presenting his view of the matter as an accepted starting point. The following two claims he uses as arguments both presuppose the “artificiality” of the bone fractures: (a) nothing else could have produced the bone artifacts and (b) similar bone artifacts are to be found at other places. By this, Irving has “successfully maneuvered [the early daters’ thesis] into the position of being unprovable but unrefutable” (p. 37)

Conclusion

In the concluding remarks, Fahnestock asks a very basic question (and gives a very sensible answer). The question is: why the effort? In the professional sphere, the arguments of both sides are based on what was acknowledged to be feeble evidence for both camps. In the lay-sphere, the magazine’s lay readers have no expertise and need not take sides. Why this back and forth with arguments which are not likely to resolve any dispute, but in fact polarize sides even more? Fahnestock proposes two explanations. First,

Though the public’s ‘romance’ with archeology of all types is perennial, there is little social pressure on, or public need for, archaeologists to resolve their differences in order to go on to a next step or to bring a line of speculation to fruition. In rhetorical terms, there is little ‘exigence’ or push, either from within or from without the profession, to settle the matter. (p. 40)

A second explanation is in fact the expansion of the first one, namely, that

[…] part of the real work of any discipline is its own perpetuation. For archaeology that perpetuation, which may involve mounting expeditions to remote sites, can be very costly. An unresolved question hanging over a discipline justifies further research, further funding, and hence the continuation of the field (p. 40)

Bibliography

Fahnestock, J. (1989). Arguing in different forums: The Bering crossover controversy. Science, Technology & Human Values, 14(1), 26-42.

Harris, R. A. (1997). Landmark essays on rhetoric of science : Case studies. Mahwah, N.J.: Hermagoras Press.

Kuhn, T. S. (1996). The structure of scientific revolutions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

[1] Fahnes tock article appears reprinted in (Harris, 1997).

[2] Briefly put, research is slow and “luck plays an enormous part” (p. 27). In addition to the fortuitous nature of the data, the field of archeology is traditionally confronted with (1) deep-seated disagreement about what actually constitutes “proof” of human occupation; and (2) continuous change of ideas about the most reliable dating method.

[3] A bone is “worked when fresh” if its form is modified by human weapons when the beast was still alive (presumably in the course of hunting).

Molecular biology meets rhetorical criticism

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Mon, 10 Sep 2012 11:06:00 +0000

Reviewed: (Halloran, 1997)

On April 25, 1953, the field of molecular biology was born. Its “birth certificate” is a paper written by James Watson and Francis Crick, namely, A structure for deoxyribose nucleic acid (Crick & Watson, 1953). This paper stands, according to Halloran, “more clearly than any single scientific paper in recent years […] near if not precisely at the center of what Thomas Kuhn would call a scientific revolution” (p. 39). Halloran’s purpose is in this paper less theory-oriented, and more analysis-oriented. His goal is to offer a “thorough critical analysis” of Watson & Crick’s paper.

The term “critical” in the quotation above should be emphasized, for Halloran is of the opinion that

[t]he job of the rhetorical critic is to discover what in the particular case were the available means of persuasion, and judge whether the rhetor managed them well or badly (p. 39)

A structure for DNA, 1953

The paper by Watson & Crick was the first published announcement of the double-helical structure (Fig. 1) devised for DNA – the molecule that had by the early 1950s been identified as the transmitter of genetic information. Halloran retraces the story of this discovery in its outline in order to clarify the rhetorical situation in which the 1953 paper appeared

First, there was a degree of competition surrounding the work. Researchers in the United States and United Kingdom were known to be working on the same problem. Second, the structure of the DNA molecule was generally regarded to be an important research problem (although no one knew beforehand just how important its solution would turn out to be).

Fig. 1

No one knew or even hoped that genetic information would turn out to be transmitted by a straightforward mechanical process, and that knowing the structure of DNA would therefore suggest the possibility of mastering and ultimately manipulating the process.

Watson and Crick chose to publish their discovery in Nature, a journal known to reach a broad scientific audience and also a non-specialized one. Nature is published weekly and, like the U.S. journal Science, is not focused in a particular discipline. What is interesting about this paper is that it is just over 900 words (around one and a half journal pages). Halloran even summarizes the whole content as follows:

Paragraph 1: introduction

Paragraphs 2-3: review of selected literature

Paragraphs 4-12: body of the paper

4-5: sketch the broad outline of the model

6-8: describe the ‘novel feature’ of the structure, the mechanism by which the two chains are bound together

9: note that experimentation has confirmed some aspects of the model

10: speculates that the same structure will not be found in RNA[1]

11: the model is declared “roughly compatible” with available x-ray data

12: “It has not escaped our notice that the specific pairing we have postulated immediately suggests a possible copying mechanism for the genetic material”

Paragraphs 13-14: conclusion + acknowledgments

(Halloran, p. 41)

According to Halloran, there are three substantial arguments put forward in favor of the double-helix structure:

1. The great elegance of the model

This first argument is “left entirely implicit, as it probably had to be” (p. 42). Halloran does not point exactly to the part of the paper from which this argument can be extracted. He mentions that the description in paragraphs 4-8 is meant to “appeal strongly to the reader’s sense of theoretical elegance” (p. 42). In Watson’s autobiographical account (a book titled The double helix, 1980), Watson makes the argument from elegance explicit: “a structure this pretty just had to exist”[2]. The elegance of a theory – clearly a feature which is not meant to function as an absolute principle of decision – was used as “a rhetorical topos, a premise for argument in contingent cases” (p. 42).

2. The explanatory power of the model

This second argumentative thread consists of the claim “that the proposed model provides a very precise theoretical explanation for what before had been simply a curious fact – the observed ratios of adenine to thymine and guanine to cytosine” (p. 42)

3. The consistency of the model with empirical data

This third argument is negative: the proposed model, Watson & Crick show, is not inconsistent with any available experimental data.

From this, Halloran concludes that, argumentatively, “the paper is understated and the rhetorical effect is to communicate a sense of supreme confidence” (p. 42)[3]. This supreme confidence is conveyed by its “genteel tone” and “consciously contrived style”, as for example in the introductory passage: ‘We wish to suggest a structure for … This structure has novel features which are of considerable biological interest’ (p. 42, italics added by Halloran). For a completely new model with immense scientific impact, the qualifications above consciously play down the discovery. Halloran continues:

Note too the delicate fashion in which they reject the model that had been proposed by Linus Pauling and his colleagues: ‘In our opinion, this structure is unsatisfactory for two reasons: (1) We believe that … [because] without acidic hydrogen atoms it is not clear what forces would hold the structure together (2) Some of the van der Waals distances appear to be too small’ (p. 43, italics added by Halloran)

Halloran is particularly concerned with integrating information from the context into his rhetorical analysis – which is precisely what he announced in the beginning. For instance he writes:

That this is a consciously contrived style becomes apparent in the light of The Double Helix [i.e. Watson’s autobiographical account] from which we know that Watson and Crick regarded the Pauling-Corey model as an incredible blunder, a violation of the most elementary fact of chemistry. They were astonished and jubilant to find the great Pauling guilty of what they regarded as a gross error. The […] style of Watson & Crick’s paper reflects a rhetorical persona, perhaps fabricated with a bit of intentional, tongue-in-cheek irony.

Why are the two authors making such stylistic options? According to Halloran, the effect is to give the paper a highly personal tone that is somewhat unusual in scientific communication. The tone is more appropriate to communicate something from person to person (as opposed to from facts to persons, the usual depersonalized style of empirical sciences), and thus “put forward a strong proprietary claim to the double helix” (p. 43). What the two authors present is “not the structure of DNA or a model of DNA, but Watson and Crick’s structure or model” (p. 43). They thus shape a particular image of “the scientist speaking”, a particular scientific ethos, within a broader set of more vague and general norms that apply to scientific discourse.

To identify a scientific ethos from one single paper is acknowledged by Halloran to be “a rather large critical speculation based on my general sense of how rhetorical norms operate in scientific communities” (p. 44) What one can do is to demarcate Watson & Crick’s ethos more clearly by contrasting it with a very different one. This is what Halloran undertakes by studying another groundbreaking paper within the same academic field. This second paper (written by Oswald Avery in 1944) was famous for isolating the “active principle” involved in gene transmition and to identify it as DNA – hence, without Avery’s work in 1944, Watson & Crick’s would not have been possible.

What Halloran finds in Avery’s work is a style poles apart from Watson & Crick’s. First, it is much longer and dense with technical detail. Second, and partly due to the methodology they had chosen (recording sequences of technical procedures that gradually narrow down the explanatory possibilities), the paper does not state its thesis in the introductory section and in fact does not even mention the substance DNA until roughly half-way through its 7500 word length. They make no strong claims about the importance of their discovery and in fact introduce their paper as simply a “more detailed analysis” of something already known by the scientific community. Third,

They observe all the conventions of depersonalization: events transpire in passive voice, data suggest conclusions without human assistance, and Avery and his colleagues take on that ultimate nom de plume, ‘the writers’ (p. 45)

Further, the two papers can be contrasted on a broader level of strategic decisions. While Watson & Crick devised publishing program for an entire year, a strategy which assumed that the community’s attention must be gradually, attentively, courted, “Avery and his colleagues present their work in a single technical paper structured in a reportorial patter which implies that facts speak for themselves” (p. 45). In other words, Avery et al. were speaking from a pre-Kuhnian, essentially positivistic view of science, while Watson & Crick recognized

[…] that a discipline includes tacit assumptions about what is and what is not a legitimate question, and that in order to gain a hearing for a new theory, one may have to suggest what use the theory might have, what new questions it might both pose and answer, what new lines of research it might open up. (p. 46)

Conclusion

The purpose of Halloran’s paper was to put emphasis on Watson & Crick’s ethos. In offering a model of DNA to the scientific world, they simultaneously offered a model of the scientist speaking. This model involves more technical aspects (the arguments being put forward, the methodology being used etc.) but also ones connected to style: how the scientist should write and present discoveries to his peers.

The last question remaining is, according to Halloran, is this a good model? A strongly persuasive answer, however, should rest upon “close rhetorical analysis of the work of later biologists”.

Bibliography

Crick, F., & Watson, J. (1953). A structure for deoxyribose nucleic acid. Nature, 171, 737-738.

[1] RNA is also a nucleic acid. Together with proteins, these nucleic acids are molecules which are found in abundance in living beings, where they function to encode and transmit genetic information.

[2] Nice theoretical question to consider: is this a positive version of ad consequentiam? To be sure, in the autobiographical account it might not be meant as an argument at all, so I wouldn’t identify it as a fallacy of incorrect application of argument scheme there. But assuming they had used it in the original paper, it could be called … ad elegantiam!

[3] One might stop here, at the first analytical claim, and ask what kind of claim it is. Is the rhetorical effect something conventionally associated with the practice of understating a claim that is already so strong it doesn’t require too much trouble? Or is the rhetorical effect something that arose within this specific context because of all the details that composed the context? In other words, is Halloran’s analysis that of something pattern-like, or is it purely case-concerned? As he progresses towards the end, one is inclined to opt for the former: the case-study is meant as a case-in-point for something that is more generally applicable.

The rhetorical turn in science studies

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Fri, 07 Sep 2012 12:37:00 +0000

Reviewed: (Campbell & Benson, 1996)

The nine volumes reviewed in this article are: (Prelli, 1989), (Moss, 1993), (Pera & Shea, 1991), (Fuller & Collier, 2004), (Bazerman, 1988), (Dear, 1991), (Gross, 1990), (Selzer, 1993), and (Myers, 1990). The selection is of course not random. These were the first book-length accounts within the (at that time) fresh field of rhetoric of science. They were all motivated by ideas which

[…] questioned whether science actually delivers the reliable and positive knowledge free of human taint promised by Auguste Comte and his positivist followers (p. 74)

However, they differ in important ways and it is the study of their differences – rather than their area of consensus – that Campbell & Benson’s paper proposes. But first, a short account of their agreement.

The “basic claims” of rhetoric of science

There are two pillars of science which supported the project as a whole since the seventeenth century, one epistemological, one methodological[1]. The epistemological pillar consists of a description of knowledge sources which guarantee objectivity of claims. There are two such sources: (1) observation and (2) inference rules. Pure observation is performed by the Enlightened scientist to disclose facts about the natural world, while the rules of logical inference aid the scientist to draw ever-more broad conclusions about these facts. On the methodological side, the process of theory-choice is at its strictest: the accepted theory is the one that explains why, where, and how facts occur and it is accepted only to the extent that it answers those questions according to scientific cannons.

Gradually, people looking into science “turned” away from this modernist conception: […] over time the discarding of earlier theories that were once thought amply confirmed has tended to work against the credibility of science (p. 75). What, if not “genuine knowledge” characterized by “certainty”? The answer came swiftly from sociologists and rhetoricians: social agreement and convention. How do scientists push each other into agreement? By a method that can rightly be called scientific, should one wish, but that is “diverse, social, argumentative and suasory” (p. 75).

As a summary, these reports are over-simplifying and do not do too much justice to either camps. That is why Campbell & Benson propose four categories which one can distinguish within the movement as a whole: the radicals, the moderates, the literary and the political. People engaged in the rhetorical turn (rhetoricians or otherwise) fall into one of these categories: that is, aside from the consensus which they share with one another, they take different stances as to what the next step is.

The radicals

The first of the radicals is Alan Gross. His frequently quoted The rhetoric of science (Gross, 1990)“breaks with Aristotle’s foundationalism and substitutes in its place a conventionalist or consensual view of truth that he identifies with the sophistic tradition” (p. 75). The project begins by borrowing the key terms of classical rhetorical tradition (e.g. stasis, logos, ethos, pathos, arrangement, style) and updating them for the analysis of science[2]. The project ends with a “rhetorical reduction of science” (p. 76) which means that scientific discourse is set alongside ethical, legal and political discourse.

Still on the list of radicals we find Greg Myer’s Writing biology: Texts in the social construction of science (Myers, 1990). Campbell and Benson praise Myer’s effort in no reserved terms. As a radical, Myer’s aim is “to reveal the many-layered social dimensions inhabiting the objectivity of scientific texts” (p. 77). More, “Myers seeks to show that the allegedly empirical part of science is merely social” (p. 77)

In other words, science may not be reduced to anything but its social dimension and, therefore, what science really produces is information about culture under the guise of information about nature. […] In his dissolution of the technical issues negotiated between referees and authors in journal submissions or grant proposals into naked relations of power, Myers’s work marks the nadir of [!?] the reductionist impulse in the rhetoric of science. (p. 77)

As for the appropriateness of such far-reaching reductionism – radicals and moderates depart.

The moderates

The first influential rhetorician of science of the moderate camps is Lawrence Prelli. His goal in A rhetoric of science (Prelli, 1989)is not to argue that everything in science is rhetorical, without remainder, but:

To inquire whether inspecting the principles according to which scientific discourse is created and judged can reveal significant aspects of scientific endeavors that might otherwise remain concealed (Prelli, 1989, p. 8, quoted in Campbell & Benson, 1996, p. 78)

It is remarkable that, for the first time, the purpose of rhetorical analysis of science is made explicit – albeit rather vaguely. Until now, rhetorical analysis was pursued for its own sake, if not for the sake of rhetorical theory and its legitimization. Prelli sets forth a function for such analysis: Let us use rhetoric, Prelli seems to be saying, and see whether there is something we are not seeing when we look at scientific discourse. Perhaps something more concrete might be extracted from Prelli’s account, but the review of Campbell & Benson is rather mysterious in this respect. They write:

Despite the modesty of his aims, Prelli pursues the adventuresome agenda of showing how a system of rhetoric, deeply classical in its inspiration, can place the traditional claims of science on a foundation of reason that is both solid and flexible (p. 78, my italics)

A rhetoric of science is divided into two nearly equal and symmetrical parts: the first part contains an original theory of rhetoric, the second is an application of that theory to science. The core of Prelli’s original account is based on a “disciplinary matrix” containing four “superior stases” (evidential, interpretative, evaluative & methodological) and four “subordinate stases” (conjectural, definiional, qualitative and translative). Campbell & Benson first compliment the account by referring to it as a “4x4 rhetoric machine for analyzing science”. Later, they qualify their enthusiasm:

The obvious objection to Prelli’s project is that it illustrates the two worst features of the classical rhetorical tradition: the tendencies to generate overly elaborate topical schema and to impose a false series of stock questions on fields which have peculiar field-dependent topics of their own (p. 79)

Next on the list we find Marcello Pera - also known for his later work, The discourses of science, (Pera, 1994)- and William R. Shea’s edited book Persuading science: The art of scientific rhetoric (Pera & Shea, 1991). Campbell & Benson describe it as “a neo-Aristotelian approach to the rhetoric of science ” (p. 79):

Though not all the essays in this volume invoke Aristotle, all are united in affirming an historically chastened form of realism, a belief in the reliability of scientific knowledge as well as the belief that the best interests of the philosophy and history of science will be served if science is placed on rhetorical foundations[3] (p. 79)

Some of the essays from this volume are examined more carefully. An interesting part is Pera’s almost pessimistic description of the position of a rhetorician of science among his peers and the “persuasive potential of his ‘middle-way’ position” (p. 81)

Featuring himself as a kind of Willie Loman, he takes his goods to the methodologist’s shop and is told by the storekeeper proud of his wares, ‘Sorry, sir, we do not need any rhetoric’. At the counter-methodologist’s shop he is met with untroubled unbelief and told that in science ‘anything goes’ and so should he. Making his appeal to scientists directly he is met with that serene methodological incoherence that allows some scientists to say scientific method is secure and in case of problems one should check one’s work […]. The political problem that the middle-of-the-roader faces is well captured in Pera’s observation that ‘the methodologist sees him as an infiltrated anarchist; the counter-methodologist takes him to be a methodologist in disguise; the scientist simply believes he is incompetent’ (p. 81)

Next on the list is Charles Bazerman’s Shaping written knowledge: The genre and activity of the experimental article in science (Bazerman, 1988)and Joan D. Moss’s Novelties in the Heavens: Rhetoric and science in the Copernican controversy(Moss, 1993). One of Bazerman’s draws the attention of Campbell and Benson as a good example of thorough rhetorical analysis. In this essay, Bazerman

[…] examines three instances of technical composition: a literary analysis, a sociological essay, and a scientific research paper. The differences in subject, audience, explanatory ambitions, and writing traditions of each essay is noted, and the distinct argumentative structures and diction of each compared and contrasted. (p. 81)

As a comment on this essay, Campbell & Benson bring out their elusive commentary again. They write:

Bazerman establishes the constructive foundation for his subsequent analyses by showing how the social, linguistic, and rhetorical aspects of each essay is a function of the differences in the objects under consideration. (p.81)

Moss is cited as one of the (few) authors who is more concerned with the case than with the theory – or the methodology therein. Her sustained analysis of a single subject is undertaken “from a perspective that is at once historical, rhetorical and critical” (p. 82) – which is to say that her work does not stop at the end of the analysis, but continues with evaluation.

The literary & political approaches

Dear’s The literary structure of scientific arguments (Dear, 1991)and Selzer’s Understanding scientific prose (Selzer, 1993)are cited as cases of “literary moderates”. Campbell & Benson remark:

As one reads essays in [rhetorical criticism of science] one cannot help but be struck with the difference in tone and focus from the other volumes under review. Historians and philosophers, at their most literary-rhetorical, remain historians and philosophers interested in science – in a period of development, in an author, a movement, or a truth [?!]. As we move to the critics, we move not just to a different perspective on the object under consideration, but inevitably to a different object. […] Once the scientific object is placed in a rhetorical context, or simply in the ubiquitous context of prose, the effect of even friendly [?!] rhetorical analyses differs only in degree from the effect of the unfriendly [?!] analyses of the reductionists (p. 84)

Not much more is added and the “inside movement” of literary critics is left under a veil of mystery. In what way do they differ – if they differ as much as to “strike” Campbell & Benson? What are their aims, what are their motives for undertaking analyses within their framework? These questions are (strategically?) left unanswered.

Leader of “rhetoric of science as epistemic politics”, Steve Fuller is introduced as “the one author who understands without illusion that a rhetoricized science means politics” (p. 84) His book, Philosophy, Rhetoric and the End of Knowledge {{7 Fuller 2004;}}, sees science in a larger, political context. Science is, in Fuller’s view, academic politics.

Conclusion

Only in the concluding section of Campbell & Benson’s paper does the reader go a-ha! with regard to the purpose of their endeavor. As we learn, the review as well as, implicitly, the reviewed material, was directed at Gaonkar’s (Gaonkar, 1997) sharp attack on rhetoric of science as an enterprise.

As an observation about the reality of rhetoric of science studies, this claim [that the project for a rhetoric of science has stalled], and the companion claim that the thinness of the rhetorical lexicon prevents it from commanding serious attention in the academy, is demonstrably false (p. 88) [4].

The turn to rhetoric in science studies, Capmbell & Benson state, “is succeeding”, and it is doing so because “it addresses a [?!] need for a topical logic”. One asks: Whose need is that precisely? They continue:

What for Gaonkar is the ‘thinness’ of rhetorical terms, is the thinness of an analytic wedge, the open terms of which gain determinacy, density, and explanatory power as inquiry proceeds. As the present small selection of a large and burgeoning body of work suggests, the rhetoric of science is recovering a level of critical experience deeply repressed alike by modernism and postmodernism (p. 88)

Surely, one must not raise expectations unduly when it comes to review-papers, but if the paragraph above contains the gist of justifying rhetoric of science as a discipline, I would say it falls exactly in the whole the existence of which it denies: the vocabulary is thin and there’s nothing concrete on the table. I believe rhetoric of science could be further legitimized by an explicit and concrete critical objective – that is, by a dialectical finish. In such a composition, case studies would begin with importance (historical, technical, theoretical), they would go through analysis (rhetorical, pragmatic, social), then they would end in criticism (evaluation & improvement).

Bibliography

Bazerman, C. (1988). Shaping written knowledge: The genre and activity of the experimental article in science. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.

Campbell, J. A., & Benson, K. R. (1996). The rhetorical turn in science studies. Quarterly Journal of Speech, 82(1), 74-91.

Dear, P. (1991). The literary structure of scientific argument: Historical studies. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

Fuller, S., & Collier, J. H. (2004). Philosophy, rhetoric, and the end of knowledge: A new beginning for science and technology studies. Mahaw, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum.

Gaonkar, D. P. (1997). The idea of rhetoric in the rhetoric of science. In W. Keith, & A. G. Gross (Eds.), Rhetorical hermeneutics: Invention and interpretation in the age of science (pp. 25-85) State University of New York Press Albany, NY.

Gross, A. G. (1990). The rhetoric of science. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Moss, J. D. (1993). Novelties in the heavens: Rhetoric and science in the copernican controversy. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Myers, G. (1990). Writing biology : Texts in the social construction of scientific knowledge. Madison, Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press.

Pera, M. (1994). The discourses of science. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Pera, M., & Shea, W. R. (Eds.). (1991). Persuading science: The art of scientific rhetoric. Canton, MA: Science History Publications, USA.

Prelli, L. J. (1989). A rhetoric of science: Inventing scientific discourse. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press.

Rehg, W. (2009). Cogent science in context: The science wars, argumentation theory, and habermas. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.

Selzer, J. (1993). Understanding scientific prose. Madison, Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press.

[1] These ideas appear thus summarized in (Prelli, 1989), (Pera, 1994)and (Rehg, 2009). See also my review of Pera (1994) and Rehg (2009).

[2] Campbell & Benson remark that “the thread of classical rhetoric is sometimes more overt than at others” (p. 75) but that “when familiar rhetorical categories are appropriate, Gross uses them” (p. 76)

[3] Again, a frustratingly vague formulation for a justificatory purpose of an approach… One almost immediately asks: What interests, exactly?

[4] Quite inflexible a remark for two rhetoricians! Campbell & Benson add, as an argument, that “interest in the rhetoric of science has never been greater” (p. 88) but is that what Gaonkar was attacking? Lack of interest?

Are scientists rhetors in disguise?

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Wed, 05 Sep 2012 08:58:00 +0000

Reviewed: (Simons, 1980)

Simon’s paper has an interesting format. It is organized as a debate around the question formulated in the title. There are two parties to this debate, the affirmative (“Yes, scientists are rhetors in disguise”) and the negative (“No, scientists are not rhetors in disguise”). Each party defends, as it were, before the reader. Simon’s own opinion is given at the end - verdict-like - after both cases have been analysed and compared with one another.

The issue

Simons starts by quoting examples of scholars from different disciplines complaining about the amount of “immoral rhetoric” (p. 115) being practiced in their field.

According to Weigert [[1]], journal editors and readers are courted by means of various impression-management techniques, and weaknesses in research or theory are covered over or rationalized away. Grant-givers are wooed by appeals to prejudice and by the framing of social problems in the distinctive jargon of the discipline. And students are indoctrinated by means of exaggerated claims, in survey, theory, and methodology texts, about the discipline’s capacities and achievements. (p. 115)

These kind of remarks are visibly meant to displace “Science” from where it is supposed to stand outside the realm of rhetoric, and throw it back in with the politicians and the sophists.

The main contention that kept science out of that realm was objectivity: a specific science and science in general is defined by its capability of providing “objective, unambiguous, uncontestable tests of assertions (as opposed to plausible arguments traditionally associated with rhetorical discourse)” (p. 116) One such position is taken by Karl Popper (1968). While Popper is ready to concede that individual scientists might be driven by unscientific motives into employing rhetoric where the “uncontestable tests” would have been obligatory, he nevertheless stresses that the process of exchange – the dialogue – taking place within a community will regulate the intrusion of subjectivity and eventually, simply speaking, criticize what is bad and keep what is good. The case thus framed is important because it places a specific burden of proof on the affirmative party:

Once Popper’s view of science as a communal enterprise is given credence, it becomes logically inappropriate to conclude that scientific discourse is inherently rhetorical simply by citing evidence of passion, prejudice, or other subjective elements in the discourse of individual scientists (p. 116)

Thus, beyond evidence of sophistic practices, the affirmative must build a case supporting the claim that “misdeeds are bound to occur” (p. 117), that is, that “deceptions, deviations, and distortions follow in some way from the very nature of scientific communities” (p. 117).

In what follows, I will replicate the format chosen by Simons. The next sections will summarize the two cases of the affirmative and the negative.

The affirmative

There are in fact two major issues in this debate: (1) scientific communities are incapable of attaining objectivity and (2) sophistic practices follow in some way from the very nature of scientific communities.

Objectivity. That science is not value-free and that its most basic premises are not unambiguous and uncontestable has been not only ascertained by scientist themselves, but also by logicians who stress, as Gödel did, the impossibility of a complete logical language. Short of a value-free linguistic practice, there are no algorithms in terms of which disagreements can be resolved. As Kuhn explained, in a debate between paradigms “each paradigm will be shown to satisfy more or less the criteria that it dictates for itself and to fall short of those dictated by its opponent” (Kuhn, 1996, p. 109). The premises of science are inter-subjectively shared, not objectively proven.

Sophistic practices. That entire communities can permit (and even encourage) practices hostile to scientific cannons might be exemplified by the recent case of social psychology. [Examples follow with academic papers and books disclosing mediocre research in social psychology, especially within the area concerned with persuasion/attitude change]. How can this be explained? And is it just an isolated case of the field’s “gatekeepers” being caught off-guard?

There are several explanations[2].

First, science in the collective sense requires organization. In addition to being employed by various organizations, scientists organize themselves into professions and coordinate their activities through professional associations […]. A profession, by definition, is more than a mere trade or occupation. [Professions] are distinguished by the abstract and highly specialized expertize they require (and which individual professionals acquire through long and ardous training), their strong sense of subcultural identity, and by their commitment to a calling as well as a well-defined code of ethics.

Yet there is a counterside to professionalization which, although necessary to the functioning of professional collectivities, can be dysfunctional with respect to the advancement of science. […] Every professional collectivity is a permeable social system which influences and is in turn influenced by external systems (e.g., government agencies, foundations, the “public”) as well as subsystems within it (individual members, interest groups, subdisciplines). The status and even the very survival of the professional system are dependent upon its interactions with other systems. For example, it must recruit new members from the external system and compete, in the process, with other collectivities for the best available talent. It must have other resources (time, money, equipment) to conduct its work as well as freedom from external inference. And the professional system must be responsive to the multiple needs of its internal subsystems.

Scientific professions are […] voluntary collectivities, and they are obligated to do more than produce scientific discoveries. Rhetorically speaking they are required to recruit and indoctrinate new members, justify their claims to special expertise […], plead for freedom from political regulations or other such pressures, mold and reinforce the sense of collective identity among individual members, and, in general, legitimate the profession and its activities before outsiders and insiders. These requirements are not always compatible with the need for scientific advancements. They lead […] to sophistic practices which gain informal acceptance within scientific communities. (pp. 122-123, my italics)

To sum up: Had scientific practice been “wholly scientific”, it might have employed only methods fully compatible with scientific regulations concerning objectivity. But the truth of the matter is that science is a social system which survives only if it interacts with other systems and this interaction necessitates social (as opposed to “purely scientific”) practices. These practices are the ones that produce the noise detected by rhetoricians and philosophers of science on their radar of objectivity.

The negative

Objectivity. Rhetoricians of science cannot see the self-defeating nature of their claim. But Scheffler (1967) can:

Objectivity is relevant to all statements which purport to make a claim, to rest on argument, to appeal to evidence. Science… is not uniquely subject to the demands of objectivity; rather it institutionalizes such demands in the most systematic and explicit manner. But to put forth any claim with seriousness is to presuppose

commitment to the view that evaluation is possible […]

For this reason, the particular claim that evaluation is a myth and fair argument a delusion is obviously self-destructive. If it is true, there can be no reason to accept it; in fact, if it is true, its own truth is unintelligible: what can truth mean when no evaluative standard is allowed to separate it from falsehood? (Scheffler, 1967, p. 21) [3]

The premises of scientific communities ought not to be regarded as mere prejudices as relativists are inclined to do. Unlike religious revelation or mystical intuition, the utility of these premises is demonstrated daily by the concrete achievements of those who adhere to them.

Let religious revelation or mystical intuition yield knowledge of how to build a bridge, then these so-called paths to knowledge will be taken seriously (p. 124)[4]

We will concede that absence of full formalization of rules of debate presents an obstacle to testing procedure and theory-choice, especially within the social sciences, but these problems are solved by each community. The affirmative’s extended example of the field of social psychology is in fact a counter-example: social psychologists starting to lament about shoddy designs and poor validity are examples of community “hygiene”, where what is dirty is either cleaned or thrown away.

Sophistic practices. To be sure, there are deviations from idealized norms in every field. However, the affirmative has simply stated, but failed to tell us why, social practices need to be contrary to scientific practices. We too acknowledge that scientific communities are social systems whose survival is dependent on their interaction with other (external and internal) systems. But why is this interaction doomed to fail conforming to scientific standards? There is little evidence to such inevitability.

Verdict

Simons tries to arrive at the golden mean: both of the parties are right to certain extent. In fact, their claims are not that opposed as they might let one understand, since Simons is able to hold both of them at the same time. Metaphorically, he concludes:

With the affirmative I maintain that the donkey is rhetorical through and through. With the negative I conclude that the donkey is still capable of carrying a heavy load. (p. 127)

Bibliography

Kuhn, T. S. (1996). The structure of scientific revolutions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Popper, K. R. (1968). Conjectures and refutations: The growth of scientific knowledge. New York: Harper & Row.

Scheffler, I. (1967). Science and subjectivity. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill.

Simons, H. W. (1980). Are scientists rhetors in disguise? an analysis of discursive processes within scientific communities. In E. White (Ed.), Rhetoric in transition: Studies in the nature and uses of rhetoric (pp. 115-131). University Park/London: Pennsylvania State University Press.

Weigert, A. J. (1970). The immoral rhetoric of scientific sociology. The American Sociologist, 5(2), 111-119.

[1] Simons is referring to (Weigert, 1970)

[2] This section of the paper is one of the few descriptions of academic communication as an institutionalized practice that I’ve encountered. I will thus quote big chunks of it. Simons’ view is that rhetoric arises in situations where communicative goals cannot be immediately achieved and thus give rise to rhetorical problems which necessitate rhetorical strategies. Within this framework, in order to depict a communicative domain as rhetorical, one needs only to show that it inevitably gives rise to problems of that institutional kind. For if speakers are to be successful they need to devise rhetorical strategies for solving those problems. The approach differs from the extended pragma-dialectical theory in that there is not one general, theoretically established strategical aim (i.e. maintaining reasonableness while achieving effectiveness), but a host of aims that vary from problem to problem.

[3] Funny story how all adversaries of rationalism are accused of ignoring the self-defeating character of their main claim. Logical positivists themselves fell on their sword.

[4] I would call a “double-straw man” here – one on the main level, one on the level of sub-standpoints. Not only is the issue not whether scientific premises are “taken seriously” or not, but the other party did not advance the sub-claim that they should not be taken seriously because they don’t “demonstrate daily” their achievements. One might wonder whether Simons is indeed the “the honest spokesman for both sides” (p. 117) as he claimed to be in the introduction of the debate.

On the shoulders of giants: Seventeenth-century optics as an argument field

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Sun, 02 Sep 2012 10:18:00 +0000

Reviewed: (Gross, 1997)

There are two kinds of masterpieces in science, Gross tells us, “those powerful enough to provoke revolution, and those ingenious enough to avoid it” (p. 19) Works such as Galileo’s Dialogue concerning two chief world systems or Darwin’s On the origin of species are examples of the first category. Descartes’ writings in optics and Newton’s Opticks are examples of the second category. In this paper, Gross deals with the latter category in which “each man [i.e. Descartes and Newton] argued for change less as revolution than as continuity: the extension of the best of the past” (p. 19). Despite the similarity in their rhetorical efforts – their “moderate” style of attacking-tactics and the care not to upset avowed traditionalists (at least not more than necessary) – the works of Descartes and Newton could not have been more opposed on a methodological level. Labels might draw distinctions where issues are a bit more blurry, but Descartes was a rationalist while Newton an empiricist; Descartes gave primacy to rational intuition over experiment, Newton gave primacy to experiment over rational intuition.

In this paper Gross follows more closely Newton’s account simply because Newton attempted to produce both kinds of masterpieces. In 1672, he published a revolutionary paper that contained “a startling claim, a new method, a different, more restrictive style of explanation” (p. 20); expectedly, the paper had no effect and, despite some attention, convinced no one of import. In 1704, Newton published his Opticks – “his second attempt at persuasion” (p. 20) Even though, on the whole, his views had not changed, Newton

[…] discarded the transparent rhetoric that made the epistemological and explanatory novelty of his early papers clear; in its stead, he substituted a rhetoric that invented an essential continuity between his work and the optical and scientific past. The rhetoric of the Opticks concealed his radical intent; it was designed to convince, even at the expense of perfect frankness. In [Opticks], Newton transformed optics, and experimental science, by allowing his fellow physicists to believe that an adherence to the new did not entail a fundamental rejection of the old. This rhetorical strategy was successful: throughout the eighteenth century, […] the physics of light was Newton’s physics (p. 20)

Rhetoric of science “as a discipline”

Gross preferred rhetoric over dialectic, as a viewpoints from the analysis of the abovementioned texts will proceed, because of reasons that are “essentially those of Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca” (p. 20). He then adds:

The texts scrutinized in this paper are all extended discourse aimed, not at individuals, but at communities, at audiences. Moreover, their appeal is not exclusively rational; rather their total effect also depends on factors not usually connected with the domain of pure intellection [?!] in which dialectic purportedly holds sway. (p. 20)

The reader might wonder as to the accuracy of this view[1]. In any case, Gross announces the “proper task” of science as

the reconstruction of the means by which scientists convince themselves and others that their claims are true of the world (p. 21)

In other words, the rhetorician is involved in providing a rhetorical explanation – notice, not criticism or evaluation – of the choices made by an arguer in his or her attempt to convince. At the basis of this explanation, Gross sees the notion of “argument field” as it is taken from Toulmin (Toulmin, 1958) and used by Charles Willard in his theory of argumentation (Willard, 1983). An argument field can be identified by describing sets and sub-sets of truths which are taken for granted by certain communities. Some of these truths will be field-invariant (e.g. basic propositions of mathematics) but most of them will be field-dependent. The trick of the explanation lies in connecting an author’s claim with the truths of the argument field by means of the invoked accepted procedure[2].

Descartes and the “quiet revolution” in optics

Nothing of what Descartes wrote in the field of optics would have been unintelligible to a medieval scholar having studied Aristotle[3]. Light was “basic”, color was “derivative”, light consisted of small particles that could cross without interfering, light travels in straight lines etc. What Descartes discovered (the relationship between the two angles at which light refracts) was “an empirical regularity compatible with the traditional assumptions and methods: there was no question of its immediate absorption into the body of traditional optics.” (p. 24)

However, Descartes did break off from tradition in more profound ways. His philosophical program was new and some of its basic tenets were not unearthed from Aristotelian, traditional science. In a nutshell, he was more of a rationalist than Aristotle was. As he settles it at one point, “the demonstrations of this [law] are so certain that, even if experience were to appear to show us the opposite, we would nevertheless be obliged to place more trust in our reason than in our senses” (Descartes, Principles of Philosophy, quoted in Gross, 1997, p. 25).

For these reasons, his rhetoric was that of a negotiator seeking peace with tradition in exchange for his completely novel philosophy. Newton’s later work, Opticks, followed the same path – albeit after a more sophisticated fashion. But Newton’s first work in optics is worth studying for its opposite attempts. Here, in his youth, Newton tried in full what Descartes (and a later version of himself) tried only moderately.

Newton’s “noisy” attempt

Newton’s paper starts with the report of the experimentum crucis which refuted Descartes’ claim that white light is basic and color is derivative.

It was at first a very pleasing divertissement, to view the vivid and intense colors produced thereby [i.e. by light going through a glass prism]; but after a while applying myself to consider them more circumspectly, I became surprised to see them in an oblong form; which, according to the received laws of Refraction, I expected should have been circular. (Newton, A letter … containing a New Theory about Light and Colors, quoted in Gross, 1997, p. 27)

Having “put the question to nature”, Newton purported to have discovered a “fatal flaw” (p. 27) in the optical tradition. Something must be abandoned: either the law of Refraction as stated by Descartes (“an unthinkable prospect”, as Gross characterizes it), or the assumption that light is basic and color derivative. In opposition to Descartes, Newton rejects the latter and he is ever more enthusiastic to affirm his position:

Unlike Descartes, Newton projects his spectrum, not a few inches, where the anomaly is not apparent, but twenty-two feet, where it is unmistakable. Like Kepler’s famous eight minutes of arc, these twenty-two feet have revolutionary implications (p. 28)

Despite his Baconian pronouncement on method and his confidence, Newton disregarded his rhetorical position. First, “the persuasiveness of the crucial experiment depends on its replicability; but [it] is accompanied by neither diagram nor clear directions” (p. 28). Crucial to its rhetorical “malfunction” was also the equivocal interpretation of the experimental results (to the extent that Newton exclaims, exasperated, towards his critics in one letter “it is not the number of Experiments but weight to be regarded, and where one will do, what need many?” (p. 29). Hooke and Pardies – two influential scientists of the era – had different, equally plausible explanations, founded on a rival ontology of wave-theory of light. Huygens added: “he hath not taught us, what it is wherein consists the nature and difference of Colours, but only this accident, of their different refrangibility [i.e. the prism reflects different colors at different angles, hence the projected spectrum]” (p. 29) All in all, “Newton’s 1672 paper must be counted as a failure of persuasion – and Newton counted it as such”. In contrast, his Opticks is described as “a canny and successful attempt to transform a youthful invention into a durable inheritance” (p. 29).

Newton’s comeback

The debate to which Newton’s 1672 paper led is described by Gross as “noisy and inconclusive” (p. 29) The outcome of his Opticks was the exact opposite: optical theory became Newtonian and to accept optical theory was to accept the particle-theory of light. Gross attributes this to:

(1) the exposition of the theory in an Euclidian arrangement “to create the impression of historical continuity and logical inevitability

(2) the “piling” of experiment on experiment and, on each experiment, detail on detail

(3) a cascade of rhetorical questions the effect of which was “both to sanction his science and license his speculations”

Gross offers some attention to each of these points, but they are meant more as illustration than as examples fundamental on their own. The conclusion Gross draws from these analyses is, I think, more important. He writes:

[…] the triumph of the Opticks is wholly rhetorical because science is rhetorically constituted, a network of persuasive structures, patterns that extend upward through style and arrangement to invention itself, to science itself. […] Each of Newton’s two reconstructions of his optical past was an attempt to persuade his scientific audience of the truth of his unchanging views.

The lesson to be learned, in other words, is that successful science owes its success to proper rhetorical accommodation. If you’re right and you say it wrong, you’re wrong – we might summarize. Gross proclaims, perhaps a bit vaguely, “persuasion must be the mode [?] of scientific knowledge, rhetoric must be its substance [?!]” (p. 35).

Bibliography

Gross, A. G. (1997). On the shoulders of giants: Seventeenth-century optics as an argument field. In R. A. Harris (Ed.), Landmark essays on rhetoric of science: Case studies (pp. 19-39). Mahwah, N.J.: Hermagoras Press.

Perelman, C. (1955). La méthode dialectique et le rôle de l'interlocuteur dans le dialogue. Revue De Métaphysique Et De Morale, 60(2), 26-31.

Perelman, C. (1970). Dialectique et dialogue. Les Études Philosophiques, (3), 333-338.

Perelman, C. (1989). Rhetoriques. Bruxelles: Editions de l'Université de Bruxelles.

Toulmin, S. E. (1958). The uses of argument. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Willard, C. A. (1983). Argumentation and the social grounds of knowledge. Alabama: University of Alabama Press.

[1] It’s hard to imagine that someone as astute as Gross did not realize the equivocal bind between quoting Perelman & Olbrechts-Tyteca and immediately adding the paragraph I quoted in full. The juxtaposition (and the elucidation “at communities, at audiences”) invites the reader to associate Gross’s conception of the rhetoric-dialectic relationship with that of Perelman, even though no explicit commitment to this effect could be extracted from what he writes. I think Perelman’s conception was maybe more sophisticated than “rhetoric = speech to communities/ dialectic = speech to individual” and certainly more sophisticated than “rhetoric = irrational/ dialectic = ‘pure intellection’”. Two papers that I think support my point are(Perelman, 1955) and (1970), both reprinted in (Perelman, 1989).

[2] The rest of Gross’ paper disproves his attachment to such simple a solution. He talks of, e.g. the rhetorical effect of using very precise numbers, or of using rhetorical questions – processes which fall outside a simple framework of field-truths + procedures = claims. This, by the way, is precisely what one would expect from a rhetorical analysis. The point of vacuously resorting to Willard’s theory seems to be that of resorting to a theory in anticipation of criticisms concerning lack of methodology. The only application one can identify in Gross’ account is the use of the label “argument field” for certain traditions in science (in this case, optics).

[3] “[Descartes] shared with traditional science two central views, one epistemological, the other explanatory. He believed that rational intuition, not experiment, was epistemologically prior: reason, not experience, was the bedrock of knowledge. In addition, he was as convinced as Aristotle that a complete scientific explanation must include the traditional three causes: the formal, efficient, and the material” (p. 19)

Charles Darwin: Rhetorician of science

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 19:34:00 +0000

Review: (Campbell, 1997)

Campbell’s work on Charles Darwin began when the phrase “rhetoric of science” did not yet stand for anything in particular. On the epistemological continuum described by Harris (Harris, 1997b)Campbell’s work should be placed closest to the extreme where rhetoric is taken merely as a device of accommodating science, a science that is otherwise achieved by different means[1]. The purpose of this article is in general methodological, namely, to warrant a rhetorical approach to science. The benefit of such an approach is exemplified on Darwin’s Origin of species.

The interest in Darwin’s works is due tohis almost unexpected popularity.

Prior to Darwin, no evolutionist[[2]], whether popularize or professional scientist, enjoyed both a popular and professional following. […] To understand why Darwin was persuasive with the reading public as well as with a key minority of his professional peers requires an examination of Darwin as a rhetorician of science

Thus, the title of the article should be understood in a moderate way: not that Darwin was indeed a rhetorician of science in the way Campbell and his contemporaries are, but that it can be shown, from the text of The origin …, his Notebooks, and his correspondence, that Darwin paid considerable attention to his use of language – he was, that is, perfectly aware of his position as an arguer in an academic context.

The origin of species, Campbell asserts, “is rhetorical from ground up” (p. 3), but what makes it especially interesting for a rhetorical analysis is that Darwin’s rhetorical ethos is twofold. He was, so to speak, leading a battle on two fronts: on the one hand, his target was the commonsense creationism of lay-persons, on the other, the various commitments of scholars and theologians who did not endorse evolutionism.

Darwin’s strategies on the first front are somewhat obvious. From the format in which the book appeared (as an “abstract”, a compact volume accessible to a general audience), to the fourth-cover praising quotes from renowned theologians of the day, Darwin’s aim was to gain the adherence of the large class of readers unspecialized in natural philosophy. Also,

As Darwin’s son Francis observed “the reader feels like a friend who is being talked to by a courteous gentleman, not like a pupil being lectured by a professor. The tone of […] The origin is charming and almost pathetic” (quoted in Campbell, p.4)

Dirrect appeals to the reader’s sympathy are not missing:

“my health is far from strong […] This Abstract […] must necessarily be imperfect. I cannot here give references and authorities for my several statements; and I must trust the reader reposing some confidence on my accuracy” (quoted in Campbell, p. 4)

In view of this unveiled rhetorical features which recommend The origin to a general audience, a question of compatibility between Darwin’s battles might arise. Campbell asks:

Why did the clearly popular character of Darwin’s writing not impede the reception of his ideas among his scientific peers? (p. 5)

In other words, how come Darwin’s text managed to reach the two very different types of audiences? In an academic field, a reputation for eloquence might have an effect quite opposite of the one intended.

Although the art of rhetoric may make a speech or book striking, [but] if its artistry is detected, that very fact may be advanced as reason for rejecting it. (p. 5)

The answer Campbell proposes is Darwin’s explicit, repeatedly emphasized admiration for the Baconian induction and “quasi-positivist standards of proof”. These two topics were both intuitive enough to the general audience and accepted enough by the scholars of the days to pass as normal science.

Campbell further examines Darwin’s autobiographical writing to show that Darwin’s personal beliefs were not necessarily in the direction of pure Baconian methodology. Although, “occasionally in his correspondence Darwin would […] present himself as a firm inductionist” (p. 7), in most other places he confesses that the very making of observation presupposes theoretical assumptions. Darwin even exclaims, in rejecting an academic paper, “How odd it is that anyone should not see that all observation must be for or against some view if it is to be of any service!” (quoted in Campbell, p. 7). Campbell documents all this in order to show that conscious choices were made in the writing of The origin… Historically, this is also supported by the fact that the philosophers of the day (John Herschel, William Whewell, John Stuart Mill), despite occasional disagreement about particulars, agreed that “true science was inductive” (p. 8).

This rhetorical choice, although central among his preoccupations, was not the only one governing Darwin’s work. He was also very much aware that at the very basis of his theory there is a language of “heavily metaphorical character”, as Campbell describes it. Starting with the third edition of The origin, Darwin responded to the criticism of his imagistic language by pointing in the other direction[3]

In the literal sense of the word, no doubt, natural selection is a misnomer; but who ever objected to chemists speaking of the elective affinities of the various elements? – and yet an acid cannot strictly be said to elect the base with which it will in preference combine (quoted in Campbell, p. 10)

Also an example of rhetorical “accommodation” to his peers, Campbell identifies Darwin’s recurrent emphasis on natural selection as an explanation of evolution – since he was very much aware that evolutionism per se was not his own brainchild. Lamarck, Saint-Hilaire, and Herbert Spencer had all advocated the general case for evolution, which explains Darwin’s interest to communicate his own unique contribution.

Campbell concludes his paper as follows:

At the beginning of this essay I affirmed the property of juxtaposing rhetoric and science. For Darwin, the consequence of denying his own rhetoric was poignant. For us, affirming Darwin as a rhetorician of science underscores rhetoric as a bridge uniting science with culture and, far from denying the integrity of Darwin’s vision, restores the motive which gave it life.

In light of Harris’s comments on Campbell’s position (Harris, 1997a)the quote that rhetoric and science should be “juxtaposed” should be understood with a grain of salt: not that science is rhetoric, but that “uniting science with culture” is a process which needs contextually situated rhetorical choices.

Bibliography

Campbell, J. A. (1997). Charles darwin: Rhetorician of science. In R. A. Harris (Ed.), Landmark essays on rhetoric of science: Case studies (pp. 3-19). Mahwah, N.J.: Hermagoras Press.

Gross, A. G. (1990). The rhetoric of science. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Harris, R. A. (1997a). Introduction. In R. A. Harris (Ed.), Landmark essays on rhetoric of science: Case studies (pp. xi-xliv). Mahwah, N.J.: Hermagoras Press.

Harris, R. A. (1997b). Landmark essays on rhetoric of science : Case studies. Mahwah, N.J.: Hermagoras Press.

[1] According to the opposite view – for instance (Gross, 1990)rhetoric is not only accommodating science to peers and lay persons, but constituting science from the very basis (i.e. inquiry) to the very top (i.e. presentation).

[2] Others who argued the case of evolution prior to Darwin are: Erasmus Darwin, Jean Baptiste Lamarck, Etienne Geoffrey Saint-Hilaire, Robert Chambers and Herbert Spencer.

[3] On the account that the accusations might have been directed against his metaphors not, in general, on his use of metaphors, all of the quoted reactions might be seen as tu quoque.

Introduction “Landmark essays on rhetoric of science”

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 19:17:00 +0000

Reviewed: (Harris, 1997)

Although virtually undisputed, the simple observation that scientists argue has led to the birth of a field titled “rhetoric of science” only relatively recently. One main reason for such a delay must be the traditional opposition between the two terms, rhetoric and science. Traditionally, rhetoric is bombast, affectation and twaddle whereas science is certainty, evidence, and prestige of the kind the Church enjoyed for many centuries[1]. This opposition was maintained despite some influential thinkers such as Aristotle, Francis Bacon and Joseph Priestley, being actively and consistently engaged in theorizing on both. In the second half of the twentieth century, a transformation of this view occurred. Richard Rorty named it “the rhetorical turn” (at the 1984 Iowa Symposium on the Human Sciences, see Simons, 1990), alluding to the better-known “linguistic turn” in philosophy. Succintly, the rhetorical turn consists in a gradual acknowledgment that doing science is to a considerable extent employing rhetoric.

A philosopher's instigation

Just as the linguistic turn was not carried out initially by linguists, the rhetorical turn was not carried out initially by rhetoricians. Thomas Kuhn’s Structure of scientific revolutions (Kuhn, 1996), first published in 1962, was the pioneering work in this direction. It might seem surprising that a work which is generally catalogued under the heading of philosophy of science – sometimes “sociology of science” – served as a trailblazer for a rather different field such as rhetoric of science. However, as Harris shows, Kuhn’s concerns are truly rhetorical and it hard to read some passages from his book otherwise:

There is no neutral algorithm for theory-choice, no systematic decision procedure which, properly applied, must lead each individual in the group to the same decision. […] To understand why science develops as it does one must understand […] the manner in which a particular set of shared values interacts with the particular experiences shared by a community of specialists to ensure that most members of the group will ultimately find one set of arguments rather than another decisive. That process is persuasion […] (Kuhn, 1996)

To say that scientific decision rests on “a nest of commitments”, i.e. a paradigm, in the same way, for instance, political decision does, is to admit that there is no such thing as “fixed science” or “fixed truth”. Nothing is certain, everything is argued. Arrived at this point, Harris merrily exclaims: “Bam! Down goes the wall of certainty” (p. xiv). With certainty out the window, expertise was next:

What looked to many rhetoricians like a qualitative difference between ordinary discourse and expert discourse was revealed as at-best a quantitative difference, a difference in degree, maybe a refinement of vocabulary, maybe not even that (p. xv)

“Bam! Down goes the wall of expertise”, Harris adds again. In the same tone, he caricatures the Enlightenment view of science as “scientists pilling more and more knowledge on their towering heaps each day before they left the lab” until Thomas Kuhn “stepped forward and said ‘Lo, all is suasion in the kingdom of science’”[2].

But if rhetoric is the engine of scientific change, a rhetorical investigation of science should be perceived as “indisputably warranted” (p. xv).

Aside from Kuhn, Harris cites other authors who have contributed, albeit perhaps to a lesser extent, to the elaboration of this initial phase of the rhetorical turn[3]. The emerging claim from these scholars, as Harris summarizes it, is that “[…] science is not solely the province of individuals with beakers or telescopes or accelerator photographs, but of communities with conferences, journals, values and goals; and that there is no single scientific method, but a (constrained) plurality of approaches, or styles, that differ from science to science, program to program, community to community – all of them powerfully mediated by language” (p. xvi) The implication of this claim is what brings together science and rhetoric, namely,

[T]hat the virtues of a scientific claim come not only from the way it is mapped against nature, but from the way it is mapped into the context of specific approaches and communities (p. xvi)

Rhetoricians take over

After the first “general” or “philosophical” phase, the rhetorical turn was resumed in the mid-1970s either by rhetoricians or by non-rhetoricians (e.g. psychologists, sociologists, philosophers) doing rhetoric. The earliest article in this direction was Wander’s The rhetoric of science (Wander, 1976), where the main focus was the many ways in which science is popularized and becomes influential in policy-making situations. Many contributions followed. Most of them were hosted by Henry W. Johnstone’s journal Philosophy and rhetoric (No. 10, 1997) and were focused on (1) justifying rhetorical analyses of science and (2) mapping out a theoretical framework for those analyses (p. xviii). Harris summarizes:

Walter Weimer brought the news from Kuhn and Hanson and Feyerabend that science was a “rhetorical transaction”. Michael Overington brought the news from Kuhn and Polanyi and Ziman that there was room for “a rhetorical analysis of science”. Maurice Finnochiaro brought the news from his own investigations that “rhetoric is sometimes crucial in science” (p. xviii)

Notwithstanding the fresh news they were carrying, these authors never played the role of “forefathers” of the new-born field. However, they did achieve goal (1) above and their rehabilitation of rhetoric in scientific context was durable.

Gradually, a new problem arose, namely, the lack of case-studies. Harris describes the situation as follows: “rhetorical investigations of science were vastly outnumbered by musings about rhetorical investigations of science” (p. xix). The early justificatory papers, concerned with theory and meta-theory as they were, engendered concerns akin to theirs instead of producing different kind of results out of concrete analyses. Later movements resolved this situation.

Rhetoric of inquiry, Argument fields and SSK

Rhetoric of inquiry was a highly inter-disciplinary movement developed in the 1980s by scholars like Donald McCloskey and Alan Nagel. Their purpose was to explore the many ways in which language is involved in “scholarship and public affairs” (p. xx). Despite a result which Harris characterizes as “exhilaratingly uneven” (p. xx), their interest was of the kind rhetoric of science needed: mathematicians were reporting on how mathematicians argue; economists and historians - on how economists and historians argue etc.

A similar movement, based on Toulmin’s concepts of “argument” and “argument field” took off in the same period and very much in the same vein. A rhetorical reading of Toulmin was possible due to the similarities between his notion of field and the traditional notion of topoi: some warrants will be field-invariant and they can be seen as koinoi topoi, some warrants will be field-dependent and they will be seen as eide topoi. Harris cites the biennial joint conferences of SCA (Speech Communication Association) and AFA (American Forensic Association) and the works produced there as follows:

The SCA/AFA argument-fields program was more modest than the rhetoric of inquiry project and the participants were generally less schooled in the subject of their investigations, specific sciences, but it proceeded with a much better informed notion of rhetoric and therefore moved much more quickly beyond platitudes like “science uses literary devices” and “science uses established forms of communication” (p. xxii)

The third movement, the “Kuhn-incited school of science criticism” (p. xxiii) is “an ethno-sociological, case-study-focused approach to science with a sharp eye on discourse and a centering concern on science’s amazing capacity to generate solid, applicable, bridge-supporting, missile-launching, eclipse-predicting knowledge” (p. xxiii). The pioneering figure of this approach is Bruno Latour (1987).

The papers in this volume are either part of the three movements above or have sprung directly from them.

One last question

Harris ends with the inevitable epistemological question that lays unresolved at the basis of rhetoric of science from its early beginnings: to what extent is science rhetorical? The author summarizes this problem in a clear metaphor that I would like to quote in full:

Recall the principal implication that follows the rhetorical turn in science studies: the virtues of a scientific claim come not only from the way it is mapped against nature but from the way it is mapped into the context of specific approaches and communities. “How big is that not only?” is the inevitable question for rhetoric of science? Does rhetoric add a little salt and pepper to the stew of science, which would be just as nourishing, if not so tasty, without it? Or is rhetoric the meat and potatoes and rutabagas of the stew, the very substance of science? […] All of the papers in this volume sit on an epistemic continuum that runs from a Platonic salt-and-pepper, rhetoric-just-propagates-knowledge to a Sophistic meat-and-patatoes, knowledge is rhetorical through and through position. (p. xxx)

The first two papers, Campbell’s and Gross’s, are announced as typifying the two possible extremes of this continuum.

Conclusion

The image of rhetoric of science, as it emerges from the overview offered by Harris, is that of a field which began with a promising observation (that rhetoric is part of science) and a promising scholarship. The insights thus produced, instead of being “condensed” in different approaches, remained segregated. It is telling, I believe, that Gross’s The rhetoric of science (Gross, 1990) – written in a period when the field reached a certain maturity – is a collection of papers of considerable variety.

Bibliography

Bronowski, J. (1965). Science and human values. New York: Harper & Row.

Feyerabend, P. (1975). Against method. London: New Left Books.

Gross, A. G. (1990). The rhetoric of science. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Hanson, N. R. (1958). Patterns of discovery; an inquiry into the conceptual foundations of science. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Harris, R. A. (1997). Introduction. In R. A. Harris (Ed.), Landmark essays on rhetoric of science: Case studies (pp. xi-xliv). Mahwah, N.J.: Hermagoras Press.

Kuhn, T. S. (1996). The structure of scientific revolutions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Latour, B. (1987). Science in action: How to follow scientists and engineers through society. Harvard: Harvard University Press.

Polanyi, M. (1962). Personal knowledge : Towards a post-critical philosophy. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Simons, H. W. (Ed.). (1990). The rhetorical turn : Invention and persuasion in the conduct of inquiry. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Toulmin, S. E. (1972). Human understanding. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press.

Wander, P. C. (1976). The rhetoric of science. Western Journal of Communication, 40(4), 226-235.

Ziman, J. M. (1968). Public knowledge: An essay concerning the social dimension of science. London: Cambridge University Press.

[1] An interesting confirmation of this parallel is found by Harris in the semantic transfer of the expression lay-person from “non-cleric” to “non-scientist” (p. xi)

[2] It is perhaps in a vein Harris would approve of to notice that such casual, almost offbeat, insertions could never be found in an essay introducing a book from, say, geology or political economics. The rhetorician’s ethos seems to be that of a person at ease with what he is doing. Not at all surprising for a rhetorician interested in academic writing since he will be, quite circularly, an expert in precisely the manner of communicating expertise, which is what he is doing while exercising his own expertise!

[3] It is unclear in which way all these authors are indeed part of the same “turn” as Harris sees them. In any case, the works cited are: (Bronowski, 1965; Feyerabend, 1975; Hanson, 1958; Polanyi, 1962; Toulmin, 1972; Ziman, 1968)

Rhetorical figures in science

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Fri, 17 Aug 2012 11:06:00 +0000

Review of Fahnestock, J. (1999). Rhetorical figures in science. New York: Oxford University Press.

Download a PDF version here.

Fahnestock explains from the very beginning that her work is intended differs in several respects from the “normal” rhetorical approach to scientific communication. First, there is no cluster of texts that form the main focus of the book. It is common for rhetoricians to start with a selected context (that is, to pick a certain author or topic, a certain historical period or a certain academic field) and then carry out the analysis bearing in mind the contextual restriction performed. On the contrary, Rhetorical figures in science “is more concerned with the technique of rhetoric itself, specifically with certain well-used lines of argument and their expression in certain linguistic constructions called figures of speech” (p. viii). As for the second point of difference, the book makes it its objective not to start from any given list of rhetorical figures; if this were the case, the only achievement would be the mere identification of these listed figures within this or that scientific text.

Fahnestock begins thus with a novel theoretical conception of “rhetorical figures as epitomes” and the studies contained in chapters 2-5 attempt to justify the aptness of this conception. I will explain her view of “epitomizing” and then I will present the four studies. As a general note, it might be said that the book doesn’t depart from “normal” rhetorical approach as much as the author would have wished. Although the two abovementioned points are indeed a point of distinction, the theorizing itself – as seen in the studies – is fairly lax and lacking clear edges. The studies are very instructive and they do well to point towards a concrete method of “figures as epitomes” – but not more than that. Although they are alluded to here and there, the main pillars of such a theory are missing.

Figures as epitomes

Before she sets forth her own view, Fahnestock has to fight two important (interrelated) traditions. One of them sees metaphor as somehow central – or fundamental – to figuration both in everyday speech and in more conventionalized contexts. The other tradition, which is in fact the stronger adversary, is almost a “standard treatment” of figures as deviations from the normal. Both of these traditions, Fahnestock argues, should be discarded. The first one because “the tight focus on metaphor in science studies […] has taken attention away from other possible conceptual and heuristic resources” (p. 6), the second one because, “any definition of figures as formal devices that depart from a norm in linguistic usage begs the question of how that norm should be defined” (p. 15).

Certainly the two problems are not that simple – and not that easy to fix. The author gives an overview of various approaches, ancient and modern, which gradually have built up to these two traditions. The majority of criticisms are oriented towards the various taxonomical systems for figuration that have been proposed along the way (Quintilian, Melanchton, then later, Du Marais, Perelman & Olbrechts-Tyteca etc.) Since these taxonomies are built on the questionable philosophical basis of figures-as-écart (a philosophy of language according to which it is in fact possible to separate two domains of language – the “normal” and the “figurative”), their results are unsatisfactory. Also, most of them lose all practicality in their botany of unfamiliar names with no clear answer to questions concerning the function of such devices. Even assuming one could divide figures as such-and-such, this does not answer the question of why anyone would chose to speak like that and not “properly” in the “degree-zero style”.

The figures that are discussed in this book are: antithesis, incrementum, gradatio, antimetabole, ploche and polyptoton. Instead of giving a brief account of each chapter as a separate discussion of these figures, I’ll consider all of them together. In agreement with Fahnestock, I will like to emphasise the following two theoretical/methodological claims that are made in the book:

(1) Figures of speech are not merely the “final touch” of scientific writing. Sometimes they can be just that, but sometimes they can be so profoundly build within a scientific discussion that understanding the discussion requires participating in coding and decoding one or two central figures.

(2) When a figure plays the role described in (1), argumentative analyses of scientific texts must include analyses of figuration.

Although Fahnestock suggests these methodological conclusions in various places, they are never spelled out explicitly. In his review of Rhetorical figures in science (Peterson, Gross, Priest, & Martin, 2001), Alan Gross also criticizes Fahnestock for not “summing up” the discussion in a more methodology-oriented chapter. In disagreement with Fahnestock, I will like to make the following claim:

(3) In all the examples she gives, figures play a role in presenting a claim rather than arguing for it. This role can be called “argumentative” since it is a move in an argumentative discussion, but the move is not yet the act of arguing itself.

In pragma-dialectical terms (van Eemeren, 2010), this means that what she presents as maneuvering belonging to the argumentation stage is in fact part of the confrontation stage (and sometimes ambiguously part of either confrontation or concluding stage or both). Such a criticism is possible first because the book does not make explicit any definition of “argument” and second because “argument”, “reasoning” and “claiming” are recurrently inter-changed.

Figures in academic discussions

The use of antithesis[1] can signal the fact that the academic discussion is about two things being (or not being) alike. In some cases, the two parts of the antithesis are perceived as opposites and in this case “the use of the figure is “a prompt to invent and construct arguments” (p. 58). In some other cases, and here the figure is recognized by Fahnestock as truly “argumentative”, the two parts are “pushed into opposition during the argument” (idem). In this second usage, the forms forces terms apart even in contexts where the opposition between them is not widely accepted.

Fahnestock gives the example of a paper presenting physiological research being conducted on the different functions of nerves, the “sensory” and “movement” functions, which have been empirically shown to be distinct by Charles Bell and Francois Magendie at the beginning of the nineteenth century. In the introduction [sic! consider point (3) above] to the paper in question, the authors announce that “it is sufficient for now to be able to propose that the anterior and the posterior roots of nerves that arise from the spinal cord have different functions; that the posterior appear more especially intended for sensations, whereas the anterior seem to be more particularly linked with movement” (Fahnestock, 1999, p. 71). A similar debate around a fossil called archaeopteryx – the debate being whether it was a bird or a dinosaur – gave rise to uses of antithesis from both sides of the debate. Again, just as above, the two parts of the parallelism (bird vs. dinosaur) are not commonly viewed as opposites, but had to be forced into this structure within the scientific discussion.

The examples above are fairly unsophisticated but one can see how the use of a figure can be viewed as central to a debate; quite simply the dissent concerns what the figure expresses, namely, opposition. Each of Fahnestock’s studies can be read in this manner, as samples of discussions around a proper usage of such-and-such a figure. A repetition (ploche) will become the core of a discussion when it expresses a certain relationship that is not immediately apparent to all parties of the discussion. As an illustration of how such an analytical claim is established by Fahnestock, I’ll quote in full the following example (p. 161) of the use of repetition in linguistics:

An illustration comes from the opening sentence of Roger Fowler and Gunther Kress’s “Critical linguistics,” the concluding essay in Language and control. ‘The language materials analyzed in this book suggest that there are strong and pervasive connections between linguistic structure and social structure’. Here ploche carries the burden of the claim. The authors want to maintain that language and social organization map onto each other in significant ways; they could have said “… between language and social organization” or “…between language and society.” Instead they find pervasive connections between “linguistic structure and social structure” […] Since they are already the same thing by virtue of being named by the same noun – both are “structures” – it is less surprising that there should be “strong and pervasive connections between them”

A more general version of this claim can be found in Perelman & Olbrechts-Tyteca ((Perelman & Olbrechts-Tyteca, 1958). In particular, with respect to scientific discourse, Perelman writes:

Les raisons qui nous font préférer telle concepualisation de l’exprience, telle analogie à telle autre, sont fonction de notre vision du monde. La forme n’est pas séparable du fond, le langage n’est pas un voile qu’il suffit d’écarter, ou de rendre transparent, pour percevoir le réél. Quand l’auteur ne s’exprime pas, à la manière d’un mathématicien, au moyen d’un langage artificiel, qu’il peut avoir créé de toutes pièces, mais utilise le langage naturel d’une communauté de culture, il adopte, sur tous les points qu’il n’as pas explicitement modifiés, les classifications et les évaluations que ce langage charrie avec lui. (Perelman, 1970, p. 222)

In other words, the fact that figures can be central to doing science is not at all a curiosity, but a straightforward, perhaps inevitable, consequence of the use of ordinary (as opposed to formal) language.

The place and scope of figure-analysis

Claim (2) calls for an integration of “figure analysis” (which, following Fahnestock, would be amount, not to some sort of decoding into ‘normal’ language, but to an elucidation of the function of a figure) within general argumentative analysis. But why should such an integration occur? Even if a figure is central to a debate by the “disagreement space” its usage creates – why would the act of figuration itself be reconstructed in the process of analysing the debate?

Again, Fahnestock does not tackle this kind of methodological question directly. Rather, her position becomes apparent from the way she treats several examples. For instance she speaks of several uses of incrementum (creating a series so that the last element is emphasised, creating a series when arguing for continuation etc.[2]) and then she adds: “Examples of these argumentative strategies, epitomized by the figures incrementum and gradatio, can be found in virtually any argument field; these lines of argument are truly common topics, based ultimately in the dialectical tradition of arguing from more or the less” (p.98) Her general approach for each study also offers a clue as to why figure-analysis is more broadly relevant. She beings with a few examples, she then offers a “history of…” section in which the rhetorical tradition is surveyed for definitions and theories and then before the case-studies there is always a “return to dialectics”-part where Aristotle’s Topics or other dialectical studies are scrutinized. Expectedly, she finds a topos for every figure and this answers the methodological question: the figures need to be part of a broader argumentative analysis because they are the argumentative moves themselves. At one point in the argumentative analysis one must identify the general principles or topics on which one’s argumentation is based. In those places, if figures occur, then their integration would support the analyst’s reconstruction and complete it.

What do figures epitomize?

As announced above, my contention is that Fahnestock’s claim must be slightly modified in order to be a more accurate representation of the strategic use of figures. In pragma-dialectical jargon, the modification I am referring to could be expressed as follows : In the studies presented, figures appear as central in the confrontation or the concluding stage of a critical discussion. This means that, at least in what concerns the examples she gives, a figure will achieve the aim of optimally presenting a standpoint or optimally presenting the results of a discussion. Although Fahnestock’s claim might be compatible with some other definition of “argument” and “argumentation”, from a speech-act theoretical perspective, none of her examples will be (or be reconstructible as) arguments.

Let me offer two examples. In the first one, the figure is identified in an editorial from the popular science magazine Wired. Fahnestock provides (p. 41) the text in (a) with the analysis in (b)

(a) Some naturalists lament the fact that society is increasingly able to engineer nature – that when we poke a finger into the genes of an organism and start to rearrange its blueprints, we treat the organism as a complex machine. […] A far more shadowy shift, yet one that is equally momentous, is happening in the opposite direction: machines are coming to resemble biology.

(b) The “opposite direction” or reversal that this passage refers to could be succinctly epitomized by joining the two separated halves of the potential antimetabole: “We treat the organism as a complex machine; machine are coming to resemble biology”. After a little stylistic light housekeeping, this argument [sic!] could be expressed in the following stylistic capper: “We have been treating organisms as machines but now we are beginning to treat machines as organisms”

The point I’m making concerns the use of “argument” there. That the text in (a) is part of the confrontation stage – where a claim is presented and reacted to – and that the function of the figure is to achieve optimal formulation of the claim – before using other speech acts to support it – is, I think, quite apparent. The author is introducing his contention as opposed to (and also, more important than) the claims of “some naturalists” but it is unclear why his claim should be preferred. No argument is offered, and the opposition epitomized in the antimetabole serves to clarify his position – that is, clarify it in the advantageous terms he chooses – rather than argue for its acceptability.

The second figure, incrementum, also presented as an argument (p. 98) concerns the following series which was established by the nineteenth century paleontologists in order to trace back the ancestry of the modern horse. In virtually every article on the subject, Fahnestock finds series of the kind: “orohippus, mesohippus, miohippus, protohippus, pliohippus, equs” (sometimes with arrows between the elements). Fahnestock calls this an “argument from the establishment of a series” (p. 98) and observes that it is persuasive “especially to inexpert audience” (p. 99). Again I would qualify that as the claim undergoing critical doubt rather than an argument. The point of the discussion between the different camps of paleontologists was not whether the horse has ancestors (that being a basic assumption of their entire research program) but rather “What are the modern horse’s progenitors?” To this question, each party took a standpoint by providing a list. Another clue that this was the claim not the argument is that fossils – actual description of fossils – were used as arguments to support the claim.

Conclusion

That the analysis of figures is part of a complete theory of “argumentation-in-context” seems well-established. The range of examples given in Fahnestock’s work is enough to show that not understanding the role of figures in scientific argumentation is partly not understanding scientific argumentation. However, the author does not offer more than a thin demonstration of analytically “unpacking” the figures. The reader is left with the questions: What should the analyst say or do about the figures? How should he transform them in explanatory technical language? Briefly put, the lack of theory is felt throughout Fahnestock’s studies.

Bibliography

Perelman, C. (1970). Le champ de l'argumentation. Bruxelles: Presses Universitaires de Bruxelles.

Perelman, C., & Olbrechts-Tyteca, L. (1958). La nouvelle rhetorique: Traité de l'argumentation. Bruxelles: Presses Universitaires de France.

Peterson, T. R., Gross, A., Priest, S. H., & Martin, S. E. (2001). Book reviews. Quarterly Journal of Speech, 87(2), 231-235.

van Eemeren, F. H. (2010). Strategic maneuvering in argumentative discourse: Extending the pragma-dialectical theory of argumentation. Amsterdam; Philadelphia: John Benjamins.

[1] An antithesis is generally defined by two necessary condition: semantical opposition and syntactical parallelism. The two parts of an antithesis are called phrases or cola. As an example, the apostle Paul wrote: “to set the mind on the flesh is death, to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace”,

[2] “They may wish to bring the end points or the intermediates or the whole series itself and its principle of gradation to an audience’s attention, whether to argue for its existence or its value […] Promoting some entity as an origin is frequently supported y placing it at the beginning of an ordered series” (p. 96)

The dialectic of scientific discourse

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 12:47:00 +0000

Review of Pera, M. (1994). The discourses of science. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. © argumentx.com
Download a PDF version of this review.

The Cartesian syndrome

How is it that the traditional image of science has been completely overturn? Only half a century ago science was seen as the paragon of rationality, the most palpable form of rational knowledge (with logic and mathematics being the impalpable ones). Marcello Pera begins his book by explaining this transition. A “philosophical tragedy” in three acts captures the main events that led to the collapse of an ideology, that of scientism.

Act 1. In this first state, science is certain, infallible, universal and objective. Due to these characteristics, Pera concludes this incipient act might be called science as demonstration. There are two components making up the thick, reliable texture of scientific knowledge: (a) the epistemic component, (b) the methodological component. The epistemic component tells us that the scientist’s data are acquired directly and objectively from reality. These data can be experimental (like Galileo’s “sensory experiences”) or intellectual (like Descartes’ “clear and distinct ideas”). Whatever they are, they are a reflection of reality – and this itself is a truth that needs to be taken for granted. We can thus speak of two dogmas: the empiricist dogma, that of immaculate perception, and the rationalist dogma, that of immaculate conception.

The methodological component states that science provides (new) knowledge by making use of a method which guarantees that if the information is correct – which it is, due to the previous component – then so will the conclusion. This method has been portrayed differently by Bacon (organon), Descartes (regulae ad directionem ingenii), Newton (regulae philosophandi), Leibniz (a libra that weighs probabilities) and many other scholars following the same path. Nothing represents philosophizing around this component better than Leibniz’ slightly enthusiastic prophecy of a scientific debate: “when controversies arise, there is no more need for discussion between two philosophers than there is between two calculators. All the two need to do is to sit down at a table, pen in hand (having called a friend if they wish) and mutually declare: let us calculate”.

Act 2. The epistemic component crumbles. After a series of impressive successes, the epistemic pillar of science-as-demonstration receives the repeated blows from: non-Euclidian geometry, crisis of the foundation of mathematics, rejection of associationist psychology and eventually quantum physics. As the epistemic component is falling, the methodological one tends to be reinforced. Certainty is replaced by truth, truth by probability, probability by verisimilitude, but all along this path philosophers stick to the central ideas of the methodological component. “From this point of view”, Pera writes, “there is little substantive difference between Bacon, Descartes, Leibniz, Newton, Whewell, Mill etc., and between Popper, Lakatos, Laudan etc.” (p. 4) What brings them together is a common effort to carry out the Cartesian project, which Pera summarizes as follows:

First thesis: There is a universal and precise method that demarcates science from any other intellectual discipline
Second thesis: The rigorous application of this method guarantees the achievement of the aim of science
Third thesis: If science possessed no method, it would not be a cognitive and rational endeavour.

From Kant to Lakatos, many philosophers have “suckled the Cartesian project with the milk of their philosophical training” (p. 4). The most interesting thesis in this tragedy is the third one. In reality, it gives rise to a dilemma: an endeavour is either dominated by rules or dominated by irrationality. There is no middle ground.

Act 3. After a period of relative calm, with the epistemic component’s final collapse, the “new philosophy of science” started attacking the methodological component too. As a result, the first two theses came to be rejected. Despite what Cartesians told them, the new philosophers averred that there is (a) no universal method and, even if there were such a method, (b) it wouldn’t guarantee the achievement of any kind of scientific aim. Science, they will say, just doesn’t work like that. In this context, the third thesis received special attention. More precisely, the dilemma it gives rise to has been fully embraced by philosophers of science (and scientists) for whom science is just another form of culture like basketball and parliamentary debates. Along these lines, Pera notes that even those who opposed the Cartesian propensity for laying out methodology (Feyerabend, 1975) were still working within the Cartesian project; their conclusions regarding the rationality of science (actually, the lack thereof) were based on the acceptance of the same dilemma.
In this picture, Kuhn was an unusual apparition. Studying the kind of Gestalt switch going on within scientific revolutions (Kuhn, 1996), Kuhn tried to “see both the duck and the rabbit” of scientific activity. Pera uses this analogy and separates Kuhn’s duck (the view that scientific progress occurs outside the reach of pre-defined rules) and Kuhn’s rabbit (the view that within the process of choosing between alternative paradigms, the scientific community maintains its rationality).

From method to rhetoric

If one tries to search for a scientific method, one runs into various sorts of troubles. Before one begins, a distinction needs to be made between procedure (an ordered series of moves governed by a global strategy oriented toward a goal), rules (prescriptions and norms governing the steps in the procedure), and techniques (the actual moves required by the procedure). So, when we ask ourselves what the method of science is, we ask (or we should ask) what the procedure, the rules and the techniques of science are? These are the things that are in need of explanation – explicandum – and the business of the philosopher of science is to pair them with adequate and precise explicata.

As he advances, Pera runs into various “paradoxes”. Maybe the word “paradox” is not the best choice here, but in any case the way they are described makes them insurmountable. Each element of “method” seems to be subject to these difficulties, so there is a paradox of scientific procedure, a paradox of scientific rules and a paradox of scientific techniques and they run as follows:

Paradox of scientific procedure: given an adequate scientific procedure, it is possible to find inquiries considered pseudo-scientific which will satisfy the procedure.
Paradox of scientific techniques: a scientific discipline can legitimately adopt the same techniques used by pseudo-scientific disciplines.
Paradox of scientific rules: given any methodological rule, there are always scientific inquiries in which it is violated.

To sum up, wherever we look for, the two criteria of adequacy and precision work against one another: a very precise method (read: procedure, technique or rule) will not be adequate and, vice versa, a very adequate method will not be very precise. Pera concludes: “This paradox expresses an intrinsic limitation of every scientific code. It is something like a principle of methodological indeterminacy: adequacy and precision are two properties of scientific method whose product cannot go beyond a certain limit” (p. 28). This result suggests that the first thesis of the Cartesian project is untenable.

However, before “raising the flag and admitting that the idea of method is doomed to failure”, maybe there is another line of defence. Maybe one should not look for general rules but for local ones.
Where does one look for these local explicata? History of science. But surely, history of science does not hand in ready-made methodologies, so the question of choosing between different ones will once again arise. As Pera rightly observes, “this raises the suspicion that historical meta-methodology is as circular as Cartesian methodology: the former finds in the history of science the very method it favours, the latter finds in the mind (or in actual practice) those rules it considers most desirable” (p. 33). This suspicion aside, however, there are other problems encountered by such “historical methodologists”. The problem is analogous to that of a judge in a court of law. The rules (like the law-codes) will contain lacunae and since these lacunae can be filled only with case-by-case decisions, there will eventually be no methodology – not even local ones – but a host of them. In fact, Pera concludes, “the absence of a single overarching methodology for science only complicates the task of the methodologist” (p. 39)

Just because the attempt to reduce the variety of possible methods fails, however, does not mean that there are no constraints in science – as is the view of (Feyerabend, 1975). Pera’s claim is that these constraints will be noticeable and become practical once one “moves” science from the domain of demonstration to that of argumentation. He urges a return to Aristotle for which dialectic was regulating rhetorical argumentation.
This return is necessary because methodological rules have an “open texture” and it is neither induction nor deduction but rhetorical argumentation that is being employed in cases where disagreement arises.
In other words, the problem so far was that there were only two entities on the scientific stage: facts and theories. The question thus inevitably became: how do facts support theories? But as soon as one sees that facts do not speak for themselves, that one’s activity cannot be mechanically assessed by reference to this or that methodology, the speaker – or interpreter – appears on the stage. The scientific code, just as the legal one, needs to be interpreted by the proponent in front of the judge. The whole setting resembles that of a law court and the dialectics governing it will be applied accordingly. Pera’s philosophical research program seems clear: “From now on, I shall reserve the term scientific rhetoric for those persuasive forms of reasoning or argumentation that aim at changing the belief system of an audience in scientific debates and the term scientific dialectics for the logic or canon of validation of those forms. In the case of law, a juridical logic already exists that studies specifically the validation of juridical arguments. In the case of science, a deductive logic and, although more precariously, fragments of inductive logic, exist, but we still know very little about scientific dialectics” (p. 58).

Scientific rhetoric

The aim of the next chapter is twofold: (1) to document the fact that scientists do in fact use rhetorical argumentation in situations where neither empirical data nor methodological principles suffice and (2) provide an understanding of the function of academic debate works as such. The first aim is easily achieved with a few examples from Galileo’s Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems, Darwin’s Origin of species and a multi-party debate in contemporary cosmology. Pera shows that scholars often explicitly restrict themselves to, say, only using “direct observations” and “mathematical demonstrations”, as Galileo did, but in reality use all kinds of rhetorical strategies to promote their theories. Moreover, a scientist condemning rhetoric and oratory will most probably make use of it a couple of pages later – as Darwin did in numerous instances.

This comes as no surprise, but it should be noted that Pera’s ease in finding examples of rhetorical argumentation is also a consequence of his rather loose definition of the concept. His examples are chosen more or less at random: “argument by retort”, “argument ad hominem”, “argument by counter-example”, “argument of parts and the whole”, “argument from a model”, “absurdity and ridicule” (pp. 62-69). Pera concludes: “Not unlike Galileo, who proceeded not only on the basis of ‘sensory experiences and necessary demonstration, Darwin did not rely uniquely on ‘true Baconian principles’ or on the principles of the hypothetico-deductive method. Darwin too preached one thing and practiced another. If not, his Origins … would have fallen prey to the first objection raised” (p. 88). In other words, it is common practice of scientific discourse to stretch the meaning of “method” to one’s own convenience.
The next question concerns the role(s) which academic rhetoric plays in scientific discourse. According to Pera, the main functions of these rhetorical arguments in scientific debate are:

(1) Choosing a suitable methodological procedure.
(2) Interpreting a methodological rule (establishing the exact prescriptive content of a rule)
(3) Deciding whether to apply a rule to a concrete case.
(4) Justifying a starting point
(5) Attributing to a hypothesis a positive degree of plausibility
(6) Criticizing/discrediting rival hypotheses
(7) Rejecting objections against a hypothesis

Each of these functions is explained and illustrated. For some of them, Pera explains the reason why neither deduction nor induction would be a proper tool to resolve the appearance of doubt around these points. These functions are not meant to “exhaust all the possible roles rhetoric plays in science”, but according to Pera they are “sufficient to conclude that this role is not merely ornamental” (p. 102).

Scientific dialectics

All rhetorical arguments aim at “convincing an audience”, that is, at obtaining consensus for a certain claim – be it the plausibility of a hypothesis, the intellectual and pragmatic advantages of a research program, the explanatory merits of a theory or something else. But what kind of logic governs these arguments? First, Pera dismisses logicism from a classical informal-logic-style vantage point. A few examples are offered where deductive and inductive logic – as systems designed to define the rationality of derivation and generalizations, respectively – prove inadequate for the assessment of scientific arguments (or arguments, generally, for that matter). The next step goes as follows:
With dialectics the situation is different. Since it aims at establishing whether arguments are good or bad in specific situations for specific audiences, it must deal not with arguments in themselves but with arguments in a debate. An argument may be valid or correct when taken out of context but bad when considered in a debate; conversely, it may be invalid and incorrect when taken out of context but good when considered in a debate. The fact is that, as part of a debate, an argument is submitted to certain constraints or rules governing the debate and establishing which moves are prohibited or permitted. Dialectics fix such rules. (p. 108)
A simple example is a deductively valid derivation like “p or q, not p, therefore q” in a debate where an alternative r has been put forward for consideration. In that case, the proponent would be denying a starting point – or, in some sense, refusing a reaspnable collaboration.

Since Pera is committed a contextualist view of argument assessment (“only the context can provide the necessary information”, p. 109), he draws the conclusion that it is not only their special function that connects rhetorical argumentation with dialectics (instead of, say, formal logic) but it is also their field. This Toulmin-like model implies that the concrete, real-life situation in which an argument in put forward is consequential for the argument’s appraisal. To simplify, we would say that an argument put forward by Scientist A in a discussion with Scientist B will be assessed based on the (1) minor premise which is Scientist B concedes to Scientist A, and (2) major premise which is provided by the context. Pera’s attention focuses on (2); in fact, on certain categories of bridging premises – resembling Aristotle’s loci – which can be abstracted away from their varying content. The question is, then, whether there is a useful typology of bridging premises as they are used in scientific debates.

Here, Pera makes use of a distinction introduced by Perelman – and nowadays very much in use in pragma-dialectics, (Van Eemeren & Grootendorst, 2004) – between substantive factors and procedural factors. The former are the bridging premises we are looking for, the latter are “the rules that govern debates”. In scientific debates, the most common substantive factors[1] can be grouped into these categories: (1) facts, (2) theories, (3) assumptions, (4) values, (5) commonplaces of preference, (6) presumptions. These categories should be understood as blank-fillers for “appeal t0 …” rhetorical argumentation. When attempting to convince, the scientist will appeal to (1)-(6) – of course, to the extent that he orients his argumentation to the context at hand, i.e. the scientific context. A scientist’s non-scientific argumentation will be outside the boundaries of (1)-(6), and can still be reasonable, but the analyst would observe that it is not attuned to the context in which it occurs.

On the basis of these notions, the main normative framework is introduced. A scientific argument is evaluated according to the following parameters (pp. 118-121):

Pertinence: “A scientific argument is pertinent if the reasons supporting its conclusion belong to the substantive factors of scientific dialectics admitted in that field and for that function”
Validity: “A scientific argument is valid if in favour of its conclusion a winning dialectic strategy exists on the basis of the substantive factors of scientific dialectics”
Strength: “A scientific argument is strong if in favour of its conclusion a winning dialectical strategy exists on the basis of both the premises conceded in the dialectical situation and the configuration of the substantive factors of scientific dialectics in force in that situation”
Efficiency: “A scientific argument is efficient for an interlocutor if the reasons adduced in support of its conclusion belong to the configuration of substantive factors of scientific dialectics that the interlocutor considers optimal in that situation”

Pera gives examples of procedural rules that enter within the same framework, rules such as “The debate is adjudicated in A’s favour if B does not offer reasons in support of his thesis belonging to the admitted substantive basis” (p. 124). The examples, however, are admittedly vague and unpolished. In any case, within this framework, Pera commits himself to a powerful analytical idea, namely, that every instance of scientific argumentation is following the strategy of confutation: “finding one or more concessions made by the interlocutor which, united with a shared substantive factor that acts as a bridge-premise, leads to the negation of that thesis” (p. 123). Interesting enough, this means that every scientific debate comprises mutual attempts at using the right modus tollens.

Conclusion: Science within a dialectical model
The shift of perspective, from the traditional methodological picture, is total and unreserved: “Bringing dialectics into science is not just a matter of making small adjustments here and there; the founding fathers’ very image of science is irrevocably altered” (p. 131). What the Fathers had in mind can be represented as a game with two players: the Inquiring mind (I) and Nature (N). (I) asks (N) questions and (N) answers, forced to reveal its secrets. Method (M) is not a player, but rather the “big brother” of the whole enterprise. Its set of rules watch over this conversation between (I) and (N).

In the new perspective, science becomes a game with three players: an individual or group from the scientific community (C₁), nature (N) and another group from the scientific community (C₂). “In this dialectical model, nature reacts and scientist agree upon its correct answer throughout a debate based on the factors of scientific dialectics.

As a philosopher, Pera is steadily paving the work for further dialectical interest in scientific (or, generally, academic) communication. Nevertheless, as a rhetorician (or linguist) his analyses of instances of scientific argumentation, as well as the normative suggestions he offers, are rather rudimentary. He shows that the dialectical perspective “provides us with an image of scientific practice that is perhaps less sever than that of the methodological, and less elastic than that of the counter-methodological model, but more realistic than both” (p. 136).

Bibliography
Feyerabend, P. (1975). Against method. London: New Left Books. Kuhn, T. S. (1996). The structure of scientific revolutions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Van Eemeren, F. H., & Grootendorst, R. (2004). A systematic theory of argumentation: The pragma-dialectical approach. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

[1] Note the empirical dimension! Pera writes: “With regard to these factors, the attitude I adopt is nonprescriptive [his emphasis]. As much as his personal proposals may be appreciated, the philosopher of science is not free to construct systems or models artificially, because he is constrained by the history and practice of science” (p. 112)

Rhetoric of science: a bird’s eye view

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Sun, 08 Jul 2012 23:57:00 +0000

Review of chapter one from Gross, A. G. (2006). Starring the text: The place of rhetoric in science studies. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press.

Download a PDF version of this review.

The first chapter of Gross’ Starring the text (2006, pp. 3-49)gives a detailed historical overview of the various movements within the field of rhetoric of science. The goal of this chapter is mainly historical, but also justificatory. On the one hand, Gross is surveying the various approaches which together constitute the field, on the other hand, the intention is to convince the reader (as well as scholars who had claimed otherwise) that a rhetorical analysis of science “forms a profitable perspective for the critic” (p. ix).

Gross beings by quoting two of the less enthusiastic scholars that had commented on the worth of rhetoric of science. Highly incredulous, Max Perutz – a winner of Nobel prize in chemistry – describes the whole enterprise as “humbug masquerading”. Slightly more refined, Susan Haak describes Gross’ earlier views from The rhetoric of science (1990) as those of “an atheist” engaged analysing theology. Sure enough, Haak explains, if one doesn’t believe in the existence of the Real world – or God –, one cannot but see “self-deceived fabulists” in those who do. For Gross, these remarks are noteworthy not only because a famous scientist and a famous philosopher felt the need to ascend to the polemic, but also because their reaction is typical. There are two reasons for these critics to “be annoyed”: (1) the existence of a substantial body of work in rhetoric of science and (2) the existence of a conceptual and methodological basis for practicing it. It is the elaboration of these two points that Gross undertakes.

Historical phases

Phase 1: In a preliminary stage, rhetoricians turned to what was termed science policy – a deliberative discussion where scientific matters play a decisive role (e.g. the evolutionist/creationist debate in the public education sector). Gross notes: “[…] so strong was the traditional focus of the emerging discipline of speech communication on political oratory that the first rhetorical analysis of science policy was not made until 1953”. Weaver (1953)first analysed the legal conflict in American public education between supporters of creationism and those of evolutionist theories in the public-school biology curriculum. Other rhetoricians, still working in this preliminary phase, approached the domain from the ethical issue which scientific and technological practices sometimes give rise to.

Phase 2: The focus on science “itself” rather than the political, legal and ethical discussions it engenders was initiated in gradient between two poles: at the moderate pole, we find the usual rhetorical analyses of scientific texts as communication “designed to persuade relevant members of scientific communities” (p. 5); at the radical pole, we find scholars proposing the idea that rhetoric is somehow constitutive of science (scientific practice as well as scientific communication). Some notable contribution on the moderate pole are Moss (1993) and Prelli (1989). Of the ones that can be situated on the radical pole Gross mentiones Myers (1985), Bazerman (1988), Campbell(1990) and “an earlier version” of himself (1990). A short review of the main interests of these scholars is offered (e.g. the historical period on which they focused their attention, the kind of analyses they pursued). Typical for the radical camp is Bazerman’s conclusion to the analysis of Newtonian optics: “Persuasion is at the heart of science, not at the unrespectable fringe. An intelligent rhetoric practiced within a serious, knowledgeable, committed research community is a serious method of truth-seeking” (1998, p. 321).

Phase 3: After this first generation, a period of “colonization” followed. Gross speaks of an “outburst of rhetorical activity in relation to science by scholars who came from different disciplines and were not, generally, in communication” (p. 9). Philosophers, anthropologists, historians, sociologists, literary scholars, linguists set about studying a “rhetoric of” their own field. Most of these scholars “eschewed epistemic implications” (p. 10), which is to say that, on the scale introduced above, they all remained very close to the moderate camp. Some scholars focused on the genres produced by scientific writing (Swales, 1990), while some shifted the focus to stylistic features (Halliday, 1993). However, there are scholars who took the radical position. Here, McCloskey’s The Rhetoric of Economics is mentioned. In McCloskey’s analyses – as well as in his definition of science as “a class of objects and a way of conversing about them, not a way of knowing the truth” (McCloskey, 1998, p. 105) –, Gross sees the radicalism specific to the rhetoricians of the first generation.

Phase 4: In 1997, D. P. Gaonkar wrote a long essay in which the main methodological premises of the newly formed rhetoric of science were seriously questioned. Gaonkar’s (1997) main contention is that rhetoric is fundamentally unsuited for the analysis of science. His reasons are summarized by Gross as follows: (1) rhetorical tools are made for producing – not interpreting – oratory, (2) the basic model of rhetoric is that in which the orator has control over the communicative situation, a situation in which the audience is a passive agent, (3) rhetoric uses “thin” concepts, that is, concepts which are so loosely defined that, while they seem to work for everything, they in fact burden the text in question with obscuring hermeneutics. Several works could be seen as direct or indirect responses to these criticisms. Fahnestock’s Rhetorical figures in science (1999), for instance, could be read as a successful application of an ancient apparatus to modern needs. The same could be said about (Ceccarelli, 2001)and Gross (Gross, Harmon, & Reidy, 2002). Gross’ position seems to be as follows: Gaonkar’s essay – although very useful when it appeared, since it raised some fundamental objection – should be seen more as a bump in the road which has been successfully surpassed by clever theorizing and revealing examples.

Applying rhetoric to science

The other reason for vexation (at least in the case of the two fierce critics introduced above) is that rhetoric has the proper conceptual apparatus to be used by the modern analyst in his rhetorical reconstruction of science. Gross notes: “it may seem mere common sense that classical rhetoric, whose source and first object of study was public utterance in the Greek city-states, is not an appropriate framework within which to view science, quintessentially the product of the modern world in all of its complexity” (p. 20). To this, Gross replies that the rhetorical “kit of critical tools” can be – and has been, see (Perelman & Olbrechts-Tyteca, 1958) – dislodged from the context of ancient oratory. “Stasis, the three “proofs” of ethos, pathos and logos, the five canons of invention and the general and special topics – none of these depend on any aspect of the classical ideology” (p. 20). The section consists of some examples of these points of “separation of ideological from the technical”. All in all, for Gross the wide applicability of rhetorical concepts is not a “danger signal” and it certainly does not entail that the conceptual apparatus thus employed is “thin”.

Bazerman, C. (1988). Shaping written knowledge: The genre and activity of the experimental article in science. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.

Campbell, J. A. (1990). Scientific discovery and rhetorical invention: The path to darwin's origin. In H. W. Simons (Ed.), The rhetorical turn: Invention and persuasion in the conduct of inquiry (pp. 58-90). Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Ceccarelli, L. (2001). Shaping science with rhetoric: The cases of dobzhansky, schrödinger, and wilson. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Fahnestock, J. (1999). Rhetorical figures in science. New York: Oxford University Press.

Gross, A. G. (1990). The rhetoric of science. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Gross, A. G. (2006). Starring the text: The place of rhetoric in science studies. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press.

Gross, A. G., Harmon, J. E., & Reidy, M. S. (2002). Communicating science: The scientific article from the 17th century to the present. New York: Oxford University Press.

Halliday, M. A. K. (1993). On the language of physical science. Writing science: Literacy and discursive power(pp. 54-68). Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh.

McCloskey, D. N. (1998). The rhetoric of economics. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.

Moss, J. D. (1993). Novelties in the heavens: Rhetoric and science in the copernican controversy. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Myers, G. (1985). Texts as knowledge claims: The social construction of two biology articles. Social Studies of Science, 15(4), 593-630.

Perelman, C., & Olbrechts-Tyteca, L. (1958). La nouvelle rhetorique: Traité de l'argumentation. Bruxelles: Presses Universitaires de France.

Prelli, L. J. (1989). A rhetoric of science: Inventing scientific discourse. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press.

Swales, J. (1990). Genre analysis: English in academic and research settings. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Weaver, R. M. (1953). Dialectic and rhetoric at dayton, tennessee. The ethics of rhetoric (pp. 27-54). Chicago: Regency.

Approaching Kuhn’s Gap

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Mon, 02 Jul 2012 15:47:00 +0000

Review of Rehg, W. (2009). Cogent science in context: The science wars, argumentation theory, and Habermas. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.

Download a PDF version of this review.

Introduction

The beginning of the so-called “science wars” in the 1960s is the academic consequence of a complex set of causes amongst which the fall of logical empiricism and the birth of quantum physics occupy a significant place. The central problem is easy to formulate but surprisingly difficult to solve: how can scientific knowledge be at the same time rational but not formally logical[1]? This trend challenged defenders of Science (capital S!) to develop conceptions of scientific rationality that are more realistic than the logical ones developed by, e.g. Rudolf Carnap and Carl Hempel in the 1920s and 1930s. This “gap” is sometimes referred to as Kuhn’s Gap since for the first time it became plainly visible (and urgent) in Thomas Kuhn’s 1962 Structure of scientific revolutions (Kuhn, 1996). William Rehg’s book reviews suggestions that have been given to this fill this gap and ultimately attempts one of his own, centred on the notion of cogency in a critical contextualist framework. For William, the answer is in a re-conceptualization of the notion of cogency as a boundary concept which integrates both a normative-dialectical idea of argument strength and a psychological-rhetorical one of convincingness.

But is argumentation theory the right tool? Of course scientists argue and perhaps they do so very often, but is this an essential aspect of what they are engaged in? Isn’t science also something else aside from discourse? The criticism embodied in these questions is in fact a warning against over-emphasis on the linguistic aspects of scientific activity; it is a warning that the context of discovery might be disregarded in favour of the context of justification. This criticism is responded at the very beginning of the study in two ways. First he points to the rather feeble basis of the discovery/justification distinction a remark which is supported by studies of actual experimental practice (Mayo, 1996).Second, he assures us that an argumentation theoretical approach takes into consideration the “material” context as well as the “discursive” one for (1) trying to improve one’s experimental method is a way of producing better arguments by using it and (2) experimental practices are heavily oriented towards the production of public knowledge (p. 19).

The rhetorical turn

After Kuhn, epistemologists and sociologists came closer to one another in what Rehg describes as a rhetorical turn. This turn comprises many approaches and it is thus difficult to condense in a few lines. However, according to Rehg, all of them centre on a conception of science as socially-situated argumentation. On the classical threefold radar comprising logic, dialectic and rhetoric – a distinction Rehg ends up challenging later on in the book – some approaches will be situated closer to the prescriptive end (Lakatos, 1976), some closer to the descriptive one (Shapin & Schaffer, 2011). Rehg investigates closely three of the more recent of these approaches, and starts by ordering according to their position on the “prescriptivism” scale: the most dialectically oriented (Pera, 1994), the less dialectically and more rhetorically oriented (Prelli, 1989), and the fully socio-rhetorically oriented (Latour, 1987).

In Pera’s Discourses of Science (1994), the task of assessing scientific arguments is assigned to dialectics, which he dubs “the logic of science”. The dialectic of science is a dialogue between three players: the scientist, Nature and the scientific community. This is an implicit attack to the Popperian (Popper, 1965) idea that rational science is governed by a model of decision between theories, namely, the falsificationist model. In fact, Pera claims, the choice is arrived at in this context of dialectical scrutiny in which the scientific community has a central role. For Pera the challenge is to make this move without falling into the relativism of “countermethodologists” such as Rorty and Fayerabend. Thus, Pera introduces the notion of dialectical factors which taken together define a scientific tradition. Following Rescher’s dialectics (Rescher, 1977), Pera divides these factors into substantive and procedural. It is “the scientific community itself, as carrying on that tradition” that “constitutes the normative arbiter of cogent argumentation” (p. 63). In other words, it is not this or that scientific community, but the Scientific Community that formulates the critical standards. Whether the workings of such a scientific community can be identified into actual instances of argumentation is an open question to which Rehg’s summary does not answer.

Prelli’s Rhetoric of science (1989) moves away from these questions by starting from an Aristotelian approach combined with stasis theory. To Prelli, every field and subfield of argumentation has its “disciplinary matrix” which comprises a set of rhetorical aims, a set of topoi and a set of stases. In scientific discourse, the four major stases are: the evidential stasis (to prove that such-and-such exists), the interpretive stasis (to show that you interpret phenomena correctly), the evaluative stasis (to support the significance of your claims) and the methodological stasis (to show that you apply the correct methods). “The basic idea,” Rehg notes, “is that scientist consider an argument reasonable only if they can see how it responds to one or more of the four [of these] exigencies” (p. 67). It is interesting to observe that these four stases can be used as institutional – or, to us Prelli’s terminology rhetorical – aims which then govern the procces of critical testing instances of argumentation in actual activity types.

By far the most rhetorically oriented is the next perspective, Latour’s approach to scientific activity (Latour, 1987). This approach goes the farthest towards a sociologically informed rhetoric of science by embedding it in Latour and Collen’s Actor Network Theory. Noteworthy is the general aim of scientific practice as it is seen by Latour: to transform statements with a qualifying modality (e.g. There is evidence for x being y) into ones without qualifying modality (e.g. x is y)! I think the applicability of such a general aim depends on what one means by “to transform” as it is used above, but the claim seems original. For Latour, everything concerning scientific activity is spelled in quasi-military terms. For instance, one strategy is described by Latour as “to overwhelm and isolate the sceptical reader by demonstrating the sheer number of ‘allies’ and resources the author can enrol in support of the article” (Rehg, 2009, p. 72). In a different place, Latour explains that scientists are driven by very concrete network purposes, spelled out (maybe a bit crudely) as: “weaken your enemies, paralyze those you cannot weaken” (p. 73). From this viewpoint, it is only natural that force and reasonableness intertwine to the point that they become indistinguishable; “right” and “might”, reason and force, at least function simultaneously if they are not, in extremis, the same process.

To each of these three perspectives, Rehg responds the “classical” kind of criticism: to the more dialectical ones that they are too dialectical, to the more rhetorical ones that they are too rhetorical. In a chapter following the presentation of these three perspectives, Rehg turns to Habermas’ theory of communicative action {{26 Habermas, J. 1985;27 Habermas, J. 1987/a;}}, hoping that this theory would finally be the sort of integration he was looking for. However, after a long, detailed, investigation, Rehg concludes that it is in fact not the case. I will thus not follow this path here. Habermas’ idealized dialectics prove ultimately too abstract to be applicable to actual cases where argumentation needs to be reconstructed from specific contexts.

The critical contextualist approach

Rehg’s working hypothesis is that the contextualist approaches such as those of ethnomethodologists “already contain the key to the solution” (p. 214). There is no contradiction involved in combining critical standards with context-dependent theories provided that one starts from the latter and not from the former. It is in this sense that Rehg joins the contextualist camp which has criticized the doubtful universality of some of Habermas’ concepts (e.g. validity claims, consensus-oriented communication). ESW (ethnomethodology of scientific work) is compatible with critique, Rehg says, but it doesn’t start from it analytically. In many places, the exact meaning of “not to start from” remains ambiguous. The claim that is repeated many times is that the standards – whatever these may be – are “glosses” which acquire meaning and intelligibility only in context. But this idea implies precisely that one knows what the standards are to begin with (one has even formulated them), and now his first step when evaluating is to look for the “situated” version of those standards. Thus, it cannot be in this sense that Rehg intends the primacy of context.

Rehg resolves the question of relativism by transforming the over-criticized in the Toulminian field (Toulmin, 1958) into the more reliable cross-field. The broader scientific community, the funding agencies, technologists, lay persons – the critical reactions of all these people constitute the rational basis for scientific argumentation. As Rehg puts it, “a truth claim assumes not so much the counterfactual assent of an ideal audience, but rather the potential relevance and contextualizability of that claim in an indefinite range of scientific contexts” (p. 225). The standards themselves are like topoi which become more particular when applied and more cogent when convincing this indefinite range of audiences. Since all this is rather abstract – and, in my opinion, not significantly different than what has been presented in the previous chapters of the book – Rehg offers a case study in which he applies the critical contextualist framework.

The three dimensions of argument cogency

Rehg takes a as his case-study a document published in 1985 by the American NAS (National Academy of Sciences) entitled Diet, Nutrition & Cancer. What he proposes is to replace the three-fold distinction between product-procedure and process with a three-fold division of contexts. I am not sure I completely understood what the three “layers” are supposed to be. The general labels he uses to refer to them are content, transaction and public[2]. At each such level there are specific “merits” and the analyst who intends to understand and evaluate the argumentation going on in a specific context, needs to specify, in advance, which of the three merits he is after: content merits, transaction merits and public merits. Cogency is then a contextualized unification of these three merits, according to the weight given to them in particular situation (for “that, too, is a context-sensitive matter”, p. 266). In a “neutral” situation, where all three merits are equally important, a cogent argument justifies his conclusion well, via a reasonable discussion procedure that “wins broad acceptance across social space” (p. 251). This, according to Rehg, is hot Kuhn’s gap can be filled.

Unfortunately, the study is rather unconvincing. The conclusions are vague, restrained and scattered throughout the analysis. To give an example of the kind of indefinite conclusions Rehg arrives at, consider the following paragraph:

In a word, the participants themselves, both lay readers and scientists, defenders and opponents, already acted as critics who assessed arguments in light of the three sort of merits. On balance DNC seems to have held up reasonably well to such critique. Insofar as one can judge from the CAST report, scientific scrutiny uncovered no single devastating flaw in content or transactional merits (again, the dietary recommendations aside). […] Thus, the committee seems to have done a passably good job with the content and transactional merits of their argument. And the relatively benign reception of DNC overall speaks in favour of public merits. (p. 268).

This evaluation seems pre-theoretical rather than theory-driven. Also, strangely enough, at the very end (p. 278), he makes explicit some methodological principles which the reader would have liked to see before the case study.

Conclusion

The book offers a very instructive overview of the kind of debate going on nowadays in science studies. The solution it proposes, however, are not equally instructive. Or maybe they are, but the examples Rehg has used to illustrate their theoretical prowess have not achieved their purpose.

Bibliography

Habermas, J. (1985). The theory of communicative action: Reason and the rationalization of society (T. McCarthy Trans.). Boston: Beacon Press.

Habermas, J. (1987). The theory of communicative action: Lifeworld and system, a critique of functionalist reason (T. McCarthy Trans.). Boston: Beacon Press.

Kuhn, T. S. (1996). The structure of scientific revolutions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Lakatos, I. (1976). Proofs and refutations: The logic of mathematical discovery. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Latour, B. (1987). Science in action: How to follow scientists and engineers through society. Harvard: Harvard University Press.

Mayo, D. G. (1996). Error and the growth of experimental knowledge. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Pera, M. (1994). The discourses of science. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Popper, K. R. (1965). The logic of scientific discovery. London: Hutchinson.

Prelli, L. J. (1989). A rhetoric of science: Inventing scientific discourse. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press.

Rehg, W. (2009). Cogent science in context: The science wars, argumentation theory, and Habermas. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.

Rescher, N. (1977). Dialectics: A controversy-oriented approach to the theory of knowledge. New York: State University of New York Press.

Shapin, S., & Schaffer, S. (2011). Leviathan and the air-pump: Hobbes, Boyle, and the experimental life (2nd ed.). Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Toulmin, S. E. (1958). The uses of argument. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

[1] Or, more explicitly, “If argumentative practices in ordinary sciences depend so heavily on paradigmatic presuppositions for their intelligibility and cogency, then arguments in which those very presuppositions are at issue seem to lose their rational footing” (Rehg, 2009)

[2] Throughout this chapter, Rehg constantly equivocates between the noun public and the adjective public. In the distinction, it is the noun he seems to refer to – since the other two are also nouns – but everywhere in the analysis where he mentions merits, he uses the adjective. Needless to add, a public something and the public are not the same thing.

The institutional sensitivity of speech

noreply@blogger.com (O) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 19:45:00 +0000

Arminen, I. (2000). On the context-sensitivity of institutional interaction. Discourse & Society, 11(4), 435-458.

Read the review here.

Theoretical orientations in the study of context

noreply@blogger.com (argumentics) — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 21:40:00 +0000

Drew, P., & Heritage, J. (1992). Analyzing talk at work: An introduction. In P. Drew, & J. Heritage (Eds.), Talk at work: Interaction in institutional settings (pp. 3-66). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Levinson, S. C. (1992). Activity types and language. In P. Drew, & J. Heritage (Eds.), Talk at work: Interaction in institutional settings (pp. 66-101). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Schegloff, E. A. (1992). On talk in institutional settings. In P. Drew, & J. Heritage (Eds.), Talk at work: Interaction in institutional settings (pp. 101-137). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Read the review here

Philosophers hot and cool

noreply@blogger.com (argumentics) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 22:59:00 +0000

Mason, J. (1989). Philosophical rhetoric: The function of indirection in philosophical writing. London/New York: Routledge

Read the review here

To be or to be said to be

noreply@blogger.com (argumentics) — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 17:50:00 +0000

Searle, J. (1983). Minds, brains and programs. In D. Hofstadter, & D. Dennet (Eds.), Mind design (pp. 353-383). London: The Harvester Press.

Read the review here

Dissolving Meno’s paradox

noreply@blogger.com (argumentics) — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 15:15:00 +0000

Hintikka, J. (1984). Questioning as a philosophical method. In J. H. Fetzer (Ed.), Principles of philosophical reasoning (pp. 25-44). Totowa, NJ: Rowan & Allanheid

Read the review here

CRA

noreply@blogger.com (argumentics) — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 21:13:00 +0000

van Eemeren & Garssen (2008) Controversy and confrontation

noreply@blogger.com (argumentics) — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 19:34:00 +0000

van Eemeren, F. H., & Garssen, B. (Eds.). (2008). Controversy and confrontation: Relating controversy analysis with argumentation theory. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins.

Read the (partial) review: here

The reasonableness of accusations of unreasonableness (?!)

noreply@blogger.com (argumentics) — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 10:19:00 +0000

Here’s a quote that would do a lot of justice to Johnstone’s concept of philosophical controversy. It is taken from the writings of Levi Strauss – more precisely, from one of his many discussions with Stern on the notion of historicism:

“Historicism claims that all human thoughts or beliefs are historical and therefore bound to die; but historicism itself is a human thought; therefore historicism itself has a limited validity, or else it cannot be true. To assert the historicist thesis means to doubt it and, thus, transcend it” (Levi-Strauss, 1953, Natural right and history)

To Johnstone, remember, philosophical controversies are alway recognizable by this trait that one party accuses the other one of not being able in principle to fully assert a thesis. A reasonable attack of inconsistency, as it were, or a “valid ad hominem” – in Johnstone’s terminology. It was responded to - just as predicted (see review link below) – with an accusation of straw man:

[…] let us rather admit that historicism cannot claim timeless validity without violating its very principle. […] By virtue of the categories at our disposal at this moment of history, human thoughts, beliefs and values appear historically conditioned […] Since, besides the categories of our epoch, we have no others at our disposal […] we must say that, in our epoch, historicism appears to be a well established theory. The fact that we cannot affirm the eternal, timeless, transhistorical validity of historicism does not exclude the possibility of its being valid for the present historical epoch which gave birth to it. (Stern, 1962, Philosophy of history and the problem of values)

Now, the question is when is an accusation of fallaciousness – dialectically – reasonable? Can you ever unreasonably accuse someone of being unreasonable?

The debate is treated from the perspective of controversy analysis in

Dascal, M. (2008). Dichotomies and types of debates. In F. H. van Eemeren, & B. Garssen (Eds.), Controversy and confrontation (pp. 27-51). Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins.

The edited book will be reviewed here in a couple of weeks.