Out of the study and into the field: ethnographic theory and practice in French anthropology 9781845456955, 9781845458430

Table of contents :
Frontmatter
List of illustrations (page vii)
List of authors discussed in this volume (page ix)
Preface (page xi)
Introduction: ethnographic practice and theory in France (Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales, page 1)
1. 'Keeping your eyes open': Arnold van Gennep and the autonomy of the folkloristic (Giordana Charuty, page 25)
2. Canonical ethnography: Hanoteau and Letourneux on Kabyle communal law (Peter Parkes, page 45)
3. Postcards at the service of the Imaginary: Jean Rouch, shared anthropology and the ciné-trance (Paul Henley, page 75)
4. Eric de Dampierre and the art of fieldwork (Margaret Buckner, page 103)
5. What sort of anthropologist was Paul Rivet? (Laura Rival, page 125)
6. Alfred Métraux: empiricist and romanticist (Peter Rivière, page 151)
7. Roger Bastide or the 'darknesses of alterity' (Stefania Capone, page 171)
8. The art and craft of ethnography: Lucien Bernot, 1919-1993 (Gérard Toffin, page 197)
9. André-Georges Haudricourt: a thorough materialist (Alban Bensa, page 219)
10. Louis Dumont: from museology to structuralism via India (Robert Parkin, page 235)
11. Will the real Maurice Leenhardt please stand up? Four anthropologists in search of an ancestor (Jeremy MacClancy, page 255)
Notes on contributors (page 273)
Subject index (page 277)
Name index (page 289)

Citation preview

OUT OF THE STUDY AND INTO THE FIELD

Methodology and History in Anthropology General Editor: David Parkin, Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford

Volume I Volume 12

Marcel Mauss: A Centenary Tribute An Introduction to Two Theories of Social Edited by Wendy James and N.J. Allen Anthropology: Descent Groups and Marriage Alliance

Volume 2 By Louis Dumont. Edited and Translated by Franz Baerman Steiner: Selected Writings Robert Parkin Volume I: Taboo, Truth and Religion

Franz B. Steiner. Edited by Jeremy Adler and Volume 13

Richard Fardon Navigating Terrains of War: Youth and Soldiering in Guinea-Bissau

Volume 3 By Henrik Vigh Franz Baerman Steiner: Selected Writings

Volume H: Orient politik, Value, and Civilisation. Volume 14 Franz B. Steiner. Edited by Jeremy Adler and The Politics of Egalitarianism: Theory and Practice

Richard Fardon Edited by Jacqueline Solway

Volume 4 Volume 15

The Problem of Context: Perspectives from A History of Oxford Anthropology

Social Anthropology and Elsewhere Edited by Peter Rivicre Edited by Roy Dilley

Volume 16

Volume 5 Holistic Anthropology: Emergence and

Religion in Linglish Everyday Life: Convergence An Lithnographic Approach Edited by David Parkin and Stanley Ulijaszek By Timothy Jenkins

Volume 17

Volume 6 Learning Religion: Anthropological Approaches Hunting the Gatherers: Ethnographic Edited by David Berliner and Ramon Sarr6o

1870s-1930s Volume 18

Collectors, Agents and Agency in Melanesia,

Edited by Michael O’Hanlon and Ways of Knowing: Anthropological Approaches

Robert L. Welsch to Crafting Experience and Knowledge Edited by Mark Harris

Volume 7 Anthropologists in a Wider World: Essays on Field Volume 19

Research Difficult Folk? A Political History of

Edited by Paul Dresch, Wendy James and Social Anthropology

David Parkin By David Mills

Volume 8 Volume 20

Categories and Classifications: Maussian Human Nature as Capacity: Transcending

Reflections on the Social Discourse and Classification

By NJ. Allen By Nigel Rapport

Volume 9 Volume 21

Louis Dumont and Hierarchical Opposition The Life of Property: House, Family and

By Robert Parkin Inheritance in Béarn, South-West France By Timothy Jenkins

Volume 10 Categories of Self: Louis Dumont’s Theory Volume 22

of the Individual Out of the Study and Into the Field:

By Andre Celtel Ethnographic Theory and Practice in French

Volume . eeParkin onclony oodeona oe . Edited by11 Robert and Anne Sales Existential Anthropology: Events, Exigencies . and Lffects

By Michael Jackson

OUT OF THE STUDY AND INTO THE FIELD

Ethnographic Theory and Practice in French Anthropology

Edited by

Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales

Berghahn Books New York ¢ Oxford

First published in 2010 by Berghahn Books

www.berghahnbooks.com ©2010 Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Out of the study and into the field : ethnographic theory and practice in French anthropology. p. cm. -- (Methodology and history in anthropology vol. 22) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-84545-695-5 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Anthropology--France--Philosophy. 2. Anthropology--France--Field work. 3. Anthropology--France--Methodology. I. Parkin, Robert, 1950- II. Sales, Anne de.

GN585.F8088 2010 301.010944--de2 2

2010018543

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Printed in the United States on acid-free paper

ISBN: 978-1-84545-695-5 (hardback)

List of illustrations Vii

Preface xi

List of authors discussed in this volume ix Introduction: ethnographic practice and theory in France | Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales

of the folkloristic 25

1. ‘Keeping your eyes open’: Arnold van Gennep and the autonomy Giordana Charuty

communal law 45

2. Canonical ethnography: Hanoteau and Letourneux on Kabyle Peter Parkes

3. Postcards at the service of the Imaginary: Jean Rouch,

shared anthropology and the ciné-trance 75 Paul Henley

4. Eric de Dampierre and the art of fieldwork 103 Margaret Buckner

5. What sort of anthropologist was Paul Rivet? 125 Laura Rival

6. Alfred Métraux: empiricist and romanticist 151 Peter Riviere

7. Roger Bastide or the ‘darknesses of alterity’ 17 Stefania Capone

8. The art and craft of ethnography: Lucien Bernot, 1919-1993 197 Gérard Toffin

9. André-Georges Haudricourt: a thorough materialist 219 Alban Bensa

vi Contents 10. Louis Dumont: from museology to structuralism via India 25 Robert Parkin

11. Will the real Maurice Leenhardt please stand up? Four anthropologists

in search of an ancestor 259 Jeremy MacClancy

Notes on contributors 273

Subject index 277 Name index 289

Figures

1.1. Arnold van Gennep, aged 80, lighting a bonfire on the summer solstice

(21 June 1953), also the saint's day of St John the Baptist. 26 2.1. Commandant Adolphe Hanoteau at Fort-Napoléon, 1861. 47 2.2. Opening column of ganun rulings transcribed in Arabic with French translation by Captain Alphonse Meyer, military interpreter at Dellys, 1864. 50

ca. 1859/60. a2

2.3. Dedication of Ait Iraten ganun rulings submitted to Hanoteau by Si Mula,

2.4. Submission of the Kabyle tribes to Marshall Randon in 1857. 64

2.5. Hanoteau and two Tuareg, 1858. 65 3.1. Jean Rouch shooting in a market in the Gold Coast in 1954. 76 4.1. Eric de Dampierre at Madabazouma, thirty kilometres from

Bangassou, Central African Republic. 104

5.1. Paul Rivet. 126 6.1. Alfred Méetraux, seated second from right, doing fieldwork among

Chipaya in Bolivia, 1931 or 1932. 152

7.1. Roger Bastide, seated left on bench, Ifanhin, Bénin, 1958. 172 8.1. Lucien Bernot, on the occasion of his being honoured with a Festschrift

at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, Paris, 1987. 198 9.1. André-Georges Haudricourt: ‘le maitre ala recherche de la petite béte

ou le maitre dans l’exercice de ses fonctions’, June 1972. 220 10.1. Louis Dumont, taken by himself, among the Kallar, Tamil Nadu (India),

with his chief informant, Muttusami Tevar, 1949. 236 11.1. Maurice Leenhardt (back row, centre), with Melanesian pastors

during a conference, Nouvelle Calédonie 1916. 256

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LIST OF AUTHORS DISCUSSED IN THIS VOLUME Authors dealt with in this volume, their dates and main fieldwork area(s) and/or peoples of interest.

Author Dates Main fieldwork area(s) and/or peoples of

interest

Roger Bastide 1898-1974 — Afro-Brazilians (northeast Brazil)

Lucien Bernot 1919-1993 Marma, Cak (Bangladesh, Myanmar)

Eric de Dampierre 1929-1997 Nzakara (Central African Republic)

Louis Dumont 1911-1998 India

Adolphe Hanoteau 1814-1897 Kabyle (Algeria) André-Georges Haudricourt 1911-1996 Vietnam

Aristide Letourneux 1820-1890 Kabyle (Algeria) Maurice Leenhardt 1878-1954 |New Caledonia

Alfred Métraux 1902-1963 Argentina and other South America, Haiti, Easter Island

Paul Rivet 1876-1958 — Ecuador, Colombia

Jean Rouch 1917-2004 Songhay (Niger) Arnold van Gennep 1873-1957 — France, Europe

Blank page

PREFACE

The present volume originated in a conference, ‘Out of the Study and into

the Field’: Ethnographic Theory and Practice in French Anthropology, held at the Maison Francaise d’Oxford on 22—24 April 2005. It does not, however, represent the formal proceedings of the conference, since some of the original contributors have not been able, for a variety of reasons,

to submit the papers they gave on that occasion for inclusion here. Conversely, the chapters by Buckner, Capone and Parkin were written subsequent to the conference especially for this volume. The chapters by Bensa, Capone and Charuty have been translated from the French, the first by Amy Jacobs, the second and third by the editors.

Quotations from texts originally written in French have either been translated by the authors of those chapters or the editors, or else replaced by the equivalent passage from an existing published English translation. Due to the rarity of some of the original French texts in Riviere’s paper, there the original French texts have been retained in footnotes.

The editors wish to thank the contributors to both the original conference and the present collection, where these are different, as well as the staff and management of the Maison Francaise for providing the conference venue and refreshments. The conference was supported by a grant from the British Academy, which is gratefully acknowledged. We also thank the publishers of this collection, Berghahn Books, especially Marion Berghahn, as well as Prof. David Parkin, the series editor, for their support of this project. We are also grateful to those contributors who

commented on the introduction to the volume, and to the two publishers’ reviewers for their very useful reviews of the whole volume, even though we have not felt able to incorporate all their observations.

The editors are also grateful to the following organisations and individuals for helping them obtain the plates used in this volume: L’ Agence photographique dela Réunion des musées nationaux (France) for the portrait of van Gennep; Harold Prins for the portrait of Métraux; Alex Baradel, Fundacao Pierre Verger (Brazil), for the portrait of Bastide; Jean-Claude Galey, for the portrait of Dumont; and Christophe Dervieux, Archiviste, Direction des affaires culturelles et coutumieres, Service des archives, Noumea (Nouvelle Calédonie), for the portrait of Leenhardt.

xii Preface Last but not least, this whole project has proved to be a smooth and

convivial joint venture between British and French anthropology, represented here by the respective editors, who both feel they have a reasonable knowledge, understanding and appreciation of each other's national anthropological traditions and have enjoyed working together. They would therefore like to take this opportunity of thanking each other.

Robert Parkin Anne de Sales Oxford, October 2009

Introduction

ETHNOGRAPHIC PRACTICE AND THEORY IN FRANCE Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales

Introduction Rather like the nations they represent, there is a sense in which what pass as the British and French schools of anthropology really are each other’s Other: on both sides of the Channel, there is a wary awareness of the other’s alleged achievements and failings, perpetually shaped by a strong feeling of, and for, difference and distinctiveness. Perhaps this sense of respectful rivalry was first expressed aptly back in the late

sixteenth century when, in a passage from Astrophel and Stella describing what appears to be a joust, a minor but very English Elizabethan poet, Sir Philip Sidney, referred to ‘that sweet enemy, France’. Be that as it may, it is clear that British anthropologists have a long history of being influenced by their French colleagues in a whole series of disciplines, often despite themselves, and often in reaction to them rather than accepting their teachings wholesale. The list is long:

even a partial one would have to include at least Durkheim, Mauss, Lévi-Strauss, Barthes, Althusser, Ricoeur, Dumont, Merleau-Ponty, Bourdieu, Foucault, Lacan, Baudrillard, Derrida, and more recently de Certeau and Latour.

However, as this collection is intended to demonstrate, some powerlul but often distorting stereotypes have been at work here. This gaze from across the English Channel has given rise to two common linked impressions about French anthropology among the British.' The

2 Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales first is that it is dominated by theory based mainly on rationality and deductive reasoning. Secondly, and conversely, it is commonly said not

to be very concerned to derive general principles inductively from ethnographic facts. The latter, of course, is often thought to be the strength of the British tradition in particular, which also likes to think of itself as cultivating a healthy scepticism of theory. Indeed, it is hard to think of a major British contributor to theory who has not been, at some time or other, a fieldworker too.

This is far less true of the French school, notwithstanding, for example, Lévi-Strauss’s travels around the Amazon. However, this is less because the French are all theorists than because, au contraire, a good many of them are ethnographers obsessed with the facts and dismissive of theory, to the extent that they might be described as

‘ethnographic essentialists’. Accordingly, we argue that there is a sharper distinction, and disjunction, between theory and ethnographic

practice in France than in Britain, where, as just noted, many anthropologists have seen it as their task to contribute to both simultaneously. The British editor of this volume still remembers being struck by the novelty of this discovery, which came as a revelation after years of his

viewing French anthropology as excessively theoretical and almost anti-empirical, in accordance with the prevailing British stereotype.*' Indeed, so-called ‘British empiricism’ is frequently trumped by the ethnographic essentialism purveyed by many of the figures treated in

this collection. Is not the conventional British view of French anthropology therefore seriously distorted? Are not the grand theorists, who are mostly anyway associated with other disciplines, falsely and perversely seen as being more representative of French anthropology than those who have pursued their profession in the field as much as in the study, if not more so? These are the main questions we are asking in this volume. We fully acknowledge that this situation has nothing to do with any lack of theoretical awareness or competence generally among French

ethnographers, as Lucien Bernot showed in his brief but pungent dismissal of structuralism (discussed below). Moreover, the quality of their ethnographic work is undoubtedly as high as in other traditions. Nor do we wish to exaggerate this tendency in France, far less claim that it has been the only approach to fieldwork there, nor indeed suggest that it is entirely absent outside the country. Dumont, as well as the French Marxist anthropologists — both those who were influenced mainly by Althusser, such as Emmanuel Terray, Claude Meillassoux and Pierre Philippe Rey, as well as Maurice Godelier, famous for his attempts to combine Marxism with structuralism — all did fieldwork and had a clear

Introduction 3 theoretical framework within which to do so (which, however, was often seen by others as directing, rather than reflecting, the search for facts).

Similarly, the research team set up by Louis Dumont and later taken over by Daniel de Coppet brought together a number of French and international anthropologists who had done fieldwork in different parts of the world and asked them to frame their work in relation to Dumont’s theoretical notions of hierarchy, value and hierarchical opposition. Yet

even Dumont, who perhaps comes closest to what we see as typical

British practice, liked to present himself first and foremost as a craftsman or technician (Delacampagne 1981: 4). We therefore argue that ethnographic essentialism represents a distinct but not exclusive trend in French anthropology, one based not just on a simple disinterest in theoretical positions but a positive rejection of them. In fact, this tendency seems every bit as characteristic of the French school as the theory-heavy ruminations of those thinkers we have all learned to know and, sometimes, even love so well. What are the reasons for this? Any assessment has to be based on the

history of fieldwork and of field enquiries generally in French anthropology. In the rest of this introduction, we provide a brief survey of this history, starting with the early nineteenth century and proceeding

to the heyday of structuralism.*’ As we shall see, one trajectory of significance here is a series of shifts from learned societies to museums to research and training institutes, only finally reaching the universities at a relatively late stage. We then proceed to provide a brief overview of each chapter before considering what commonalities and differences can be discerned in the lives, careers and works of these subjects.

Fieldwork in French anthropology: a brief history An interest in field enquiries in France can be traced back to around 1800, when the short-lived Société des Observateurs de Il'Homme promoted the use of anthropological questionnaires by travellers to other parts of the world and issued guidelines for anthropological enquiries. This was the era of antiquarian and other learned societies in

France, as elsewhere in Europe, that is, of amateur intellectuals and collectors working in an intellectual environment that was only then beginning to institutionalise itself. At this early stage, French universities

were hardly involved directly at all in either teaching or research in anthropology, and it was a museum, the Musée d Histoire Naturelle, that established the first chair in anthropology in 1855, in cultural as well as

physical anthropology (Gaillard 2004: 85). Later in the nineteenth century, however, in 1878, the first anthropological museum was

-- Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales founded in France, namely the Musée d’Ethnographie, housed in the Trocadéro, by which name it was commonly known.* Although initially focused on pre-Columbian New World artefacts — the chief interest of its

first curator, Ernest-Théodore Hamy — the expansion of the French Empire soon encouraged collection elsewhere and, along with it, basic

fieldwork yielding highly factual ethnographic monographs. This promoted rather than initiated such activities, which were already going on, for example, in Senegal in the 1850s, where General Faidherbe was

already busy producing anthropological and linguistic studies of its indigenous peoples (Gaillard 2004: 86). In addition, many missionaries were also active in this period in various parts of the world, such as Jean

Kemlin, who went out to the Bahnar in Vietnam in the same decade, long before French rule had been established there. Apart from a crude

colonial-style evolutionism, none of this work can be considered theoretically informed. However, methodologically attempts were already being made to supplement earlier, purely biological approaches

to the study of humankind with a specific perspective on culture (promoted, among others, by Hamy and his colleague in setting up the Trocadéro museum, Armand de Quatrelfages), as well as to treat the collection and display of anthropological objects as scientific, not artistic,

in character. Even at this early stage, therefore, a certain separation between ethnography and theory can be discerned in France. Other currents in the nineteenth century can be linked to France itself, or at any rate Europe, rather than growing overseas empires. In early sociology of the mid-nineteenth century, Frédéric Le Play’s surveys, made as part of his roving work as a mines inspector, produced insights into, or at least theories concerning, the nature, evolution and sustainability of family forms. Perhaps of greater influence were studies into the folklore of France in this period and later. Though dating back

well into the nineteenth century, like early anthropology, folklore studies were also stimulated subsequently by the founding of a museum, this time the Musée des Arts et Traditions Populaires, by Georges-Henri Riviere and André Leroi-Gourhan in 1937. A good example is Louis Dumont’s study La Tarasque, a festival in southern

France (Dumont was at one time an employee of the aforesaid museum). The main figure here, though, is Arnold van Gennep, a highly active fieldworker whose major work in sheer scale was his multivolume Manuel de folklore francaise contemporaine (1938-1958).

However, as can be seen from Giordana Charuty’s chapter in this volume, van Gennep is really a transitional figure who attempted to transform the folklore of France from a concern with origins and survivals to synchronic studies that were more in tune with postevolutionist trends in anthropology more generally. In doing so, he

Introduction 5 resisted the attempts of the French political right to enlist folklore for its own nationalist agenda, as well as becoming almost a structuralist avant la lettre in his most famous work, Les rites de passage (1909; on ritual forms in the world in general). For Susan Rogers, this fusion of folklore and anthropology still informs the anthropology of France itself, partly because of a desire to challenge sociological studies of the

death of rural France by stressing the uniqueness and continued viability of such communities (2001: 490-91). Indeed, some of the

figures treated in this volume took part in studies of French communities before moving on to fieldwork in other parts of the world (Bastide, Bernot, Dampierre, Dumont). But also, writers like Francoise

Zonabend and Martine Segalen used a combination (variously) of material culture, historical documents, oral histories and literatures, and anthropological fieldwork in their histories of the family in different

parts of France — an interest that can be traced back to Le Play’s surveys. Yet even in Les rites de passage, what we have just called van

Gennep’s structuralism was adventitious rather than programmatic, and facts predominate over grand theory in the bulk of his work, apart from an interest in the experience of fieldwork itself. This practice of separating fieldwork and theory persisted into the twentieth century in France, where anthropology as a distinct discipline developed differently than it did in Britain and America, especially in

turning to professional fieldwork rather later. In the early twentieth century, however, fieldwork by amateur missionary and administrator ethnographers still continued. One representative figure is Léopold Sabatier, active in producing legalistic coutumiers, or compendia of tribal custom, in the highlands of Vietnam. Work in this part of the French Empire was supported by the Ecole Francaise d’Extréme-Orient,

set up in Hanoi in 1898 as a research institute. Perhaps the most famous figure here, however, is Maurice Leenhardt (see MacClancy, this

volume), though he is not entirely typical: in returning to France and teaching anthropology as part of Mauss's circle between the wars — after living in and writing on New Caledonia for many years — he, at

least, can be said to have made the transition from amateur to professional status in his career.° Nonetheless, in the main, fieldwork by professional academics came

to France later than in Britain or America. One factor here was obviously the dominance of Durkheimian sociology, which for a long time was deeply suspicious of the term ‘anthropology’ and anyone or anything to do with it. First, it was seen as having been discredited by the speculations of the nineteenth-century British intellectualists-cumevolutionists — for Durkheimians, one of the main examples of wrongheadedness in the social sciences of the time. Secondly, it was too closely

6 Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales connected with amateur, antiquarian folklore. This attitude is reflected in the group’s hostility to van Gennep, who sullied his reputation still further in their eyes by using ethnography to criticise Durkheim’s views on totemism (van Gennep 1920). It may also be found in the criticism that Robert Hertz, a leading Durkheimian scholar, faced from his own colleagues after conducting a brief period of fieldwork on the cult of St

Besse in northern Italy in 1911 (Parkin 1996: 12, MacClancy and Parkin 1997). Consistently, even in the case of what had already long been a central anthropological topic like religion, the Année sociologique

group saw their work as sociology, not anthropology, despite their increasing use of ethnography. After his uncle’s death, though, Mauss eventually overcame these

scruples, at least in part. Conscious that French anthropology was falling behind British in this regard, he encouraged others to do longterm fieldwork in the 1930s without participating in any himself.° This was reflected in, and perhaps also reinforced by, Mauss’s and others’

activities in teaching the virtues of ethnography to French colonial officers and trainees for administrative positions. Such activity, one assumes, would not give emphasis to theory. Mauss taught these courses at the Institut d’Ethnologie, which had been set up for the purpose by his friend Lucien Lévy-Bruhl, and with which a whole range

of key figures in the history of French anthropology were involved, including Leroi-Gourhan, Paul Rivet and Maurice Delafosse.

Mauss’s Manuel d’ethnographie (1947), which has recently been translated (2007), was also linked to these activities (having been used for lecturing prior to publication). In fact, a scrutiny of some of his more

programmatic statements indicates that he, more than anyone else

except perhaps Marcel Griaule, was the probable source of the widespread focus on the facts and on ethnography in much French anthropology after the First World War. In the Manuel, Mauss calls ethnology ‘a science of facts and statistics’, its atm being ‘the knowledge

of social facts’ (2007 [1947]: 7). Further, ‘comparative ethnography’ should be ‘based on comparison between facts, not between cultures’ (ibid.: 8). Earlier too, in an ‘Intellectual self-portrait’ evidently written to support his candidature to the College de France in 1930 (Mauss 1998), he states repeatedly that ‘the facts’, or alternatively ‘description’, have enjoyed the priority in his work over theory. Thus right at the start

of this self-evaluation, he describes himself as ‘a positivist, believing

only in facts’, and asserts that ‘descriptive sciences attain greater certainty than theoretical sciences’ (1998: 29). Similarly, in contrast to some of his other activities, at the Institut d’Ethnologie, ‘I have always confined my teaching to the purely descriptive’ (ibid.: 32). The main aim of himself and his collaborators over the past four years has

Introduction 7 been ‘to promulgate and often to establish the facts deriving from unclassified civilizations’ with a view to classifying them (ibid.: 34).7 Finally, ‘the only objective of the discipline to which I have devoted

myself’ has been to show ‘the place of social life ... in the life of humanity’ through ‘sensitive contact with the facts’ (ibid.: 42). Perhaps the admission that ‘discoveries and novelties were a constant delight’

(ibid.: 36), with the hint that processing them further through classification and theory were less exciting, had something to do with

the development of this attitude. Certainly, in reading these formulations from Mauss’s pen, one acquires a distinct feeling that theory is secondary in his view of his own work and its aims — a surprising realisation, in the light of his long and intimate association with one of the supreme sociological theorists, his uncle Durkheim.® Apart from Mauss’s teaching, another stimulus to anthropology in this period was the Colonial Exhibition, organised by Marshal Lyautey, a key French Empire-builder, and held at Vincennes outside Paris in 1931. Acelebration as much as exhibition of the French Empire and its cultural variety, it attracted millions of visitors and stimulated both an interest in anthropology in the general public and a desire to do more fieldwork among a growing class of professional ethnographers (see L'Estoile 2003, 2007). Yet, this was also the period of expeditions and ethnographic travel at least as much as fieldwork in the Malinowskian sense, the former method sometimes being allied with diffusionism, as

had been the case about a quarter of a century earlier with, for example, the Torres Straits expedition in Britain. Thus the famous Dakar-Djibouti expedition of the early 1930s, led by Marcel Griaule, was soon followed by Lévi-Strauss’s travels around the Amazon later in

the decade, though the latter, of course, were put to the service of structuralism. As for Griaule, he did much to popularise anthropology in France, both before and after the Second World War, partly through his own charisma as a teacher and partly through the quite large cohort of his colleagues and students he gathered around him. Many of these were significant figures in their own right, such as Michel Leiris (who soon broke with him), but also Marcel Delafosse, Germaine Dieterlen, Denise Paulme and Jean Rouch (on the latter, see Paul Henley, this

volume). Although Griaule himself has been accused of exploiting

informants in questionable ways and of indulging in cultural reproduction rather than ethnographic reporting by deliberately staging ritual events, he abandoned his early diffusionism in favour of

a focus on the field and a theorising of field methods.? And under Griaule’s influence, members of this group at least spoke up for the validity of indigenous ideas and ways of life, often comparing them favourably with ‘Western civilisation’.

8 Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales Although Griaule’s influence persisted after the Second World War,

there was certainly a change of emphasis with the arrival of structuralism. This was a method rather than a theory in Lévi-Strauss’s

own view, though not one specifically directed towards fieldwork. Nonetheless it rapidly came to be treated as a theoretical tendency, if not a school. Lévi-Strauss’s influences were many and varied, and were not

conspicuously dominated exclusively by previous periods of anthropology in France. Of course, the Année sociologique school, especially Mauss, was a key influence, but so were the structural linguistics of Ferdinand de Saussure and Roman Jakobsen. In addition, the cultural anthropology, if not entirely the cultural relativism, of the Boas school influenced Lévi-Strauss, who had been exposed to it during his wartime exile from France at the New School of Social Research in

New York. In his critiques too, his target was British structuralfunctionalism more than anything else in anthropology. Above all, his aim of creating a science of culture on the model of structural linguistics was explicitly a break with the past. This was also a period in which anthropology became more rooted in the universities in France, together with research groups in, for example, ORSTOM (Organisation pour la Recherche Scientifique et Technique de l’Outre-Mer)!° and, perhaps most importantly, CNRS (Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique).

Lévi-Strauss himself was, of course, at the opposite extreme to

ethnographic essentialism, using structuralist theory to explain ethnographic facts rather than vice versa (he is perhaps the most explicitly deductive of all major international anthropologists). His influence was such that the fieldwork of others and the facts they collected began to be shaped and organised in relation to his theoretical ideas. Key figures here, who all did proper fieldwork in relation to various theoretical agendas, include Luc de Heusch, Francoise Héritier and Philippe Descola. As already noted above, in tandem and, through Maurice Godelier, even overlapping with structuralism was the work of mostly Althusser-inspired Marxists like Terray, Meillasoux and Rey, chiefly on West Africa. Here too, theory (Marxist this time) was used

to explain ethnographic facts rather than vice versa. With structuralism and Marxism, therefore, French anthropology converged more with practice in other national traditions of anthropology in intimately uniting theory and practice, and even in subordinating the latter to the former. However, we should not forget that both structuralism and Marxism

co-existed with other intellectual currents: the psychoanalysis of Jacques Lacan; the phenomenology of Maurice Merleau-Ponty; the existentialism of Jean-Paul Sartre; the historical sociology and philosophy of Michel Foucault; the contemporary sociologies of Georges Gurvitch and Pierre Bourdieu; postmodernism; archaeology and material culture; the alternative, non-structuralist anthropologies

Introduction 9 of Georges Balandier or Eric de Dampierre; the cognitive anthropology

of Dan Sperber and the continuance of ethnographic essentialism in such figures as Rouch, Lucien Bernot, André-Georges Haudricourt (all treated in this volume) and Georges Condominas.

French studies of fieldwork in French anthropology To what extent have these issues — namely the part fieldwork has played in the history of French anthropology and its relationship to theory — been addressed in France itself? In fact, several important publications

have recently tackled these issues from various points of view. Thus

Claude Blanckaert has produced a historical perspective on the transformation of the status of the observer in the course of the past three centuries in a collection of studies of texts, basically French, which enact research directives and codify the empirical work of travellers and, after them, researchers (Blanckaert 1996). Daniel Céfai has brought together fourteen classic British and American texts, translated into French, on

the subject of the field, participant observation and ethnographic description, with an important postface devoted especially to French works on these questions (Céfai 2003). Four manuals directed at students on methods of enquiry have also appeared.'' Moreover, the last ten years have seen a revival of studies on the social sciences in colonial situations which take the view that colonialism was ‘constitutive’ of these disciplines

rather than ‘disqualifying’ them as legitimate modes of intellectual enquiry. Thus four recent studies deal with the research actors, colonial administrators, indigenous scholars, official and unofficial researchers, and institutions involved in colonial research.'? In plunging actors into the heart of colonial realities, the field appears as a crucial experience to be taken into account in reconstructing the history of the social sciences. Benoit de L’Estoile in particular (see notes 4 and 12) has focused on the links in France between anthropological museums, anthropology as a ‘scientific’ discipline and the politics of empire and, more recently, on global multiculturalism and the place of France within it. His period therefore begins with the Colonial Exhibition of 1932 and the creation of the Musée de Homme six years later, and ends with the transfer of the latter’s collections to the new Musée du Quai Branly in 2005. He is especially critical of claims that such museums are all about displays of alterity, pointing out how, instead, they really represent western ideas of the Other rather than the Other itself, and also seeing continuity, not a break, in the transition from the Trocadéro to the Quai Branly. This, of course, is a dilemma for anthropology generally, and it is especially

significant in fieldwork, where not only are facts and impressions

10 Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales collected, but also the Other is confronted on a human level of mutual

comprehension and incomprehension. For L’Estoile, therefore, museums should be sites for the display of relations between collectors

and collected, and avoid either an explicit focus on the Other or a concealed focus on western perspectives of the Other.

These works have done something to make good the lack of any

French histories of French anthropology, a lack highlighted, for example, by Jean Jamin in the introduction to a collection (Copans and Jamin 1994 [1978]) of very early texts produced under the auspices of

the Société des Observateurs de | Homme of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Mention should also be made of the series Terre Humaine, published in Paris by Plon over many years, the focus of

which was precisely the publication of ethnographies in French.!? Nonetheless, all this is still something of a closed book to the world outside France. While we do not engage directly with these texts here,

we do seek to supplement them with a wholly English-language

perspective on the particularities of the relationship between ethnographic practice and theory in French anthropology.

The present collection The approach adopted in addressing this question was to ask French and British anthropologists to compose intellectual biographies of French anthropologists, some of them little known, if at all, to the Anglo-Saxon public, yet who offer particular potential in exploring the relationship

between ethnography and theory. We chose to focus on actual practitioners of anthropology rather than on movements or schools, meaning that, in relation to his or her subject, each contributor has had to make more complex a picture that the ‘international commerce of ideas’ (Cusset 2008 | 2003 ]) tends to simplify, even to caricature. Hence the eclectic character of this gallery of portraits when compared to either a manual of ethnographic practice or a history of the discipline. Also, despite Rivet’s involvement with the Trocadéro and the interests of some

of those featured here in material objects (especially Bernot and Haudricourt), this is not a volume about French museology. Thus the present collection is selective rather than comprehensive. It

is unfortunate that there is no chapter on a female French anthropologist. This partly reflects the principle we chose to adopt of not featuring any living anthropologists in this collection, which restricted

us in large measure to the middle and early histories of French ethnography — and these periods in France appear to have had even fewer women fieldworkers than the British and American schools. Many

Introduction 11 French women ethnographers, now deceased, such as Germaine Dieterlen and Denise Paulme, were linked to Griaule, a circle represented here by Jean Rouch. Outside this circle was Germaine Tillion, a much discussed figure in France itself in recent years for her fieldwork in the

Aures area of Algeria and her political activism as a supporter of and mediator for the resistance movement against French rule, as well as having been a resistance fighter earlier against the Germans in the Second World War (see Todorov and Bromberger 2002, Todorov 2007).

A main thrust of these chapters is therefore historical. Is the ethnographic essentialism of many of the figures dealt with in this volume now similarly historical? In fact, given what has been identified as the general tendency for anthropologists to refrain from large-scale

comparisons and theoretical statements today (Gingrich and Fox 2002), with a concomitant concentration on the facts of specific ethnographic situations, ethnographic essentialism appears rather to be alive and kicking in at least some quarters. In addition, of course, it cannot be said that the fundamental problems of doing fieldwork have gone away, nor that the basic process itself has changed markedly since the time those discussed in this collection were themselves in the field, despite the distinctive attitudes of many of them to fieldwork. The time therefore seems right to draw attention to this tendency once more in the context of the past practices of some though not all adherents of the French tradition, in the belief that, in a more general way too, their

experiences and their own telling of them remain very relevant to contemporary anthropology. A review of the chapters follows, which are arranged broadly according to the ethnographic areas in which their subjects mainly or wholly worked. The first chapter in the collection focuses on a key figure in the transition from folklore to a recognisable anthropology of symbolism and

ritual, Arnold van Gennep (1873-1957). Charuty shows that van Gennep did not accept his dismissal by the Durkheim school as a ‘mere

folklorist’ lying down. Indeed, it produced a reaction in him which conceded nothing to the theoretical peculiarities of his rivals, while outperforming them in relation to his greater ‘feel’ for ethnographic realities and the problems involved in both eliciting and reporting these problems in the field. Being almost entirely armchair anthropologists, his rivals were especially vulnerable to attacks of this kind. Much of this reaction was formulated in the Chroniques pages of the Mercure de France,

but these pages were not only critical of others, they also put forward a prescription for how fieldwork in a literate or semi-literate society should

be carried out. Thus neutral observation should be coupled with informants’ memories and life histories; as a fieldworker, one should maintain an intellectual distance, while also being exposed fully to the

12 Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales exotic world one is examining; and such experiences should be embodied

in one’s own self, in a manner that almost suggests a form of phenomenology. Also, van Gennep addressed the often problematic status

of fieldwork questions, answers and other methods. For example, in talking about ‘fake rituals’ — that is, performances in the form of festivals put on to support conservative nationalist agendas in rural France — he came close to the idea of the ‘invention of tradition’ (for van Gennep, only the rituals the people put on for themselves were ‘authentic’.

Charuty points out the centrality of the rite in van Gennep’s approach to the whole ethnographic project. For him ritual is, among other things, a manifestation of universal structure, marked not only by the famous three stages, but also by transition and by the marginality of the central, liminal stage. It is hard, therefore, to avoid remarking on

the double irony that van Gennep himself represents not only intellectual transition in his work, but also marginality in respect of his own institutional destinies.

In his chapter, Peter Parkes examines the contribution of two colonial functionaries, Adolphe Hanoteau and Aristide Letourneux, to

the early ethnography of the Kabyle Berbers of Algeria and to the

distinctive genre of what Parkes calls ‘canonical ethnography’ (indigenous juridical documentation and its analytical interpretation). This was based on legal ‘canons’ or gawanin, a neglected but valuable form of early ethnographic documentation, and the prototype of later administrative ethnographies in sub-Saharan Africa. The work of these two officials, comprising a gazetteer of general information about the area and its people, together with their legal customs and social systems,

was collected through a peculiarly intensive kind of ‘dialogical’ fieldwork in the 1860s and published in the early 1870s. Significant here was their key informant, Si Mula, a Sayyid ‘alim or religious scholar and Hanoteau’s khoja or interpreter-cum-secretary at Fort-Napoléon in Kabyle. Si Mula became, in Parkes’s words, ‘at least an equal co-author’ with the two Frenchmen, though they do not openly credit him as such.

Parkes describes the ‘canonical ethnography’ of Hanoteau and Letourneux as severely factual or documentary, largely eschewing historical contextualisation. Nonetheless Hanoteau, the main author, was well aware of the extent to which French conquest and military

rule had already disrupted Kabyle society, an account of whose traditional social organisation he was therefore keen to draw up. In

effect, therefore, while historical or reconstructive in intent, the treatment is paradoxically synchronic in presentation, describing an independent Kabyle society on the eve of its conquest. Although the two authors’ juridical approach would be displaced by Maussian transactional ethnographies of the inter-war period, not even

Introduction 13 Bourdieu was able to escape their influence entirely, despite his surface criticism of their ‘legalistic’ prejudice. Indeed, as Parkes finally notes, there is reason to believe that some, at least, of Bourdieu’s fundamental

ideas as perhaps the most famous ethnographer of the Kabyles were originally forged in reactive opposition to the rule-based ‘canonical ethnography’ of Hanoteau and Letourneux — a ‘theory of practice’ that both complements and contrastively highlights the significance of the juridical fieldwork they pioneered. Paul Henley’s chapter deals with a figure who is probably the most famous ethnographic film-maker of them all, Jean Rouch (19 17—2004). Seen already as somewhat passé in France by the 1980s, it was precisely at this time that Anglo-Saxon’ anthropology began to discover Rouch as a precursor of post-modernism. As Henley makes clear, however, this

is not entirely what it seems, and in many respects Rouch actually belongs to a specifically French tradition of ethnography dating back to the surrealists as much as to Mauss, but also reflecting the strong though not overwhelming influence of his doctoral supervisor, Marcel Griaule. Henley discusses the ways in which the experience of working with Griaule did and did not influence Rouch. While Rouch refrained from deliberately antagonising informants in the way that Griaule frequently

did, and stressed their co-authorship with him in what he saw as a genuinely collaborative effort (the source of his later being claimed as a prophet of ‘dialogical anthropology’), he also relied on provocation in the ethnographic encounter — but only by the camera itself. For Rouch,

the fact of it not being possible to hide the camera’s presence was creative, not disadvantageous, since what it provoked in the informant was areaction different from, but at the same time deeper than, normal behaviour, uncovering the truth underlying the superficiality of the everyday world.

Henley also shows, though, that Rouch took his ideas about the impact of the camera a great deal further than the simple claim that it is provocative to the subjects. Filming also allows the film-maker to immerse him- or herself in the culture. If film can provoke trance in the natives, as Rouch claimed it actually did in at least one case, the filmmaker him- or herself can also be provoked by the act of filming to enter a trance. Hence Rouch’s famous ciné-trance, conceived as a metaphor for the film-maker’s own cultural creativity. At the very least, just as, for the Songhay, spirit possession changes the medium’s experience of the world, so for Rouch the film-maker is changed by filming it. In other words, in Rouch’s conception, these processes of collaboration between author and subjects involved a performative element that goes beyond the merely verbal exchange implicit in the conventional Anglo-Saxon conception of ‘dialogical’ anthropology.

14 Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales Margaret Buckner’s chapter on Eric de Dampierre (1928-1997) is one of a minority in this collection in which the pupil discusses the work and career of the master (also Toffin on Bernot). Like Bernot, Bastide and

Dumont, Dampierre began his career with a study of a French rural community, in his case as part of a multi-disciplinary social-science research team. His life-long fieldwork, from 1954 to the late 1980s, was among the Nzakara, in what is now the Central African Republic. As a French aristocrat, he was clearly comfortable living in a highly stratified and class-conscious African society, while recognising that they seemed less able to cope with the consequences of colonialism and modernity than their close neighbours the Zande, otherwise a very similar society, made famous through Evans-Pritchard’s earlier work among them. Dampierre’s work therefore provides us with a little-known but very valuable French counterpart to Evans-Pritchard’s famous monograph (1937). Dampierre identified what he called ‘thinking in the singular’ as a key aspect of Nzakara thought, this being perhaps the most original of his findings, which he saw as pervading all domains of Nzakara life, from politics to music. It stresses the unique, the incommensurability of

any two beings, so that, for example, one cannot count people, nor classify them, for fear of treating them all the same. Although, in his sophisticated attempt to define this mode of thought, he may have turned to Greek philosophy, it was still his experiences among the Nzakara, his observations of their practices, discourse and material culture, that had launched his research in the first place. The Lévi-Straussian flavour of the title of his last work, Une esthétique

perdue (Dampierre 1995), links Dampierre with that generation of anthropologists who had the feeling that they were living at the end of

an era, the traces of which they wanted to preserve as lucidly and faithfully as possible. Not the least of Dampierre’s legacies, however, is

his founding and support of the Department of Ethnology and Prehistory in the University of Paris-X at Nanterre, to the west of the

city, perhaps the major university department dedicated to anthropology and to training anthropologists in the whole of France, where one of the present editors received her own training and with which she continues to be associated. Laura Rival’s chapter on Paul Rivet (1876-1958) discusses a now neglected figure who was one of the key figures institutionally in the anthropology of France in the inter-war period. His work with the Institut d’Ethnologie and later at the Trocadéro (including the Musée de Homme) gave him a pivotal role in the organisation of anthropology in France between the two world wars, not far behind those of Mauss and Lévy-Bruhl, with both of whom he cooperated closely and shared many aims for the promotion of French anthropology.

Introduction 1:5 A pupil of literature and philosophy at school who then trained as a doctor, Rivet spent five years in the early twentieth century conducting

polymathic fieldwork and collecting as part of a French geodesic expedition to Ecuador, with which, together with Colombia, he was to be associated for the rest of his life. Rivet can hardly be described as an exemplary fieldworker from the point of view of post-Malinowskian anthropology. This was basically because he had no direct contact with the native population, but used what Rival calls ‘indirect’ methods of enquiry, interviewing intermediaries who were in the happy but selfdeceptive position of ‘knowing’ the natives without having to question

them about anything. In many respects, Rivet seems to have been mainly an observer, ‘collecting, classifying and comparing’, in Rival’s words. He rarely if ever asked questions about native meanings or ideas — he had little interest in religion, for instance, except to see in it an example of the ignorance that was holding the natives back. Here we have the Third-Republic scientific mind finding fault with Amerindian society — especially for its ignorance born of religious mysticism and superstition — while at the same time rejecting race as an explanation for difference in favour of a humanism that unites us all as equal and

equivalent. In view of what has been said about the links between modern French identity and a generalised humanity (e.g. Dumont 1986), it is perhaps not surprising that we also find a focus in Rivet’s

work on the generic human condition rather than the specifics of different cultures. Although Alfred Métraux (1902-1963) was born in Switzerland, brought up largely in Argentina and later became an American citizen, he belongs to the French tradition of anthropology primarily by virtue of the institutional side of his training: taught by Mauss and Rivet in the 1920s, his theses on the Tupi-Guaranit of Brazil were submitted in Paris. However, as Peter Riviere notes in his chapter on him, he was

hardly influenced intellectually by Mauss, nor even by Rivet, who supported him in his career early on. Instead Métraux fell under the spell of the Swedish ethnologist Nils Erland Nordenskiold, adopting especially the latter’s tracing of trait distributions across one or more ethnographic regions and his theoretically uncontextualised treatment

of ethnographic data. Riviere argues that Métraux saw himself primarily as a collector of facts, retaining a strict and almost nineteenth-century demarcation between this activity and the wider comparison or theorising done by others in the library or study. As a result, there is little or no contextualisation or analysis in his own writings, which are rather of the nature of compilations.

This apparent hostility to theory indicates a mind that is not prepared to speculate over what cannot be known concretely. Yet

16 Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales Métraux’s attitude to fieldwork and the collection of data through it was not entirely straightforward. On the one hand, he doubted whether the collection of ethnographic facts could ever be truly scientific, mainly because he felt that the civilised mind cannot readily grasp them. At the same time, not only did he frequently complain about local conditions in the field, he felt that ethnographers — including himself implicitly — were essentially misfits in their own societies. He was clearly somewhat prone to romanticising the people he studied, in a manner which seems

to have been fashionable in French anthropology for a time (Riviere mentions Lévi-Strauss’s Tristes tropiques, and some of Pierre Clastres’

work is in a similar vein; cf. Colchester 1982). Like Lévi-Strauss, Métraux praised what he saw as the neolithic in the native South American, which he also considered as in some sense the end point of human happiness in human evolution, not least because he saw it as being on the verge of disappearing. Perhaps it was this feeling of witnessing the disappearance of a way of life he much admired, as much as the sense of his having received little recognition for his life’s work, that led him apparently to take his own life in 1963. Like some other figures dealt with in this book (Dumont, Bernot, Dampierre), Roger Bastide (1898-1974) took part in an early study in France itself, this time on Armenian immigrants in the town of Valence. However, being already interested in mysticism, and in 1938 finding himself a professor at the University of Sao Paulo in Brazil in succession to Lévi-Strauss, he embarked on along-term though intermittent study

of candomblé in the northeast of the country. This brought him into

contact with Pierre Verger, who became a life-long friend and collaborator. Bastide and Verger shared a belief in the importance of

experience in fieldwork, including the idea that one could not understand something like possession without going through it oneself. In addition, they both rejected the standard view of northeast Brazilian

culture being an original form born of acculturation and religious syncretism: Verger’s life-long concern in particular was to prove to Afro-

Brazilians the Africanness of their cultic practices. Although it was mysticism that was the focus of Bastide’s interest, it was ironically the sceptic Verger who went furthest into the candomblé as a religious experience: Bastide stopped halfway out of fear for his own sanity if he

were to allow his grip on reality to be loosened by continuing. Nonetheless Bastide felt able to proclaim ‘Africanus sum’, and, as with Griaule’s defence of African religion as represented by the Dogon, he developed a view of Afro-Brazilian religion as being comparable in its sophistication to any of the religions of ‘civilisation’. Moreover, there is something similar here to the Rouchian ciné-trance described by Henley (this volume): in both cases, the trance state affects the ethnographer as

Introduction 17 much as the people he is studying. Bastide’s subsequent return to Paris

in 1954 to work with Georges Gurvitch exposed him to yet more influences, though academic this time, including Marxism, a renewed view of Mauss, and Gurvitch’s own ‘depth sociology’. Between them, they became a sort of ‘opposition’ to Lévi-Strauss’s structuralism, which was just then taking off in France. Despite the support given to him at key points in his career by LéviStrauss, Lucien Bernot (1919-1993) was no structuralist. Indeed, he once remarked that, while ethnographic monographs could always be treated structurally, structuralism was quite incapable on its own of reconstructing the original ethnography. He was also of the view that, in always being available to later generations of anthropologists, the ethnographic monograph invariably outlasts theory, which is subject to changes in intellectual fashion. His main influence was therefore the

anti-structuralism and ethnographic essentialism of Leroi-Gourhan and some of his own more exact contemporaries among French Southeast Asianists, in particular André-Georges Haudricourt, but also Georges Condominas.

Toffin describes Bernot as an acute fieldworker when it came to meticulous observation of what people do. Bernot advocated a focus on small-scale communities of 200—300 people, since he felt that in these cases the ethnographer could come to know everyone within them. His main focus was on technology and its relation to society, and later on

ethnobotany (reflecting Haudricourt’s influence). This factual concentration in his work recalls Rivet and is similarly diffusionist in its

methods, if not explicit theoretical orientation. This aspect is perhaps reflected mainly in the ethnolinguistic atlases Bernot created, which traced the distribution of key words across vast swathes of Southeast Asia, but also in his use of written sources for purposes of historical reconstruction

and his frequent citation of diffusionist geographers. Fundamentally, though, he was what Toffin describes as a ‘ruralist’ by both upbringing and professional interest, that is, a specialist in rural, agricultural communities, which, the world over, had similarities that link them and distinguish them from urban society: thus the people of Nouville (northeast France) have more in common with Burmese peasants than with Parisians — one respect in which he disagreed with his friend Haudricourt’s stress on the differences among rural communities in the world at large.

André-Georges Haudricourt (1911-1996) was nonetheless another ‘ruralist’, a country-born child who, because of ill health, was educated first by his mother and subsequently by himself. Based on observational habits learned during his upbringing, combined with the experience of early fieldwork in Vietnam, Haudricourt developed not only an extreme focus on the facts, but what Bensa calls a ‘hyperrealist’ view of facts as

18 Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales being restricted to what can be known through the senses alone. He accordingly accepted no psychological, sociological or intellectual interference with our own direct exposure to the world and experience of it, and he rejected notions such as the autonomy of representations

and ideas (Durkheim), the social being projected on to nature (Durkheim and Mauss 1963 |[1903]) or the symbolic transformation

of nature by culture (Lévi-Strauss). The structuralist’s dualism of nature and culture is replaced by a close symbiosis between them in which they often imitate each other, though the latter is always rooted in the former, not vice versa. Haudricourt’s extended comparison between the Middle East and

Far East in part relies on a distinction between the cultural predominance given respectively to plant and animal breeding, but nonetheless it is the different plant and animal ecologies of both areas that are ultimately the bases of the distinction. Thus in the Middle East, animal herds and wheat both originated outside human environments and had to be subdued and controlled by humans, whereas in the Far East (actually in this example Melanesia) there was a situation in which

humans, plants and animals started out living symbiotically in the same environment. From this distinction, Haudricourt derives different ideas of religion, social authority and hierarchy: thus in the Middle East the gods are remote, but in Melanesia they are all around one. Bensa

uses the term ‘functional historicism’ to characterise Haudricourt’s focus on origins and history, by which is meant both the biological

history of particular species and the histories of distinct human populations in distinct environments. And, as with some other ethnographers discussed in this introduction, such as Bernot and Rivet,

the focus on the facts stresses the particular over the general, the ethnographically specific over the universal.

In contrast to many of the other anthropologists featured in this

volume, Louis Dumont (1911-1998), an exact contemporary of Haudricourt, discussed here by Robert Parkin, is known for his theoretical contributions and more literature-based writings at least as much as for his fieldwork. Nonetheless his fieldwork in south India formed a significant part of his own intellectual development and led to one of the classic ethnographies of the region. Dumont’s subsequent sojourn in Oxford under Evans-Pritchard influenced his anthropology quite profoundly, and in many ways he is the most Anglo-Saxon’ of the figures treated in this collection. Yet the earlier influence of Mauss

remained strong, while the Tamils, whom he regarded as ‘born sociologists’, influenced him in developing his view that a form of structuralism was the key to understanding Indian society and culture. His use of pure/impure as a key ‘hierarchical’ opposition in the values

Introduction 19 of the caste system ultimately replaced the simple binary oppositions

of Lévi-Strauss, being focused on values as more important than symbolism, and recognising the significance of social action while still subordinating it to ideology and structure. These ideas were enshrined especially in his most famous work, Homo hierarchicus, on the Indian caste system (Dumont 1966, 1980).

After India and Oxford, Dumont returned to Paris to pursue comparisons between India and the West, which also involved contrasts between hierarchy and egalitarianism, holism and individualism, and indeed two sorts of individual, the individual-outside-the-world and the individual-within-the-world. This move was also a shift from fieldwork to writings, from observation to ideas, and in its approach it reflected

the influence of Mauss in the latter’s writings on such themes as the gift and the person, where world history was the framework within which both the topic and the related arguments were set. Finally, in his last major work on German ‘ideology’ (Dumont 1994 [1991 ]) or, as we

might say today, ‘identity’, he demonstrated that even in the West individualism was not all of a type: in particular, the German stress on

personal self-development being subordinated to a holistic state is opposed to the ‘individual-against-the-state’ model of Anglo-Saxon and French libertarian philosophies. Jeremy MacClancy’s chapter on Maurice Leenhardt (1878-1954)

is a little different from some of the others in this volume, since it discusses this quasi-iconic, early, pre-Malinowskian fieldworker through the eyes of his later commentators. Born at Montauban in 1878 into a French Protestant family — the latter circumstance he shares with Roger Bastide — Leenhardt wrote an early thesis on the ‘Ethiopian’ church movement in southern Africa. However, he spent most of his career until well into the 1920s as a Protestant missionary in New Caledonia.

Leenhardt’s interests were many, but they included especially Melanesian languages in and around New Caledonia and — what he is

most famous for — his very striking and imaginative analyses of personhood and myth. As MacClancy shows, he has been claimed successively as a post-structuralist in the manner of Clifford and Marcus, a Jungian phenomenologist, a Heideggerian existentialist and

a Strathernian advocate of the decentred nature of personhood in Melanesia — the first and last, at least, very much ‘before his time’. More

likely though, as MacClancy himself suggests, he was basically just a man of his own time. One can argue that his patent sympathy for the indigenes was romantically inclined towards his primitivist vision of their way of life, rather than concerned with their progress as such (cf. Métraux or Clastres), while his intellectual perspective was fundamentally

20 Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales evolutionist, despite his awareness of Maussian holism. If he seems anti-structuralist, therefore, it is because of his already outmoded intellectual position. '4

Unity in diversity: What common features emerge from a comparative reading of the chapters in this collection? First, as already noted, it is striking how many of these figures can be considered anti-theoretical fact-gatherers and compilers, at least in their own view of their activities. Certainly Hanoteau, Rouch, Rivet, Métraux, Bernot and Haudricourt, in their

very different ways, exemplify this tendency. Yet theory is not necessarily so very far away, even in these cases. For example, given

their interests in the distribution of words in particular, Rivet and Bernot can be seen as being informed by diffusionist methods and assumptions in their handling of the facts they collected. Moreover, the

very emphasis on ethnographic essentialism can be regarded as a theoretical or at least philosophical position in itself, as it clearly was for Haudricourt. As we have remarked already, van Gennep, with his project of converting folklore into anthropology; Dampierre, whose

non-structuralist approach was informed at least in part by his

background in sociology; and Dumont, with his revisionist structuralism, all had their own particular theoretical focuses. It is also remarkable how many of these fact-gatherers seem to have had rather limited abilities as fieldworkers: thus Hanoteau, Rouch, Rivet, Métraux, Bastide and Bernot had to rely largely on interpreters, Rivet and Bastide on local intellectuals and other sorts of intermediary too, while Métraux seemed to spend a lot of time complaining about actual fieldwork conditions. Nonetheless most of the figures treated here spent long periods of their lives in the field, though Dumont and Bastide perhaps least of all. Moreover, arising out of this dedication to the collection of facts are also a number of real commitments on the part of many of these figures to the peoples they encountered, to the

latter’s contemporary circumstances and conditions, and to their relations with them. There is a whole range of attitudes here, from the relatively passive and neutral to genuine if selective political activism.

At one end of the scale is Dumont, whose commitment was fundamentally restricted to achieving ethnographic understanding with the aid of particular theoretical frameworks within an overall ethos of intellectual neutrality. For example, in defending this principle in relation to phenomena that may shock western sensibilities in field

situations elsewhere in the world, Dumont frequently argued that to

Introduction 21 seek to understand, say, the caste system in India or female circumcision in parts of Africa did not necessarily mean that one approved of them (e.g. Dumont 1979). Although Bernot and Rouch clearly developed

close and mutually supportive personal relationships with their principal subjects and greatly admired their cultural traditions, neither evinced any deep political commitment to their respective peoples.

Métraux hardly goes beyond a nostalgia for the neolithic, which Amerindians represented for him, though as Peter Riviere points out (personal communication), later in life he became somewhat more sympathetic to the peoples he encountered through his activities in assessing war damage in Germany and his involvement with UNESCO. Conversely, while Dampierre merely seems to record the changes associated with colonialism among the Nzakara, albeit with a tinge of nostalgia, others — like Hanoteau among the Kabyle and Leenhardt in New Caledonia — tried to protect the native population from the worst consequences of colonialism. At the other end of the scale is Rivet, the only figure here actually to become a politician — not in South America against colonialism, but in France in the 1930s, against fascism. Otherwise his self-appointed role was to affirm the positive in the practice and status of métissage and to record and discuss the conditions of the Amerindians he encountered

from the ‘scientific’ perspective of a social scientist of the Third Republic, even though his direct personal contact with them, because of his habitual use of intermediaries, was minimal. Finally, both Rouch and Bastide hailed the experience of the (ciné-)trance as a fulfilment of the ethnographic experience that was almost mystical for them; yet the fulfilment they sought was strictly their own, rather than intended to be of any use to those whose cults they were taking part in and recording. Exposure to the field, and even one’s personal bodily experience of it, was also important to van Gennep, though as a tool of ethnographic enquiry rather than a means of personal discovery.

Nonetheless it was perhaps this more personal and/or political commitments that replaced theory as a goal of fieldwork in the minds of some of these figures. At all events, we argue that, while some French

ethnographers are scarcely any different from their colleagues elsewhere when it comes to relating facts to theory, very many others have dedicated themselves to the former to the exclusion, in whole or in

part, of the latter. There can be no question, of course, of the tremendous contribution of French intellectuals in many disciplines to

the enrichment of anthropological theory and model-building worldwide. Yet ethnographic practice informs anthropology in France too, often overshadowed by the theorists or neglected entirely, especially

abroad, but involving a variety of genuine commitments to data

Ow: Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales collection, exotic cultures, ethnographic subjects as fellow human beings, one’s relations with them or just the personal experience of fieldwork. Amongst other things, this makes the study of fieldwork a perfectly valid and highly productive way of approaching the history of French anthropology generally. That is because France is distinct not

just for its theories and model-building but because, in explicit opposition to them, many a practical fieldworker has theorised away theory itself so that the facts of the ethnography can shine forth in all their splendour.

Notes 1. See also Cusset (2008 [2003]) on the invention of ‘French theory’ in America. 2. His epiphany has already been hinted at in print (Parkin 2005), where an attempt at a potted history of the whole of French anthropology can also be found. These originated in lectures given at the official opening of the Max Planck Institute of Social Anthropology in Halle, Germany, in June 2002.

3. For a more extended account of these events, see Parkin (2005), in which key references can also be found. More recently, see also Sibeud (2008).

4. In 1938 the Trocadéro was transformed into the Musée de [Homme by Paul Rivet and Georges-Henri Riviere. Its collections have since been transferred to the new Musée du Quai Branly (see [’Estoile 2003, 2007). 5. Jacques Dournes, sometimes known under his Sre name of Dam Bo, made a similar shift somewhat later (the Sre are located in the Vietnamese highlands). 6. Westress the long-term: Mauss did undertake one brief field trip to witness dances in Morocco.

7. Allen describes this as ‘a longstanding preoccupation that originated in part with the question of how to organise the Année sociologique’ (2007: 2), the house journal of the

Durkheim group, in terms of the rubrics into which it should be divided. 8. Itis hard to be sure whether, in talking about the facts, Mauss necessarily has in mind his uncle’s idea of the ‘social fact’ as defined quite narrowly (though also discussed at some length) in Chapter 1 of the Rules of sociological method (Durkheim 1982 [1895]). Nor is it clear to what extent Mauss was concerned with the construction of ‘facts’ in the epistemological sense. Mauss’s usage often seems to be purely normative in these passages. 9. The more questionable aspects of Griaule’s methods were the main reason for Leiris breaking with him: see Leiris (1934). A good account of Griaule in the field is Clifford

(1983). 10. Now I'Institut pour la Recherche et le Développement (IRD).

11.In order of appearance, these include Laplantine (1996), Beaud and Weber (1997), Copans (1998) and Berger (2004). 12.In Revue d'Histoire des Sciences humaines, No. 10, 2004. For an innovative analysis, from a similar perspective, of the genesis of different ‘national anthropologies’ in Europe, the Americas and South Africa, and the linkage between them, see L’Estoile et al. (2005). 13. The second book in this series, which was founded by Jean Malaurie in 1955, was Lévi-Strauss’s Tristes tropiques (1955) — not a conventional ethnography, any more than its author was an ethnographic essentialist, let alone a willing ethnographer;

Introduction 23 more typical, perhaps, of the genre is Georges Condominas'’s L’exotique est quotidien: Sar Luk, Vietnam (1965). On this important series, see Aurégan (2001).

14. Laura Rival adds the information that ‘post-structuralist Amazonianist anthropology makes much of Leenhardt, especially the oft-quoted anecdote about the missionaries bringing to the Canaques not the soul but the body’ (personal communication).

References Allen, N.J. 2007. Introduction, in M. Mauss, Manual of ethnography, New York and Oxford:

Berghahn. Aurégan, P. 2001. Des récits et des hommes: Terre humaine — un autre regard sur les sciences

de homme, Paris: Nathan. Beaud, S. and FE. Weber. 1997. Guide de l’enqueéte de terrain, Paris: La Découverte.

Belmont, N. 1979. Arnold van Gennep: the creator of French ethnography, Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Berger, L. 2004. Les nouvelles ethnologies, Paris: Nathan. Blanckaert, C. (ed.). 1996. Le terrain des sciences humaines: instructions et enquétes (XVIIIXXeme siécle), Paris: L. Harmattan. Ceéfal, D. (ed.). 2003. L’enquéte de terrain, Paris: La Découverte. Clifford, J. 1983. Power and dialogue in ethnography: Marcel Griaule’s initiation, in G.W. Stocking (ed.), Observers observed: essays on ethnographic fieldwork, Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press.

Colchester, M. 1982. Les Yanomami, sont-ils libres? Les utopies amazoniennes, une critique: a look at French anarchist anthropology, Journal of the Anthropological Society

of Oxford, 13(2): 147-64. Condominas, G. 1965. L’exotque est quotidien: Sar Luk, Vietnam, Paris: Plon. Copans, J. 1998. L’enquéte ethnologique de terrain, Paris: Nathan. Copans, J. and J. Jamin. (eds). 1994 ]|1978]. Aux origines de l’‘anthropologie francaise: les memoires de la Société des Observateurs de THomme enl'An VIII, Paris: Jean-Michel Place.

Cusset, F 2008 [2003]. French theory: How Foucault, Derrida, Deleuze and co. Transformed the intellectual life of the United States | French theory: Foucault, Derrida, Deleuze et Cie et les mutations de la vie intellectuelle aux Etats-Unis] (tr. J. Fort), Minneapolis: University

of Minnesota Press. Dampierre, E. de. 1995. Une esthétique perdue, Paris: Presses de ENS.

Delacampagne, C. 1981. Louis Dumont and the Indian mirror, Royal Anthropological Institute News, 43: 4-7. Dumont, L. 1966. Homo hierarchicus: essai sur le systeéme des castes, Paris: Gallimard (English trans. 1972, London: Paladin). —— ]979. The anthropological community and ideology, Social Science Information, 18: 785-817. — 1980. Homo hierarchichus: the caste system and its implications (2nd ed.), Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. — 1986. Essays on individualism: modern ideology in anthropological perspective, Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. —— ]1994 |1991]. German ideology: from France to Germany and back, Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Durkheim, E. 1982 [1895]. The rules of sociological method, London: Macmillan. Durkheim, E. and M. Mauss. 1963 [1903]. Primitive classification, London: Cohen & West.

Evans-Pritchard, E.E. 1937. Witchcraft, oracles and magic among the Azande, Oxford: Clarendon Press.

24 Robert Parkin and Anne de Sales Gaillard, G. 2004. The Routledge dictionary of anthropologists, London and New York: Routledge.

Gingrich, A. and R.G. Fox (eds). 2002. Anthropology, by comparison, London and New York: Routledge. Laplantine, F. 1996. La description ethnographique, Paris: Nathan. Leiris, M. 1934. L’Afrique fantome, Paris: Gallimard. L'Estoile, B. de. 2003. From the Colonial Exhibition to the Museum of Man: an alternative

senealogy of French anthropology, Social Anthropology, 11(3): 341-61.

—— 2007. Le gotit des autres: de I’Exposition colonial aux Arts premiers, Paris: Flammarion. L’'Estoile, B.. EK Neiburg and L. Sigaud (eds). 2005. Empires, nations and natives: anthropology and state-making, Durham: Duke University Press. Lévi-Strauss, C. 1955. Tristes tropiques, Paris: Plon. MacClancy, J. and R. Parkin. 1997. Revitalization or continuity in European ritual? The case of San Bessu, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 3(1): 61-78. Mauss, M. 1998. An intellectual self-portrait, in W. James and N.J. Allen (eds), Marcel Mauss: a centenary tribute, New York and Oxford: Berghahn.

—— 2007 |1947]. Manual of Ethnography (tr. D. Lussier), New York and Oxford: Berghahn. Parkin, R. 1996. The dark side of humanity: the work of Robert Hertz and its legacy, Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers. — 2005. The French-speaking countries, in F. Barth et al., One discipline, four ways: British, German, French, and American anthropology, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Rogers, S. 2001. The anthropology of France, Annual Review of Anthropology, 30: 481-— 504.

Sibeud, E. 2008. The metamorphosis of ethnology in France, 1839-1930, in H. Kuklick (ed.), A new history of anthropology, Oxford: Blackwell. Todorov, T. (ed.). 2007. Le siecle de Germaine Tillion, Paris: Seuil. Todorov, T. and C. Bromberger (eds). 2002. Germaine Tillion: une ethnologue dans le siecle, Paris: Actes Sud. van Gennep, A. 1909. Les rites de passage, Paris: Nourry.

—— ]920. L’état actuel du probleme totémique, Paris: Ernest Letroux.

— 1938-58. Manuel de folklore francais contemporain, Paris: Picard, 9 vols.

Chapter 1

‘KEEPING YOUR EYES OPEN’: ARNOLD VAN GENNEP AND THE AUTONOMY OF THE FOLKLORISTIC

Giordana Charuty

Introduction The intention of the exhibition and its catalogue, Hier pour demain, held at the Grand-Palais in Paris between June and September 1980, was to make

the general public aware of the French ethnographic heritage on the precise occasion of l’Année du Patrimoine or the Year of the Patrimony

(Cuisenier 198Q). In the exhibition, a chronology of ethnographic precursors identified a succession of moments, from the mid-eighteenth century of L’Encyclopédie up until 1937, marked by two ‘monuments’. One

was the Musée des Arts et Traditions Populaires. The other was the beginning of the publication of the Manuel de folklore francais contemporain

by Arnold van Gennep (1873-1957), an author in whom one recognises a double status: the last of the folklorists in the manner of the nineteenth century, and the first of contemporary ethnographers. !

However, certain other readings, recent and not so recent, have restored a greater degree of complexity with respect to the academic training, initial theoretical interests and intellectual sites that permitted van Gennep to work without respite for the recognition of a disciplinary field in the first half of the twentieth century (see Belmont 1974, Chiva 1987, Fabre 1992, Velay-Valentin 1999). After some schooling away from Paris, he received training in linguistics and the history of religions at the Ecole des Langues Orientales and the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, which he attended at the same time as Marcel Mauss. With Léon Marillier in particular, he discovered there the ethnographies of remote

-ie ,

26 Giordana Charuty aoe “1 :

| | Ys , * 5 4/ ee NOY ie A 'c a eee _

nag? A br ‘

. ——— - ‘ — —e 4 ve , ~~ Ag :

Sa ee ~~ ?. (a ee hae eS ! : *. So SS eee SS: a i. * tee See ——

Seq Me x Re >

d ap : | : « ’ a |SAN ’ Pe ~~ans a SmAas —- opSSeS =

St :ie w ~~ “< ta, ; as A 2 Ss ae a Ne ge Pn, , which does more harm than good to

folklore. For this is usually just a retarded folklore as adulterated as the chemical aperitifs we have these days. (2001: 311)

34 Giordana Charuty And the brochure ‘Art populaire et loisirs ouvriers’, presented by the

Institut International de Coopération Intellectuelle for the 1937 Exhibition, incurs, retrospectively, a double condemnation for its incompetence and reactionary ideology: Little by little, exhibitions of regional costumes, more or less faked, have been organised; and each year now, one sees filing through different towns, and

right up to the cinema in Bourg-la-Reine, troupes of actors in costume representing the ‘French provinces’. These troupes sing arranged popular songs, invariably with accompaniment, which deprives these songs of their strictly vocal character; they dance rounds, farandoles, carols, rigaudons, bourrées and God knows what, on the boards, in a closed room, or on the

Promenade des Anglais, without the prior stimulus of the work of haymaking or of harvesting, in the bawdy atmosphere of the wedding day,

without the iridescent light of the barns hazy with dust, or the smokeblackened light of the rooms below. In brief, as the common people say, it’s a carnival, all right, but not so much fun as the proper one. (2001: 372)

Thus a militant position is affirmed, supported by its adherence to the non-Marxist left, in order to dissociate a culturally authentic popular heritage from conservative values which encourage the performance of rural customs that conform to clerical morality. But why, then, the regret that the leisure time activities of the peasants and workers should henceforward be directed towards the songs of the café or the radio?

Disciplinary frontiers To make people aware of ethnographic knowledge as a scientific discipline was all the more necessary, given that in the 1930s rural societies were made the objects of collective enquiries into social history, sociology and human geography, which van Gennep could not ignore. A concern for cartography formed a part of this project as a visual tool

providing a demonstration of the autonomy of the ‘folkloristic’ that social anthropology would later recognise as the autonomy of the ‘symbolic’. Reviewing his own Folklore du Dauphiné (van Gennep 193 2-

33)o0n 15 August 1933, he identified a general property: ... those collective phenomena that are called folkloristic evolve according to

an autonomous plan that is independent of geography, political organisation, diocesan organisation, economic differentiation or dialect, which obey laws that one might summarily call sociological, although uniquely nuanced. |...| I have used ten or so methods simultaneously (experimental, statistical, cartographic, psychological, comparative etc.), and the image one thus obtains of a group like that of the peasants of Isere

‘Keeping your eyes open’ a5 differs enormously from that which geographers, historians or novelists are

able to give us, since the geographer subordinates man to the land, the historian the present day to the past, the romantic the normal to the abnormal. (2001 [15 August 1933]: 372)

This method has a demonstrative value when it allows the limited range of variants of a ritual designation or performance to be reconstructed. However, what had been a heuristic tool at a point in the foundation of the discipline would suddenly cease to be so once it had become an end in itself, precisely because of its failure to lead to a conceptualisation of the relational character of symbolic thought. The multiplication of points of

enquiry simply led to a confirmation of the chance dividing up of differences and the superposition of internal boundaries. This method,

born in Switzerland, did not lead to the preparation of a national ethnographic atlas in France. However, through spatial projection, it

profoundly influenced the treatment of ritual or technical facts, a treatment which ought to have deconstructed the national territory in favour of a social description of the ‘regions’, a genuine measure of the understanding of the differences which are the object of ethnography.

What always seemed relevant, on the other hand, was the examination of relations with another field of knowledge, namely literary studies. Van Gennep’s ties with philologists and specialists in the Romance

languages determined his concern to insist on normalised forms of description in taking account of oral narrative materials. By constantly

putting collectors of stories on their guard against any literary transposition, which could only provide ‘fake’ documents, it was especially the typological and philological concept of the catalogue, such as would impose itself in the 1950s, that he promoted, in opposition to the

quest for a literary form of writing or the reassertion of regional languages. Nevertheless, alongside the identification of genres and typical plots, attention became more focused on less formal narrative discourses, performances and social institutions, in which were inscribed

the words of the storytellers or singers, all objects that ethnographers

would only later place at the centre of their analyses. Finally, his reflections on the relations between ethnography and literature were more complex than just the concern to establish ‘reliable documents’. Certainly van Gennep busied himself in decoding novels and short stories as a source for historical ethnography, within a logic of the extraction of documents. For example, this led him to unpack in meticulous detail the ‘ethnographic illusion’ of novels set in the countryside, notably those of George Sand. But he is also attentive to identifying the subtle interactions in dialect and literary writings by means of unexpected comparisons. For example, his Chronique of 15 February 1935, ‘A precursor of Stendhal: B. Chaix, a statistician from the Hautes-Alpes’, begins as follows:

36 Giordana Charuty There is, in Stendhal’s prose, the Stendhal of Henri Brulard and the Letters, a rhythm and rubbing together of words, which I have always experienced as pertaining to the Dauphinois patois when translated, but which Remy de Gourmont, a Norman critic, commentators on other provinces and above all professors of literature have regarded as a matter of ‘style’, that is, as an

intentional form of expression, not at all spontaneous ... The texture of Dauphinois when heard, but not necessarily read, is quite different from Savoyard or Provencal, its neighbours. It is more pounding, drier, and in its syntax readily suppresses all redundancy.

Gourmont smiled at what he judged to be only a theory, and I do not know to what extent Paul Léautaud or L. Royer, who, however, lives in Grenoble, would take seriously my affirmation that the real Stendhal — not tidied up for the Paris salons, nor for the literary esteem of his time and afterwards (let us say, with him, around 1880) -— represents the Dauphinois patois preserved since his childhood and imposed on the dulled French of good company.

However, the chances of my folkloristic researches have brought me an unexpected proof. I do not know whether or not it has escaped Stendhal’s followers, and I do not have the leisure to find out. But I doubt whether any of them are far-seeing enough to find literature in reading any Dauphinois

statistical treatise. (2001 |15 February 1935]: 346-47)

There follows an account of this treatise, Préoccupations statistiques, géographiques, pittoresques et synoptiques des Hautes-Alpes of 1845, and its

author, who was sub-prefect of Briancon from 1800 to 1815.Then, citing long extracts from passages, van Gennep comments on the jerky writing,

the compressed turns of phrase, the rhythmic variations, the ‘verbal cascades’ which juxtapose incidents without repeating grammatical subjects, which substantivise participles: ‘this is genuine Stendhal, but also genuine Dauphinois patois’. He concludes that the Baron would have done better to write short stories, even a novel, on the lives of these Dauphinois, whom he knew so well because he could speak their tongue.

Thus he was quite ready to admit specifically that certain novelists

possessed an ethnographic gaze that had escaped contemporary folklorists. When novelistic writing articulates the disparate elements of

the social, not in a folkloristic reconstruction but in a biographical experience, it might even constitute the best means of accessing ethnographic knowledge. These statements are not reserved for the readers of the Mercure de France: one finds similar remarks in the first volume of the Manuel, where van Gennep states that infantile customs —in particular those of one’s ‘second childhood’ — are described better

by novelists than by ethnographers, and he cites in support of this assessment the autobiographical accounts of Renan, Valles, Mistral and

Pergaud (1943, I: 169, 174).

‘Keeping your eyes open’ x7 From folkloristic to symbolic autonomy The rejection of folklore by social anthropology during the 1960s came

about through a re-centring of analysis on the principles of reproduction and the exercise of power within localised societies. But it was also done by passing from ‘folkloristic’ autonomy in van Gennep’s sense — ceremonial customs, rites, ways of speaking and believing — to symbolic autonomy in Mauss’s sense, as reinterpreted by Lévi-Strauss. In passing from the ethnography of remote worlds to that of nearby

societies, van Gennep always maintained as central the general question of ritual, which he revived on the theoretical level before even

undertaking that vast description of rural France, which was never completed. We know that the notion of a ‘ceremonial sequence’ governs the idea that rites of separation, liminality and reincorporation project

the moments of passage into space by dramatising the change for the individual ‘who is passing’, as well as for the social group being affected

by this change. First in Italy, then in France, another interpretative move was created by refusing to reduce this conceptualisation simply to function and form, and by abandoning the interpretative categories of a Frazer or a Lévy-Bruhl that are preserved in the Manuel in order to assimilate ritual efficacy to the processes of magical action. But, in both

cases, the debt to the Manuel is evident on the part of researchers contronted for the first time with the recurring question of the place and legitimacy of an ethnology of Europe within general anthropology.

The readings of de Martino We owe an initial metamorphosis of van Gennep’s conceptualisations

not to a highly Durkheimian French anthropology, but to Italian religious anthropology as relaunched by Ernesto de Martino on the eve

of the Second World War. De Martino did not hesitate to turn the Manuel de folklore francais into a tool with which to oppose an indigenous

approach to the British intervention in ‘the Mediterranean’, as well as to American-inspired studies in applied anthropology. In particular, the methodological reflections of the French ethnographer served to guide de Martino — who was trained in the same fashion in the history of religions and was also a critic of Durkheim — in passing from knowledge

constructed through an exclusive familiarity with ancient texts and the works of missionaries to the ethnographic observation of the religious practices of southern Italy. The preparatory notes of all de Martino’s initial enquiries in Lucania at the beginning of the 1950s, undertaken to revive strictly economic

ways of understanding the southern question in Italy, document an attentive reading of van Gennep’s work in order to define the proper

38 Giordana Charuty method of enquiry: the necessity of distinguishing informants according to whether they belong to a literate or a popular culture; the need not only to collect accounts, but also to witness gestures in action; methods of criticising and classifying ethnographic documents; and the requirement for comparativism. The first collective enquiry used several questionnaires from the Manuel, on life-cycle rites, popular songs and dances, magic, the church and the clergy. The use made of these is all the more surprising because, ten years later, de Martino was to have two favourite expressions for deriding the ‘folkloristic’ position: ‘the people sing’, and ‘from cradle to tomb’ (see Gallini 1995: 52).

But running through different unpublished versions made in preparation for the editing of Sud e magia (de Martino 1959), one sees the category of the rite of passage being progressively abandoned in favour of an existential type of interrogation of the historicity of the

person and another definition of the critical moments of individual existence — no longer the passage from one social state to another, but the confrontation of the individual with the historical development of his or her society. As for the notion of ‘magic’, this will be restricted

solely to the therapeutic techniques that use ritual gestures and mythical accounts, while excluding all the customary prescriptions of which life-cycle rites consist. However, the concern to historicise these

usages and to restore cultural flows between learned cultures and peasant cultures from a sociological perspective systematises an aim that is present everywhere in the Manuel. A large number of practices, pieces of knowledge and ways of speaking grasped while the enquiry is taking place can only be integrated into sets of significant relations by taking into account the temporal depth evidenced by the traces and

indications that are present in a great variety of documentary collections. These include archives of administration and power, dictionaries, encyclopaedias, ecclesiastical and medical enquiries. For these collections, it is appropriate, depending on the case, to explain the normative constraints that have informed the description. There is a more hidden affinity, perhaps, that links the two authors:

the importance accorded to the regimes of temporality of peasant cultures that are modelled on Christianity. With van Gennep, the introduction of the notion of a ‘ceremonial cycle’ in the 1920s served to

distinguish, alongside biographical time, the festive cycles based on seasonal variations, the official solar calendar, the Christian calendar of the saints, and the rhythms of agricultural and pastoral activities. Unlike human geography or Marxist-inspired social history, this involved not separating material culture from the symbolic elaboration that gives it meaning by recognising the uniqueness of the social construction of time — the existence of a cyclical time produced by the ritual, unlike

‘Keeping your eyes open’ a9 events or history — which was particularly pregnant in the rural societies of the nineteenth century, and right up to the Second World War. Having become a sort of commonplace, this notion of a ‘ceremonial

cycle’ became fixed within an unsurprising functional reading. De Martino, on the other hand, revived this question by treating Christianity as an idea of time imbued with a tension between two models, one linear,

the other cyclical, which anticipated more recent analyses of Christianity as a ‘religion that has left religion behind’. But one recalls

that van Gennep’s work served above all as an ‘eye-opener’ to the complexity of the cultural history of southern Italy and of perceiving the procedures of mythico-ritual symbolism that gave meaning to the cultural idiom of Apulian tarentism (de Martino 2005 [1961]).°

The French heritage In France at the end of the 1960s, two opposed attitudes marked the relaunching of the discipline. One was to reject the ethnography of van Gennep as that of a folklorist, which would return the rural world to assimilation into

the domain of superstition and mental retardation. Such was the aim of Jeanne Favret-Saada, who, analysing the logic of sorcery in the Norman Bocage, initially isolated a domain of social activity —rituals to remove sorcery

— as an expression of an indigenous theory of magical efficacy that the anthropologist could not make his or her own (Favret-Saada 198 1). The other approach was to use regional monographs and the Manuel as a sort of cultural memory to adopt other forms of seeing and listening to contemporary societies that at first sight have none of the ceremonial richness of earlier rural societies. This was, to begin with, the aim of Yvonne Verdier in a research team led by Lévi-Strauss, on Minot in the Bourgogne. Alongside Francoise Zonabend, Tina

Jolas and Marie Claire Pingaud, she worked to link an ethnography in the present with van Gennep’s theoretical enquiry regarding rites of passage and the impressive cultural materials collected by ethnographers since the last

third of the nineteenth century. The study she devoted to the cycle of exemplary lives — the washerwoman, the seamstress, the cook — which leads to an encounter with other village lives at the most crucial moments in their existences in order to ‘make custom’ (Verdier 1979), represents a profound

transformation of van Gennep’s model on the basis of a double methodological choice. One is to adopt the point of view of the women, their knowledge, their techniques and the world of prescriptions and prohibitions that govern representations of feminine physiology by conditioning fertility or sterility, in order to reveal ‘the lives of young girls’, with their rules, rights and

duties. The other is to identify semantic codes, in the Lévi-Straussian sense, that construct the symbolic logic of ritual action.

One example will suffice to illustrate the renewal of the analysis that derives from this. Van Gennep devoted almost an entire volume of his

40 Giordana Charuty Manuel to marriage rites (Vol. 1, part 2, 1946), marked simultaneously

by a succession of highly stable sequences and a considerable proliferation of local variants. One of these enigmatic moments, the rotie,° particularly caught his attention. Van Gennep rightly recalls the great historical depth of this culinary rite, attested since the medieval period, its generalisation and its resistance in the face of all attempts to ban it, since it regularly became the object of disorder, a desire for its abolition and the condemnation of its scandalous nature. He also notes that the principal actors in this case are the young people, assisted by close relatives, godfathers and godmothers. And he comments at length

on the transformation of culinary materials and objects in order to conclude that the scatological form which became dominant during the 1930s stresses an aspect of parody that was absent from usages attested

earlier. Finally, the cartography of the variants gives way here to an interrogation of the rite’s meaning. According to him, the indigenous exegesis bears witness to the permanence of ‘very primitive ideas’ regarding fertility. He rejects any interpretation along the lines of a simple decoding of symbols, but concludes, in a manner that is very likely to disappoint today, with a ‘rite of the socialisation of marriage’.

For Verdier (1979), adopting a structuralist position consists in making explicit all the semantic relations, which, in the contemporary or 1970s form of the rite, underlie what van Gennep traced back to the remote past of hypothetical primitive ideas about fertility. The rite uses

a culinary code, that of sugar and spices, for an action which is equivalent to a ‘seasoning’ of the bride that is equivalent, from the masculine point of view, to a sexual act, public and shared, and one with procreative value. On the other hand, however, the exploration of the vocabulary illuminates the rules of the transmission of procreative powers between female generations. Thus, one might add, by imposing a language that is virile or scatological, the young people appear to be diverting the female cook’s role of guide |passeuse| to the extent that the value of marriage itself has changed, namely to perpetuate not a house any longer, but a couple for whom the language of desire prevails (see Fabre’s review, 1980).

The work carried out in the 1980s and 1990s at the Centre d’Anthropologie de Toulouse (EHESS-CNRS-Toulouse-Le Mirail), directed by Daniel Fabre, expanded this perspective by departing from the framework of monographic enquiry to pursue a re-description of the social institutions and symbolic logics characteristic of Christian societies. To begin with, it is to the observer sensitive to linguistic

differences between ‘countries’ that we owe the attention paid to situations of diglossia as a recognition of cultural differences. By contrast to monographs that are blind to linguistic differences and the

‘Keeping your eyes open’ 4] social relations that inform them, it is a matter of restoring the coherence of semantic logics modelled by the diverse dialects in which

these are actually thought. Fabre has revived the analysis of social institutions so well identified by van Gennep — such as masculine youth, with its principles of organisation, its rights and duties — by taking into

account its confrontations for the maintenance of a prerogative, the social control of ‘houses’. From this point on, and in opposition to their atemporal definition, the conflictual relations of village societies with certain categories of ritual, notably the political stakes of the charivari

or hullabaloo, have been made evident.’ Claudine Fabre-Vassas’s exploration of all forms of expression of a ban on the consumption of pork for Christians and of a popular antisemitism made systematic use

of the cultural materials collected in the Manuel: for example, the ethnography of a twelve-day cycle between Christmas and Epiphany, which reveals the metaphysical issue involved in cooking one part of the pig, namely the blood (Fabre-Vassas 1997 [1993]). Likewise the study of spiritual kinship by Agnes Fine (1994) made considerable use of customary usages ordered by the succession of life-cycle rites. To describe a ‘Christian custom’ — the discontinuous ensemble of

usages, prescriptions and ritual or ceremonial activities that link biographical time with the cyclical time of a localised society modelled on a unique biography, namely the life of Christ — it is certainly necessary to

call into question the categories of medicine and popular religion that organise van Gennep’s ethnography.* Making an ethnography of two categories of disorder that are invariably thought of as belonging together, namely hysteria and epilepsy, I have myself been led to describe not an ethnopsychiatry but a metaphysics in action, that is, certain ways through which the most abstract theological notions may become the object of an experience through the senses (Charuty 1997). In Europe as elsewhere, the ‘person’ is produced by a work of modelling the body and by social interactions that link the different ages of infancy, adolescence and ‘youth’

to the gradation of the ritual operations of the clergy and customary olficiants. Parallel with this, socialised trials within age groups ensure the

biographical inscription of dogmatic utterances transmitted by the catechism in the fashion of impersonal knowledge. This modelling gives

place to a profusion of discourse on ritual faults in the fulfilment of customary liturgical rites and prescriptions with regard to the relations to be maintained with categories of beings — souls, the deceased, the Virgin, saints — which are simultaneously deprived of corporality and credited with intentionality. And the anthropologist then discovers the significance of a category — the ‘sickness of the saint’ — properly identified by van Gennep as designating all sorts of somatic, psychic and social disorders sanctioning these transgressions, in his concern to treat Christianity as ‘a

42 Giordana Charuty magico-religious activity’.? Only the analysis of rituals of atonement permits the etiological thought that unifies them to be explained, namely

diversified forms of dissociation of the Christian person. Thus all operations of measurement and of the manufacture of doubles, iconic and aniconic, of sick bodies to ‘revive’ them suggest a literal reading of metaphors which, in ethical discourses and devotional texts, oppose the heaviness of the ‘flesh’ to the lightness of the ‘soul’.

Concluding remarks Van Gennep’s work guaranteed a transition between the history of religions

and ethnology in Italy, and between positivist ethnography and the anthropology of the symbolic in France. It is not only a turning point in the history of the discipline, fixed within a limited period — it has had the

value of a ‘passage’ in the disciplinary conversion of Europeanist ethnologists of my generation, who, most often, come from other disciplines, such as literature, philosophy and history, and whose university training made them read Durkheim, Lévi-Strauss and Malinowski, but who failed to realise that an anthropology of themselves was conceivable.

However, our understanding of van Gennep is influenced by a reading of de Martino and Lévi-Strauss, reintroducing the dimension of power to the very heart of the logic of meaning, to explore conflictual situations born of confrontation between hierarchised cultural codes,

without, nonetheless, reducing the symbolic to an emblematic or expressive function of social divisions. Thus, although local societies in which our first ethnographic experiences are inscribed very often seemed dechristianised, in fact we have been led to recognise the heterogeneity of social practices capable of taking charge of religious representations. We clearly see that the treatment of the cultural materials collected by van Gennep — who became an ‘institution’ in himself — was only made possible by resuming the dialogue with historians and sociologists, while

nonetheless maintaining the specificity of the questions of a general anthropology in the face of these disciplines.

Notes 1. Arnold Van Gennep, Manuel de folklore francais contemporain, Paris, Picard (19381958). Van Gennep had begun by publishing Volumes III and IV: Questionnaire. Provinces et pays: Bibliographie méthodique (1937) and Bibliographie meéthodique (fin)

(1938), then Volume I in six parts: Introduction générale. Du Berceau a la tombe: naissance, baptéme, enfance, adolescence, fiancailles (1943); Du berceau a la tombe (fin):

‘Keeping your eyes open’ 43 mariage, funérailles (1946); Cérémonies périodiques cycliques: 1. Carnaval, Careme, Paques

(1947); Cérémonies périodiques cycliques: 2. Cycle de mai, la Saint-Jean (1949); Les Cérémonies agricoles et pastorales de l’été (1951) and Les Cérémonies agricoles et pastorales

de 'automne (1953). Cycle des Douze Jours (1958) was published posthumously. The introduction to each volume focuses on a particular theoretical problem. 2. Appeared originally in Mercure de France, 16 January 1913.

3. This somewhat cryptic passage contains an implicit criticism of the ‘armchair anthropology’ of the Durkheimian school, including, at this time, Hertz. 4. For Michel Leiris’s criticism of this relationship of suspicion, see Jamin (1996: 38-39),

5. This work, originally published in Italian in 1961, has recently been translated into English, with notes by Dorothy Louise Zinn and a preface by Vincent Crapanzano (de Martino 2005 [1961)). 6. Literally ‘roasted’, this refers to a marriage rite in which drink and food is brought to the newly married couple during the wedding night. The basis of this culinary preparation, which varied according to local traditions, was for a long time bread soaked in broth or spiced and sugared wine. Practically everywhere after the First World War, this soup was replaced by a mixture of fizzy wine and chocolate carried in a chamber pot. 7. Fabre (1986). In the same manner, Natalie Z. Davis has acknowledged her debt to van Gennep’s Manuel in analysing the practices of the charivari in the sixteenth century (see Davis 1975). 8. Fora presentation of these works, see Charuty (2001). 9. Van Gennep devotes a separate rubric to this category in his bibliography of popular medicine by noting, correctly, that the relationship of Christians with saints is highly ambivalent, involving a power that is now maleficent, now beneficent. Contemporary anthropology shows the relevance of this remark, which has been forgotten by the historians and ethnographers of ‘popular religion’.

References Belmont, N. 1974. Arnold Van Gennep: le créateur de lethnographie francaise, Paris: Payot. Charuty, G. 1997. Folie, mariage et mort: pratiques chrétiennes de la folie en Europe occidentale, Paris: Le Seuil.

— 2001. Du catholicisme méridional a l’'anthropologie des sociétés chrétiennes, in D. Albera, A. Blok and C. Bromberger (eds), L’anthropologie de la Méditerranée/ Anthropology

of the Mediterranean, Paris and Aix-en-Provence: Maisonneuve and Larose/MMSH.

Chiva, I. 1987. Entre livre et musée: emergence d'une ethnologie de la France, in Ethnologies en miroir: La France et les pays de langue allemande, essais réunis par I. Chiva et U. Jeggle, Paris, MSH.

Cuisenier, J. (ed.). 1980. Hier pour demain: arts, traditions, patrimoine, Paris, Editions de la RMN.

Davis, N.Z. 1975. Society and culture in early modern France, Stanford: Stanford University Press. de Martino, E. 1959. Sud e magia, Milan: Feltrinelli.

— 2005 ]1961]. The land of remorse: a study of southern Italian tarentism |La terra del rimorso|, London: Free Association Books. Dundes, A. (ed.). 1992. The evil eye: a casebook, Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, Durkheim, E. 1912. Les formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse, Paris: Alcan.

Fabre, D. 1980. Passeuse aux gués du destin, Critique, 402 (November): 1075-99.

“+ Giordana Charuty —— 1986. Le privé contre la coutume, in P. Aries and R. Chartier (eds), Histoire de la vie privée, Paris: Le Seuil, vol. 3.

— 1992. Le Manuel de folklore francais d’Arnold Van Gennep, in P. Nora (ed.), Les Lieux de mémoire, Les France, vol. 2: traditions, Paris: Gallimard.

Fabre-Vassas, C. 1997 [1993]. The singular beast: Jews, Christians and the pig |La béte singuliere: les juifs, les chrétiens et le cochon| (tr. C. Volk), New York: Columbia University

Press. Favret-Saada, J. 1981 [1977]. Deadly words: witchcraft in the Bocage | Les mots, la mort, les sorts: la sorcellerie dans le Bocage| (tr. C. Cullen), Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Gallini, C. 1995. La ricerca, la scrittura, in E. De Martino, Note di campo: Spedizione in Lucania, 30 sett.-31 ott. 1952 (ed. C. Gallini), Lecce: Argo. Hertz, R. 1928. Mélanges de sociologie religieuse et folklore, Paris: Alcan.

Jamin, J. 1996. Introduction to Michel Leiris, Miroir de l'Afrique, Paris: Gallimard. Lévi-Strauss, C. 1962. La pensée sauvage, Paris: Plon.

Mauss, M. 1908. Review of Arnold van Gennep, Mythes et legendes d’Australie: études d’ethnographie et de sociologie, Année Sociologique, 10: 226-28.

—— ]909. Review of Arnold van Gennep, Les rites de passage, Année Sociologique, 11:

200-2. Needham, R. 1967. Introduction to Arnold van Gennep, The semi-scholars, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Privat, J.-M. 2001. Preface to Chroniques de folklore d’Arnold Van Gennep: recueil de textes

parus dans le Mercure de France 1905-1949, Paris: Editions du Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. van Gennep, A. 1904. Tabou et totémisme a Madagascar: étude descriptive et théorique, Paris: Leroux.

— ]906. Mythes et legendes d’ Australie: études d’ethnographie et de sociologie, Paris: Guilmoto.

—— 1909. Les rites de passage, Paris: Nourry. —— ]9]]. Les demi-savants, Paris: Mercure de France. —— 1920. Etat actuel du probleme totémique, Paris: Leroux. —— ]932-33. Folklore du Dauphine (Isere): étude descriptive et comparée de psychologie populaire, Paris: Maisonneuve (2 vols).

— 1938-58. Manuel de folklore francais contemporain, Paris: Picard (5 vols). —— 1943. Manuel de folklore francais contemporain, vol. 1, Paris: Picard. ——— 2001. Chroniques de folklore d’Arnold Van Gennep: recueil de textes parus dans le Mercure de France 1905-1949 (ed. J.-M. Privat), Paris: Editions du Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques.

Velay-Valentin, C. 1999. Le ler Congrés International de Folklore de 1937, Annales Histoire, Sciences Sociales, 2 (March—April): 481-506. Verdier, Y. 1979. Facons de dire, facons de faire: la laveuse, la couturiere et la cuisiniere, Paris:

Gallimard.

Chapter 2

CANONICAL ETHNOGRAPHY: HANOTEAU AND LETOURNEUX ON KABYLE COMMUNAL LAW

Peter Parkes

Perhaps never was a system of self-government more radically implemented, never has an administration relied on fewer functionaries, nor imposed less on those governed. The ideal of liberal and effective governance — whose formula our philosophers forever seek in a thousand

utopias — was a living reality for centuries in the Kabyle highlands. (Hanoteau and Letourneux 1873 [1893] II: 1)

La Kabylie et les coutumes kabyles by Adolphe Hanoteau and Aristide Letourneux is a unique monument of early legal ethnography. Three large volumes, amounting to fifteen hundred pages, reported a decade of intensive investigation among the Kabyle Berbers of Algeria in the 1860s. It is recognised to be a definitive account of their autonomous social organisation by a distinguished line of Maghribian ethnographers, from Emile Masqueray and Robert Montagne to Jacques Berque and

Jeanne Favret. Its rare archival documentation is being redeemed by current anthropological historians of the Kabyles such as Alain Mahé and Tilman Hannemann. Yet it is generally unknown to anthropology beyond an intimate circle of Berber specialists. This neglect is readily understandable, for the monograph has the forbidding appearance of an overblown gazetteer. That was its intended purpose, compiled by an army officer and an imperial legal councillor just after the French conquest and pacification of Kabylia in 1857." Its encyclopaedic documentation is barely leavened by cultural or historical

exegesis. The first volume is an exhaustive compendium of the topography, geology, flora and fauna of the Jurjura massif, followed by

46 Peter Parkes tabulated population statistics and detailed synopses of traditional medicine, agriculture, crafts and industries. Its major anthropological interest lies in the remaining parts, but these appear equally daunting.

A vivid but summary account of indigenous social and political organisation prefaces a vast analytical inventory of Kabyle communal laws — exactly formatted in accordance with the Napoleonic Civil Code — followed by translations or extracts of some fifty written ‘canons’ (ganun, pl. gqawanin) or itemised lists of village regulations, assiduously collected from all the main tribes of Kabylia. This would never be relaxed reading for an armchair anthropologist: ‘a work of erudition, exclusively

technical, reserved for specialists’ (M. Hanoteau 1923: 143). As an officially sanctioned manual for military administration it is nowadays easily dismissed by postcolonial sensibilities as a monstrous artifice of occidental arrogation. Yet it remains one of the most meticulously documented accounts of communal institutions of indigenous justice and moral order available to anthropology. It is, indeed, the canonical ethnography of early French colonial social science.’ Conceived within a decade of Morgan’s League of the Iroquois, it belongs to a foundational era of incipient field anthropology, combining classical methods of textual-philological scholarship with the inductive

observational sciences. Informed by engaged and prolonged field experiences, Hanoteau and Letourneux also derived their major analytical insights from the collaborative commentaries of one primary informant — a Berber counterpart to Ely Parker among the [Iroquois (Tooker 1983, Trautmann 1987: 43—50) — who was well placed to

interpret their administrative and legal interests as a marabout mediator and Muslim jurist among Kabyles.

This essay aspires to reconstruct their triadic field collaboration during the 1860s — assessing the respective contributions of a soldier, a magistrate and a marabout, who conjointly established an original

juridical ethnography of communal law and consensual sellfgovernment. It also considers the applied intentions and ambitions of

these authors, in an era of precarious military rule and intrepid development planning in Kabylia, shortly before its fateful civilian colonisation under the Third Republic.

Collaborative fieldwork Over four years we neglected no available means of investigation: the study of ganun laws, reading the reports of communal deliberations (jama‘a) and the decisions of clerics (‘ulama), with daily examination of public and private practices, together with information taken from those actively involved in these affairs prior to the French occupation [of 1857]. (I: v)’

Canonical ethnography 47 ‘

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A one-page preface to La Kabylie et les coutumes kabyles scarcely advertises its peculiar conditions of collaborative fieldwork. However, a more detailed memoir was published fifty years later by Maurice Hanoteau (1923), who witnessed its last moments of compilation as a schoolboy of twelve, visiting his father in Kabylia during the summer holidays of 1868. Hanoteau’s family also assisted two subsequent scholars of Berber customary law, Augustin Bernard and Louis Milliot (1933), whose access to his home archives enabled them to reconstruct his longstanding project.*

This project began within a decade of Hanoteau’s posting as a

military engineer to Algiers in 1845. A graduate of the Ecole Polytechnique, he was earmarked for service within the Bureau Politique des Affaires Arabes (or Dureaux arabes), the elite military department of indigenous administration in Algeria.’ Its director was Colonel Eugene

48 Peter Parkes Daumas, a soldier-scholar who had earlier campaigned in Kabylia and who was then completing its first regional history (Daumas and Fabar 1847). Hanoteau also saw military action in Kabylia during the 1850s, but most of this decade was devoted to his linguistic training in Algiers. Under Daumas'’s patronage, he became associated with the distinguished Arabist William de Slane, translator of Ibn Khaldun’s Histories of the Berbers, and with other soldier-scholars engaged in writing up early field reports on the Kabyles (e.g. MacCarthy 1847-48, Carette 1848). Hanoteau soon published a pioneering series of philological studies: original grammars of Kabyle and Tuareg Berber languages (1858a, 1860), anda remarkable anthology of Kabyle oral poetry (1867).° His envisioning of a similar compilation of customary law stems from this linguistic scholarship, for Hanoteau had already transcribed a qanun ‘village charter’ as a speciment text of Kabyle dialect (1858a: 324-38, 1858b). The existence of these written rulings — inscribed in Arabic by marabout clerics at village assemblies — had only just been discovered. Apart from their historical value, these rare village records offered an invaluable means of examining underlying principles of communal government, necessary for indirect military administration, since an official policy of non-interference with traditional social organisation had been proclaimed by Marshal Randon on the defeat of insurgent Ait

Iraten Kabyles in 1857. There was therefore widespread interest in having further ganun rulings collected throughout Kabylia.’

In January 1859 Hanoteau was appointed to command a bureau arabe outpost at Dra el-Mizan (western Kabylia), and in the following year he was posted to Fort-Napoléon, in the tribal heartland of the Ait Iraten. As Maurice Hanoteau recalled: Commandants enjoyed widely extended powers over indigenes. Issues that arose were numerous and diverse — political, administrative, judicial — and their resolution was always a delicate matter, since France had determined

to leave intact the traditional organization of the country. To act conscientiously, to judge fairly, one needed to know in detail the people one administered and the local laws by which they governed themselves ... Commandant Hanoteau scarcely obtained these details without seeing them for himself in the villages ... Such information was also available at Dra elMizan, where the commandant’s office was open to all. Some came to plead an injustice or to defend themselves from a criminal accusation; some to accuse fellow tribesmen, or even a French colonist; others to make appeals for themselves, their family or their village. It would not take long to surmise from all these claimants and plaintiffs the full scope of Kabyle legal codes.

(M. Hanoteau 1923: 138-40)

But despite Hanoteau’s linguistic abilities, his knowledge of the intricacies of Kabyle customary law would depend upon a khoja

Canonical ethnography 49 interpreter-secretary, the native scribe attached to each outpost. It was

the khoja’s responsibility to register the public acts of communal assemblies, to prepare briefs of appeals, and to transcribe these proceedings for monthly reports. At Fort-Napoléon, this was the duty of Si Mula n Ait u ‘Amar, who is paid a handsome if cursory tribute in the preface to the monograph: We found, above all, a precious assistant in Si Moula Nait Ameur; his education, as advanced as that of any Kabyle marabout might be, embraced Muslim law as well as customary law; and his word — in accord with his renown and the influence of his family — was respected in the councils of his tribe. (I: v)

Maurice Hanoteau again fills in the gaps in his later memoir, for on his

father’s arrival at Fort-Napoléon in November 1860, Si Mula was immediately employed to collect ganun rulings throughout the district: Si Moula had problems knowing what was expected of him at first. But once he understood, he became engrossed, marshalling every effort to cooperate towards the end pursued. He would reflect on administrative and juridical

questions, and if he knew of any fact — be it the judgement of a jama‘a assembly or an article of ganun law — which either confirmed or qualified a given opinion, he would readily convey it. He was one of many assistants; but he was the main informant, the most useful, and the most precious. (M. Hanoteau 1923: 142)

We shall see that Si Mula would become at least an equal co-author of La Kabylie et les coutumes kabyles as Letourneux. He was a dignitary of

Ait Amar marabouts among Ait Iraten, resident at their village of Tamazirt near Fort-Napoléon. He was also a religious cleric (‘alim) of Sayyid descent, whose ancestors had emigrated from Turkey in the

seventeenth century, renowned as teachers of Arabic literacy and Koranic education among Ait Iraten.* In the learned tradition of his forefathers, Si Mula had studied Maliki figh jurisprudence at a local religious college. With a politically influential elder brother, Si Lunis, he may have assisted in the capitulation of the Ait Iraten confederation to Marshal Randon in 1857, after participating in their insurrection, for a fine two-storey house was then built for the two brothers by French

army engineers at Tamazirt. Si Lunis and Si Mula would remain steadfast supporters of French officers at Fort-Napoléon, gaining the highest appointments of political and judicial authority among Ait Iraten. But in 1860, Si Mula was only beginning to acquaint himself with the collaborative potential of Hanoteau’s ethnographic ambitions. In 1862, after four years in the field, Hanoteau was recalled to a metropolitan posting in Algiers. His reports detailing the intricacies of

50 Peter Parkes Kabyle social institutions, yet also ‘the admirable simplicity of their customary laws’, had gained widespread attention among his military and civil superiors.’ These included Louis-Adrien Berbrugger, president of the Historical Society of Algeria and founder of its Revue africaine, as well as Ismail Urbain, the famous half-Guyanese convert to Islam and

Saint-Simonian advocate of pluralist democracy, who was then an influential adviser on colonial policy to Napoleon TI.'° Concerted plans were made for Hanoteau to publish his field notes on Kabyle customary law as a series of articles in the Revue africaine. But these plans were superseded by a far more ambitious project: ‘The idea took shape of

treating the Kabyle question on a truly scientific footing, within a

comprehensive work embracing everything known about the organization of that society’ (M. Hanoteau 1923: 143).'' Relieved from

other duties to concentrate on this programme, instructions were posted by Hanoteau to Dureaux arabes commandants throughout Kabylia. They were to submit to him ‘as soon as possible ... copies of all

the main ganun laws of Kabyle villages’, ensuring that each was ‘as complete as possible, sending translations with transcriptions of the original Arabic texts’ (letter of 4 April 1864, in Bernard and Milliot

1933: 4). Within a few weeks, Hanoteau received numerous transcribed copies of ganun rulings (see Fig. 2.2). It was at this juncture that Hanoteau by chance encountered Aristide Letourneux, a magistrate at the Imperial Court of Appeal in Algiers,

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jy itetrety F’ | Figure 4.1. Eric de Dampierre at Madabazouma, thirty kilometres from Bangassou, Central African Republic. Date unknown. Courtesy of Laboratoire de I’ethnologie et de la sociologie comparative (UMR 7186, CNRS), Université Paris-Ouest.

political science and anthropology, among others. In 1948-49 he completed his compulsory military service, first in Casablanca, then in Villacoublay (France). At twenty years of age, he published his first article, ‘Sociométrie: note étymologique’ (Dampierre 1948). The paper explored the origin of the word ‘sociometry’, which a certain Dr Moreno claimed to have coined in 1943 (Moreno 1943). Dampierre, however, traced it to an

Eric de Dampierre and the art of fieldwork 105 Austrian, F.X. de Neumann-Spallart, who used the term during a session of the International Institute of Statistics in Rome in 1887. Dampierre then cited August Chirac, who said he had invented the word first, and who developed his ideas in a published article (Chirac 1897).

This first publication, at age twenty, showed Dampierre’s extremely conscientious use of terms, and also his meticulous care in finding and

critiquing the original sources. He continued to trace words and concepts even — or rather, especially — after he went to Africa. For example, in 1984 he wrote an extremely detailed study of the word nguinza, now Meaning ‘money’, concluding it was probably brought to Central Africa by Senegalese riflemen (Note de recherche n° 17).' By 1949, he had become involved with UNESCO, probably thanks to his acquaintance with Alfred Métraux, who at that time was director of the Department of Social Sciences at UNESCO. Dampierre participated in an interdisciplinary study of a French commune in the Paris suburbs and he wrote the report in 1949; it was published in 1956 under the title ‘Malvire-sur-Desle: Une commune aux franges de la région parisienne’

(Dampierre 1956). The study resulted from a conference held at the Royaumont Abbey in September of 1948 on the comparative method in social sciences, and a follow-up meeting in May 1949. The researchers were trained in history, sociology, philosophy, psychology and social psychology. The report is a classic example of community studies carried out at the time. It describes ‘Malvire-sur-Desle’ (a fictional name) in all its social, economic and political complexity, and shows how the various factions in the community interacted — or not. In the methods section,

Dampierre explains that the research team basically moved into the village, frequented cafes and bars, attended religious services, went to the movies and dances, and helped organise local festivals. Two months later, when the study officially began, residents were accustomed to seeing the

researchers, and were inviting them to their homes for meals. The sociologists worked both with written documents and by carrying out ethnographic fieldwork. Dampierre, in this report and in others, does not treat sociology any differently from anthropology, and shows that good fieldwork can and should be carried out in both fields. °

In 1950, at age twenty-two, he left for the United States as an Exchange Fellow at the University of Chicago, where he was a member of the Committee on Social Thought. There he interacted with scholars

such as Leo Strauss, Robert Redfield and John Nef. He also rubbed shoulders with the anthropologists there and was impressed by the fourfield approach of American anthropology, as opposed to the divisions in France between ethnology, (physical) anthropology and prehistory.

One of his earliest manuscripts, dated September 1951, perhaps written while he was in Chicago, is entitled ‘Sur deux différents types d’hérétiques’ (On two different kinds of heretic). In stark contrast to all

106 Margaret Buckner of his other papers, this one has not a single footnote, citation or reference. Thus Dampierre writes: Man, the first animal to want to discover his place in the universe and to search relentlessly for the meaning of his existence, uses in that search two types (Ideal-Typus) of thinking: dogmatic thinking and scientific thinking. ...

In dogmatic thinking, truth is already there at the start, before it is discovered by man. It could be a revelation from God, ... a rational essence, .. or the meaning of history. In all these cases, man needs the key to the treasure; it is either given to him, or he must find it, or he must make it. In scientific thinking, there is no dogma. To continue with the metaphor, man must seek not the key to the treasure, but the treasure itself, though it never appears to him immediately. He constructs it himself, by abstracting it from reality and mentally organizing it. That is scientific theory. While dogma is the truth that is given to me, science is the truth that I verify, and thus that I create. ... Dogma is by its very essence unchangeable, perfect, and finite ... The dogmatic heretic is burned at the stake. | Progression is possible, but it is progression in the revelation of the truth.]| ... Science is, on the contrary, imperfect, cumulative and infinite. The scientist does not seek to translate reality, he abstracts it to master it. ... He invents concepts, and the richer his imagination, the stronger his power of abstraction, the better his theory. ... Progress is inevitable. ... The scientific heretic inaugurates new theory. ... The heretic of yesterday is the doctor of tomorrow. (1951, passim)

Thus, well before Robin Horton and others, Dampierre described in his own way how a traditional worldview differs from modern scientific thinking.

Back in France in 1952, he resumed his studies and research under the direction of the sociologist Raymond Aron. Aron ‘defines the aim proper to sociology as the combination and reunion of the study of the part with the study of the whole’ (Aron 1968: 10). It was this aim that Dampierre followed. He was interested in how each society organises itself, based on its own principles, and in how societies hold together, how all the different participants play their respective roles. His goal was to understand Society by discovering how societies work, how individuals form a society, what holds the group together and what keeps it going.

In 1952, Dampierre became a researcher for the CNRS (Centre national de recherche scientifique) and was assigned to the Centre d'études sociologiques in Paris. In that same year, he launched and edited for Plon, a well respected publishing house in Paris, the series Recherches en sciences humaines. Over the next twenty years or so, a total

of thirty-three books were published in the series under Dampierre’s direction, which included the first French translations of such scholars as Max Weber and Leo Strauss. And so, by the time he made his first trip to Africa in 1954 at age twenty-six, he was extremely well read in several languages and in

Eric de Dampierre and the art of fieldwork 107 several disciplines, had earned several university degrees, had published

articles and edited journals and books, had hobnobbed with leading social scientists in Chicago, had worked closely with sociologists and Africanists in Paris (for example, Michel Leiris, André Schaeffner and Denise Paulme) and had carried out interdisciplinary projects in the field.

Fieldwork in Central Africa In the preface to Un Ancien Royaume Bandia (1967), Dampierre writes about his first mission to Bangassou, a town in the east of what is now the Central African Republic: In 1954, a French government agency asked myself and a colleague to go find out why the Nzakara, who were thought to have been dying out over the

past half-century, were having so few children. It was a time when government administrators, who often had difficulty posing the right questions, still didn’t know the answer. It was also a time when sociologists, unaware of their limits, wouldn't think of turning down an opportunity to work, no matter how uncertain the resources of their discipline.

Nzakaraland had never known researchers before us. It is no longer very common to be the first researchers to arrive anywhere in Africa. We had to scout things out before we could build a research project. That first year, we never took our boots off. And we still had to answer the question. It is not too far-fetched to suggest that there is no greater, more difficult or complex problem to address, whose meaning escapes us so mercilessly, than the problem that touches the meaning that humans attach to giving life. At the end of our first period of fieldwork (1954-1955), we were not able to satisfy those who had sent us, and, besides, their interests had already shifted to other matters.

Whether the difficulties were resolvable or not, we learned much by addressing them. Moreover, I developed respect for the way this old Zande society worked and affection for its political warriors, its intrepid poets, its witches, its noble diviners. (1967: 11)

Dampierre was hooked from the start, and returned to Bangassou in 1957-1958. He surmised that the Nzakara were in no way practising collective suicide by refusing to have children, as some had suggested. He asked that a physician go to Bangassou to explore medical reasons for the drop in natality. That physician was Dr Anne Laurentin, who in

1960-61 discovered that venereal diseases were probably causing infertility. She also took up ethnographic studies of her own. That first trip to Bangassou, commissioned by ORSTOM (Office de la Recherche Scientifique et Technique d’Outre-Mer), was the maiden

108 Margaret Buckner mission of the MSHO (Mission sociologique du Haut-Oubangui or Sociological Mission of the Upper Ubangui). The EPHE (Ecole pratique

des hautes études) and then the CNRS financed successive periods of fieldwork for the MSHO in 1957-1958 and 1964-1965, then annually from 1966 to 1979, and again annually from 1981 to 1987. Dampierre also went to Bangassou in 1960—1961.The MSHO had an office in the basement of the Musée de |’Homme in Paris, next to the office of Michel

Leiris and other Africanists. In the early 1980s, the MSHO joined the Laboratoire d’ethnologie et de sociologie comparative on the campus of the University of Paris X-Nanterre. The MSHO had a post office box (number 98) at the Bangassou post office at least until the mid-1990s. Dampierre established a research station on the outskirts of the town of Bangassou, at the home of a former plantation owner, Godeste, which also became the name of the station. The house, which sat in a clearing surrounded by forest, was made of stone, with a thatched roof; it had two large rooms and a small annex for washing. About twenty yards from the house, there was a smaller, round house that had a spare bedroom and a large shady porch that served as dining area. The station

became Dampierre’s second home, and he returned regularly for periods of several months until the late 1980s. He more or less adopted an extended Nzakara family to help run the research station, including a housekeeper, a cook, a driver, a mechanic, a groundskeeper and a few others. He would stop in at their village on the way to Bangassou, load

them all into his Land Rover and drive them to Godeste, where they would make themselves at home for the season. An aristocrat, he felt at home among the class-conscious Nzakara, a people who shared his interest in making living an art. With Godeste as his home base, Dampierre travelled the length and breadth of Nzakaraland, stopping in at villages and getting to know especially the elders who lived there. He also made excursions into Zandeland, going at least as far east as Mboki. On a few occasions, he would bring elders and musicians to the Godeste research station. One such festival of music and poetry took place on 19 November 1971; he supplied transport, room, board and drink to several renowned Nzakara harpist-poets so they could all relive the music, language and courtly ambience of yore.

Dampierre involved as many researchers as possible from other disciplines and backgrounds, inviting them to spend time at Godeste.

The list of guests and colleagues includes botanists, a geologist, a musicologist and a linguist, as well as other anthropologists. But fieldwork was not enough. He had to join in people’s lives and build relationships; people were not just objects of study but collaborators, friends and family, and he felt quite comfortable among them. In an

Eric de Dampierre and the art of fieldwork 109 earlier publication (Dampierre 1956), he had listed getting to know the

locals and participating in village life as a technique to gain better knowledge about them. In Africa, it no longer seemed that establishing

a warm relationship with one’s fellows was a means to an end; it became, instead, an end in itself. He was already ready to help, both monetarily and logistically; in emergencies his Land Rover often served

as the local ambulance. He taught sporadically at the lycée at Bangassou; he encouraged students there to pursue studies in sociology and ethnology, and sought financial backing for them to continue their studies in Bangui and eventually Paris.

Fieldwork philosophy For Dampierre, ethnology and sociology are really one and the same. He studied French villages and Nzakara villages using the same techniques

and methods: a combination of historical documents, interviews and

conversations with local people about their past and present, and detailed observation of behaviour, practices, and institutions. All three (historical documents, oral history, ethnography) reinforce each other. He had always been interested in social dynamics, in how and why societies change over time. To understand social and cultural processes and dynamics, a historical perspective is essential. Many, if not most, of his descriptions of Nzakara society of the nineteenth and early twentieth century are based on historical documents. His major work, Un Ancien Royaume Bandia, has a 70—page review of historical sources (Etude critique

des sources). But he combined historical accounts with an understanding gained from living among the Nzakara, learning their language, listening to their poets, learning their proverbs and observing their customs and traditions. In his dissertation defence, Dampierre explains: The method I used in this work is perhaps not completely recommended. Our British colleagues, who rightly insist that the ethnologist should observe behavior rather than listen to what people say or read old texts, warn us not to read the past into the present or read the present into the past. But that is exactly what I have done, while taking special precautions. The first, and the most important, is to do fieldwork before reading historical documents. One is often surprised to find, after five or ten years, new meaning in documents that at first seemed absurd, wrong, or crazy. One must, of course,

make the necessary transpositions, and, from the very beginning, understand how such or such behavior would have appeared to the innocent explorer or administrator. To that first effort I have added a second: to treat the European context and the African context in counterpoint. The

contrasting interpretations of the treaty between |King| Bangassou and

110 Margaret Buckner Vangele |Belgian explorer| provide a good example. Furthermore, one must spend a long time in a place in order to grasp the African reality behind the

administrative accounts (1968: 1-2).

He wove together written history and oral history to piece together the past, to sketch out past events that led to current social organisation. He had faith that oral history, properly gathered and interpreted, could be more reliable than second-, third-, and fourth-hand accounts recorded by European travellers and administrators. In a very slim book, Des ennemis, des arabes, des histoires (1983), Dampierre refutes the generally

accepted historical account that the Arab slave-trader Rabih invaded the Nzakara kingdom twice, vanquished the royal army and pillaged the territory. He demonstrates that skilfully gathering oral traditions yields better results than consulting the frequently erroneous accounts of European explorers. His concluding paragraph summarises the role of the ethnographer or oral historian: I have attempted here, after critically reviewing the sources, as all good

historians should, to reconstruct the collective experience of partial testimonies, scattered in space and time, and to understand that experience

through its reflection in the mirror of the outsider. In a society without writing, asking piecemeal questions in privacy gets only useless information

or answers that most please the interrogator. That is why continuously questioning the elders can only be useful over a lifetime and done in public. One must learn to get old. Contrary to what one often feels obliged to write, bringing that experience to the surlace has nothing to do with tradition. That very action, for the society that wants or accepts it, can actually preserve tradition. We need to know how to use tradition to uncover what refutes it. Such is the work of the mandrels, those modest intermediaries. (1983: 41)

Like Nzakara poets, Dampierre uses a metaphor to describe his role in the process: that of a mandrel. A mandrel is a cylindrical, rotating shaft that serves as an axis for a larger rotating part. He saw himself as a tool allowing the various partial memories of Nzakara experience to take shape in acoherent history, thus enabling the Nzakara to solidify their tradition.

Dampierre emphasised his point about the necessity of long-term fieldwork by offering a counterexample, in the form of an epigraph, on the same page: ‘We were so successful that at the end of two hours, the Pygmy had been sketched, measured, feasted, showered with gifts and submitted to a detailed interrogation’ (Schweinfurth 1875: 113). Using documents and texts from individual perspectives is something he had long thought about. In an early publication, ‘Le sociologue et l’analyse des documents personnels’ (1957), Dampierre proposed that using ‘personal documents [autobiographies, personal letters, diaries, drawings, unguided interviews faithfully transcribed], for the same time

Eric de Dampierre and the art of fieldwork ap and effort, provide much richer material than most other techniques used in social science’ (1957: 444). One must remember, he continued, that personal documents may not be sincere, may not be pertinent and may be affected by direct stimulation or solicitation. They also represent only one point of view. But they can be useful to ethnologists who are trying to reconstruct an indigenous culture from the inside. In the same

paper, Dampierre offers instructions on how to use such documents fruitfully, while avoiding the traps. In the field, he collected many kinds of personal documentation, both written (for example, by school-age Zande refugees living at the refugee camp in Mboki) and tape-recorded (especially life histories and historical narratives).

Dampierre learned the language — one of the first French ethnographers to do so — and he learned it well. People told me that he spoke Nzakara like an elder, which was a compliment indeed. Dampierre

was versed in phonology and linguistic theory, and he set about compiling a Nzakara dictionary. His understanding of the language allowed him not only to question and converse with the Nzakara but also to pay attention to people’s unsolicited, spontaneous comments, to how they formulate their ideas and to their choice of phrases and figurative expressions. Many of his findings are based on what he heard

people say, as well as what they never said. For example, when discussing musical instruments, he states, “To have been made by a child is a way for an object not to exist’ (1995: 68); in other words, saying that something was made by a child is saying that it is irrelevant.

Besides being a means to an end, Dampierre also considered the language as an end in itself. The language serves as a window into the culture. He used features of the language to support his ideas about the

Nzakara mode of thought and aesthetic. In a paper written in 1983 (Note de recherche n°12), he exposed the Nzakara catégories de lentendement in a structured table similar to studies of Greek categories.

We would spend hours discussing possible English, French and other translations for Zande words, always flitting through the pages of the Lalande Vocabulaire technique et critique de la philosophie.

Dampierre was drawn to the poetry and music of the Nzakara and Zande harpists. He travelled the length and breadth of Nzakara country to record the best harpists, lugging the Nagra, and later the Uher, tape recorders, along with microphones, batteries, cables, extra reels and so

on. He often encountered obstacles, such as technical malfunction, poor weather, illness, absences and funerals. He learned Nzakara poetry inside out, the ‘double speech’, the allusions, the idiomatic expressions, the figures of speech. Many of the examples in the dictionary he was compiling come from the poems. Throughout his books and articles, he refers to snatches of song that, through allusions and proverbs, reveal

TZ Margaret Buckner the inner workings of Nzakara society. Dampierre himself used language poetically. It is evident in his translations of ‘oral literature’

and texts, as well as in his writings. He published two volumes of Nzakara poetry (1963, 1987), which he rendered into French poetry. As anyone who worked with him knew, Dampierre was extremely observant, down to the finest details. Nothing escaped his interest. His observations were eclectic, all-inclusive, involving every facet of discourse and behaviour, from greetings to building houses to playing the harp to

fighting battles. No person, practice, technique or word was irrelevant. He talked with all members of society, commoners and nobles, young and

old, men and women; studying them in isolation is pointless, for their interaction is what holds a society together. Though he had tremendous admiration for Evans-Pritchard, Dampierre bemoaned the fact that he had not been able to include women in his fieldwork.* He sought guiding principles that held through different practices and institutions. For example, in Note de recherche no. 1 (1974), he argues that playing kisoro, a Zande and Nzakara board game, actually re-enacts the strategy and tactics of Zande armies as described by Evans-Pritchard

(1971). The game board consists of four rows of eight holes; each adversary has two rows and thirty-two ‘men’. Among the principles: territory is never conquered by force. Victory belongs to the side that weakens the enemy to the point of having no more warriors. Both sides play at the same time; there is no handicap at the start of a battle, and each side has an equal chance to win. The manoeuvres are parallel, but each adversary moves his men independently of the other’s movements. Captured men are immediately incorporated into the captor’s army. Strategy involves taking advantage of the imbalances of the opposing army in order to capture the most men, while at the same time not exposing one’s own army to attacks of the adversary. The best tactic is to

move the most men quickly, which tends to re-establish the starting positions by redistributing one’s army, and to take the most men to increase the size of one’s army. Thus, studying the way the Nzakara played kisoro also involved studying Nzakara and Zande military tactics. Similarly, he saw an analogy between the keys on a sanza (‘thumb piano’, an idiophone) and kinship (1982). As he watched a sanza-player work, he asked him questions and listened thoughtfully to his responses.

Through these technical conversations there gradually emerged a representation of the sounds and the scale. The series of keys is called the lineage. The bridge (chevalet) is called ‘the mother-in-law carrying children’. The six keys on one side are all slightly lower than the six keys on the other side: the elder and younger lineages. The keys are named:

the fathers (one on each side), the mothers (three on each side, including the favourite, the head wife, the ‘big wife’ who works for the

Eric de Dampierre and the art of fieldwork LA3 head wife, and two lesser wives; then four children, in birth order. Gilbert Rouget (1982) then studied the intervals between the key’s notes, and found that key number 7, the ‘big wife’, the one who always does whatever she likes, also sticks out musically, being asymmetrical.

Political organisation of the Bandia kingdoms Not surprisingly, since he was a graduate of the Institute of Political

Science, Dampierre’s early research focused on the _ political organisation of the Bandia kingdoms in the upper Ubangui and Uele

basins. His main question was the social foundations of political authority. He was well acquainted with Max Weber’s three types of legitimate rule: legal or rational authority, charismatic authority and traditional authority (Weber 1958 |[1922]). He seemed to use the

Bandia kingdom in Nzakaraland as a living example of Weber's traditional authority. He was especially interested in how the Bandia clan, foreigners in Nzakaraland, established their political power, and in how they made the Nzakara need them. He addressed this question in his dissertation defence: Every once in a while, we see appear in history what historians call a military

autocracy. Not long ago, P. de Vaux (1967) described the secret of the Horites in Genesis: ‘Once they infiltrated Palestine they seized power in the principal Palestinian cities and, without imposing their language or their customs, they quickly assimilated into the native populations.’ Those are

people who resemble our Bandia. But how did it happen? By what mechanisms, by what needs, by what liberties? Can one truly explain power

without analysing dependence? For power is in part violence, and the exercise of violence, like the exercise of war, is not an easy object of sociological study. Looking through the other end of the telescope is, I feel, more fruitful. How are the bonds of dependence in a given society woven, organized and hierarchized? That indeed makes a good object of study. (1968: 3)

Evans-Pritchard (1971) had studied the political organisation of the

Vungara dynasties in central and eastern Zandeland. Dampierre analysed the political organisation of the three Bandia dynasties in western Zandeland and Nzakaraland, and, in particular, the kingdom

of Bangassou. Out of ten or so Zande kingdoms, Evans-Pritchard studied the one farthest east (that of King Gbudwe, Vungara) and Dampierre studied the one farthest west (that of King Bangassou,

Bandia); between them, they thus covered the two ends of the geographical spectrum.

114 Margaret Buckner Ethnically, the Zande and Nzakara are very closely related; the two groups are so close that early explorers called the Nzakara ‘the Western

Zande’. They have virtually identical kinship systems, social and political organisation, and belief systems (witchcraft, oracles, magic and diviners). The Nzakara and Zande languages are still close enough to be mutually comprehensible for some native speakers; it is estimated that they diverged no more than 500 years ago. Between the Nzakaraspeaking kingdom of Bangassou and the western-most Zande-speaking kingdom, Rafai, the language boundary is fuzzy, with many bilinguals; there is also much intermarriage. Though the Zande and Nzakara shared a similar social and political organisation, there was a crucial structural difference between the two ruling dynasties. The Vungara were a native Zande clan who grew to dominate their own people and then expanded eastward to incorporate and Zande-ise foreign peoples. Conversely, the Bandia were foreign Negbandi-speakers who came north and adopted the Nzakara and Zande

language and customs even as they established political domination.

In a nutshell, the Vungara moved out, the Bandia moved in. This inversion led to further distinctions between the two dynasties. For example, the Vungara kingdoms were very unstable; a twenty-year period saw a new set of kingdoms. The Bandia, on the other hand, had

three very stable kingdoms. The Vungara princes, especially in the newer, easternmost regions, were each others’ worst enemies, while among the Bandia there was much less royal fratricide. While the Zande kingdoms (especially the eastern ones) were made up of diverse peoples, the Nzakara and western Zande were more homogenous. In Azande History and Political Institutions (1971), Evans-Pritchard

argued for the classic progression from hunters and gatherers to agriculture, which produced a surplus; the surplus was used by the Vungara for political advantage. The Vungara kings and princes, by

using permanent battalions of young warriors and the temporary labour of adult men to work their fields, and also by receiving tribute from the surrounding area, were able to control very large amounts of food, which they then redistributed in a way that strengthened their authority. The Vungara courts also assured stability, military protection

and justice for peoples who until then had been small-scale, autonomous groups. Food was given generously to feed the courtiers, the battalions and their leaders, and the people who came to the court for redress of wrongs or with requests of the king. Evans-Pritchard states that the king gave bridewealth (in the form of marriage spears) to anyone who asked. He also gave wives to loyal governors, military leaders and others who had shown him great service or loyalty. The number of subjects of a given king was directly related to the king’s

Eric de Dampierre and the art of fieldwork LIS hospitality, military strength and justice. Wars were fought to acquire subjects, who would contribute to the king’s stores and his labour and military pools.

Dampierre, however, in Un ancien royaume bandia (1967) and another publication (1971), describes a very different scenario for the Bandia conquest. In ancient Nzakara (and Zande) society, lineages were equal and wives were exchanged between lineages. No lineage was any better than any other. The circulation of women was strictly limited to marriage transactions. Families exchanged sisters and became allies. Each lineage was simultaneously wife-giver and wife-taker. In this system, a régime de la parentele, allies were assured (1971: 267). When

the Bandia arrived, they adopted the Nzakara and Zande system of kinship and alliance, but they co-opted the system and used it to their advantage. The Bandia were foreigners and needed to get into the good

graces of the local Nzakara and Zande population. They did this by supplying wives not to their relatives but to their clients (subjects).

Women went from being exchanged by lineage elders to being distributed by Bandia rulers. No longer was equality at the heart of the

exchange. By controlling the circulation of women, the Bandia developed clienteles at the expense of the traditional, egalitarian lineage

system. ‘A surplus of women and their distribution by the dominant clan are the keys of the new system, which, though it creates allies, is much better equipped to create subjects’ (1967: 294-95). Gradually, allegiance replaced alliance. Residence was no longer based on kin groupings, but on client groupings. To continue to be givers of wives, the Bandia needed a surplus of

women. Annual wars were fought not to expand territory or to incorporate more subjects into the kingdoms, but to bring back women

and girls to give away as wives to subjects as the Bandia pleased. Dampierre was explicit about the reasons for the wars: ‘The maximum acquisition of women became the means of government and renewed

the symbolic pomp of power’ (1967: 273). When the Europeans arrived, the well dried up. There were no more wars to capture women to distribute. And because the Europeans upheld the right of women to be married by compensation only, the Bandia were no longer able to distribute women as needed to maintain their authority; they lost their clients, without whom they ceased to be patrons. A later paper, ‘Les idées-forces de la politique des Bandia a travers les

propos de leurs souverains (18 70-1917)’ (1998), further contributes

to our understanding of the Bandia kingdoms. In it, Dampierre examines the kings’ own words to see how they themselves regarded their power. For example, King Djabir said to Commandant Francqui, ‘I cannot yet tell you which of my two sons will be designated by my people

116 Margaret Buckner to succeed me; certainly the best will be chosen, and whatever my people decide will be for the best’ (1998: 7). In his commentary, Dampierre explains that the king is chosen by a royal council, approved by the royal family and acclaimed by an assembly of adult men. Second, King Bangassou said he is ‘the master of people, not the guardian of

borders’ (ibid.). Dampierre comments that the notion of borders is totally foreign to African political life. In a third example, King Bangassou said to Bonnel de Méziéres: ‘You see the Kengu [Mbomu]| River? It is big because the other streams flow into it. It is the same with my chiefs: if they didn’t need my gifts, they would no longer come to me and I would be nothing’ (ibid.: 8). Dampierre explains that the power of a Bandia king only becomes authority when he renounces violence

and sets about meeting the needs of those who have sworn him allegiance. In other words, the king commands only because he redistributes food, goods and especially wives. Dampierre was as interested in the demise of the Bandia kingdoms as in their origin, and he also traced the breaking up of traditional Nzakara society. He once observed that the Zande, because they adopted new practices so readily, ‘bent’ as they adapted to the modern world, whereas the Nzakara, intent on defending their traditions, resisted and ‘broke’. He was saddened by the rupture he observed taking place between Nzakara elders and Nzakara youth, especially those who went to school. In his article ‘Coton noir, café blanc’ (1960), he describes in detail how the introduction of the plantation system was apparently the most

immediate source of conflicts and of the breaking up of traditional society. The paysannat system (used for coffee cultivation) brought about

important changes in cultural practices and modifications in the network of daily social relations. Traditional grouped fields were replaced by the strip plantation system. The new system accentuated the ‘injustices’ of the gendered division of labour: men had nothing left to do, since, traditionally, women did the work in the fields. The new

plantation system also upset the time frame for rotating fields: traditionally plots were planted for three or four years, then left fallow until the seventeenth year. Now, new plots would be cleared and planted each year, and would not be used again for seventeen years. Finally,

Dampierre commented on a more subtle aspect of the change: a paysannat system implies the existences of paysans, or peasants, in other

words, farmers who grow a surplus that will be sold in a market. But there can be no peasants until there are citizens (residents of a city); there can be no countryside without a city, since they are indissolubly tied together by a double flow of exchanges. The countryside cannot do

without the city, and the city cannot do without the countryside. Populations in the Mbomu did not yet have needs. The Nzakara did not

Eric de Dampierre and the art of fieldwork 117 produce more than they needed for their own subsistence, their traditional obligations and their taxes. Moreover, they often left some of their crops unharvested. The products of the city reached them only in the form of cloth and aluminium basins. Why would they want to double their income?

In this paper and others (for example, the chapter in Un ancien royaume bandia entitled ‘A model pillage economy ), Dampierre analyses in detail the motives and practices of the colonial powers and the trading

companies, in particular the Société des Sultanats, which sucked the land dry. He shows once again that a process or situation cannot be understood without considering the historical context and all the actors involved. In fact, in his dissertation defence (1968), he even considers

the reasons for colonisation in the first place, and especially the specificity of the French colonial context, by citing philosophers such as

Renan and colonial administrators such as Jules Ferry. The French colonist, according to Ferry (1892), ‘believes he is carrying out an act of civic virtue by leaving the land of his birth, and sees his motherland less as a benefactor than as having an obligation’ (cited in Dampierre 1968:

5). On the other hand, as Aron (1951: 70) says, the characteristic that all imperialist policies have in common is that they find their origin in the ‘political ambitions that chancelleries camouflaged (or rationalised) by invoking realistic motives’ (cited in Dampierre 1968: 6).

Nzakara poetry As mentioned earlier, Dampierre was drawn to the musical poetry of the Nzakara and Zande. That society's music and oral art became a second research theme. At first, he collected texts of the poems — sung by harpists as they played — to learn the language better and work on a Nzakara glossary, but the poetry appealed to him in its own right. Each song is a unique event, improvised on the spot, without recognisable beginnings or endings. The poets were often minstrels at royal courts; their social and political commentary was keen. The poems are full of

word-play, humour, irony, satire and stinging criticism veiled in metaphor. They also express the complaints and the desires of everyday

life. Finally, they are a chronicle of court life. He published Poétes Nzakara (1963) after spending many long months perfecting the translations of the harpists’ songs with the help of his Nzakara collaborator Robert Bangbanzi:; it was the first collection of texts to be published in the Nzakara language. The translations were all the more difficult in that French and Nzakara are very different languages, and in addition the texts were poems.

118 Margaret Buckner Besides the words of the songs, Dampierre bent his interest to the music itself, and to the instrument. He spent several years tracking down Zande harps that had found their ways into European museums. He corresponded with lute-makers, art historians and curators around the world. His two last books, Harpes zande (1992) and Une esthétique perdue (1995), are dedicated to harps, harp music and harpists, and have received enthusiastic reviews from international specialists.

‘Thinking in the singular’ A truly overarching theme that seemed to anchor Dampierre’s fieldwork is the Nzakara-Zande way of seeing and thinking the world in terms of the singular, in terms of more or less. In his 1984 book, Penser au singulier,

he proposed that the Nzakara ‘pensent au singulier’ — think in the singular. ‘Everything on earth has a singular existence. Nothing is identical, or equal, to anything else. Each thing or being is viewed in its difference’ (1984: 11). The Nzakara language cannot express identity. In other words, A and B cannot be identical, or equal, though they can be similar. Thus, two shadows made by the same person are aberrant and signs of disorder. No two people are identical, or equal. Among other things, this explains why the birth of twins — two ‘identical’ beings — is such a disruptive event. It also explains why counting human beings is rude. It implies they are interchangeable, that each has the same value

and characteristics as another. King Bangassou knew how many battalions he had, but not how many men fought in them. Lengths, distances, volumes and periods of time are not measured using abstract measurements. Distances are described in terms of days of walking, or number of streams crossed. Time is described by using points (sunrise, noon, sunset and so on). Quantities and surfaces are never divided into equal parts, for there must always be a remainder. Symmetry is avoided. Besides being different, or as a result of being different, each thing or being

is ranked or ordered. Notes on a musical scale, lineages, brothers, wives ... each occupies a place on an ordered scale and is thought of in that order. He observed this way of seeing the world in everyday life: women selling palm oil at the market (the ‘remainder’ was their profit), dividing a piece of food, building a roof or teaching mathematics at the lycée.

Dampierre observes that ‘thinking in the singular’ permeates the Zande-Nzakara aesthetic in rhythms, voice, musical scales, sculpture and performance. Harpists, singers and sculptors look for asymmetry, for individual, ‘singular’ performances, for ‘remainders’ rather than for

symmetry and regular rhythms, intervals or features. And, perhaps especially, no two harps or performances should ever be identical.

Eric de Dampierre and the art of fieldwork 119 In Une esthétique perdue (1995), one of his last publications, he calls

the Nzakara (and Zande) a ‘society of irreducible individualists’. He emphasises that this same way of thinking in the singular influences all Nzakara (and Zande) thought, discourse and practices. He asks: ‘isn’t an aesthetic, whatever its source, necessarily totalizing (totalisant)?’ He seeks to describe ‘an aesthetic of the singular, which I think is at work in several areas: rhetoric, sculpture, music’ (1995: 14). From morning to night, all Nzakara thinking heads think in terms of more and less, of excess and deficiency (... and also elder and younger, father and

son, head wife and favorite), just as pre-Socratics who would have understood why Plato replaced the One and the Infinite of Pythagorus with the One and the Dyad of the Greater and the Lesser (1995: 16).

In Accord entre deux harpes, accord entre deux voix en Afrique équatoriale’ (Note de recherche n° 29, 1994), he relates this principle to the voice, especially in chantefables, the cycle of Trickster tales that alternate sung parts and spoken narrative: Not only does the singing voice oppose the speaking voice, but it is sung at an octave of the normal speaking voice. |...] The ‘head voice’, sometimes a falsetto (throat voice, voix de faucet), is opposed to the chest voice. |...| In chantefables, this head voice designates the intervention of a supernatural operator, either to transpose the action from the everyday world to a special world of marvels, or to bring the action back to the everyday world. |...]| Head voice and falsetto could be considered variants of an octave voice, though it is more complex. An ‘octave voice’ alone would be considered ‘the same’ as a normal voice. I would propose the following hypothesis: with regard to Nzakara court music, the conscious discussion among musicians keeps coming back to an

antinomy between the ‘impossible’ unison and the ‘obvious’ antiphony (octave consonance), between the impossible same and the Other that passes for the same. To escape this unsolvable antinomy, the best solution is the Dyad of more and less, of Excess and Deficiency. (1994: 2-3)

A footnote ties the Nzakara to the Greeks (something he did often); he cites Aristotle’s comment that ‘mixed is always more agreeable than homogenous’. He also tied ‘thinking in the singular’ to rhythms: there is always something left over; rhythms are staggered, they always have a gap, a lag, an irregular interval. For the Nzakara and Zande, the distinction is there, in the fine analysis of the repetitions. But distinction is not difference, distinction is not a relationship,

because all true relations imply the analysis of the particular and would

T20) Margaret Buckner reveal some level of participation of the being. We remain faced with the Dyad to create formulas, fleeing all strictly equivalent relations. That notion,

described in the mind of a [Greek] philosopher, is found again, in the societies of the Upper-Ubangui, shaping the daily, lived experience, starting with that of musicians. (ibid.: 18)

Then, in one of his last papers, ‘Le reste €pimore’ (Note de recherche n°

33, revised version, 1996), he makes perhaps his clearest description of ‘thinking in the singular’: I continue searching for the basis of the practices described in Penser au singulier and Une esthéthique perdue concerning the rejection of equal sizes,

the rejection of symmetrical areas and the rejection of commensurate durations. The rejection correlates with the emphasis put on ‘remainders’, which are not truly remainders since no exhaustive procedure to reach a limit was sought. These ‘remainders’, which make calculations troublesome, are conceived of by Zande and Nzakara as a privileged property of nature that only human will can, in certain cases and under certain conditions, get rid of.

These practices in the Upper-Ubangui, which lead to the explicit formulation of ‘thinking in the singular’, render vain — illusory, even scandalous by nature — all relations of identity, whatever they may be. (1996, passim)

Finally, in ‘Les idées-forces de la politique des Bandia a travers les propos

de leurs souverains (1870-1917) (1998), Dampierre shows how the singular had been enacted politically and how it came to an end by a

political act. Here he summarises the important change that was brought about consciously by Bandia rulers: In the 1880s, Bangassou declared by an oath before the shrine Bendo — and

not at the ancestors’ shrine — that from now on he would reign over an immense people, made up of foreigners from all over. It was a historic moment: the oath before Bendo is the equivalent of a reform of Clisthenes.

The sovereign solemnly renounces the ancestral foundations of his authority. He renounces treating people in the singular organized by descent and alliance, kin ties and clienteles. Lineage affiliation will no longer be the organizing principle of his people. |...|

Bendo is the refusal of natural determinism, the subversion of superdetermined order. It is the inauguration of civil society. The lineages rebelled. The king’s own sister turned the Bendo shrines upside-down, ‘to save the throne of her father, Mbali’. This inversion of accepted values could only have been carried out by the king. The decision created identical subjects, and, in particular, treated Arabs, Whites, and Blacks on the same level. Bendo, the friend of women, the protector of harvests, had presided over the identification of everyone

Eric de Dampierre and the art of fieldwork ial with everyone. A universalist rule had appeared. The singular, which is ignorant of the distinction between the particular and the universal, had lived politically. (1998: 13-14)

It is this idea of ‘thinking in the singular’ that guided Dampierre’s research and writing since the early 198Qs. The idea was born of and borne out by his observations and experiences during long, repeated periods of fieldwork among the Nzakara.

Dampierre’s legacy First and foremost, thanks to his skilled, intense, long-term fieldwork, Dampierre helped preserve the history, language, knowledge and music of the Nzakara for the Nzakara themselves. He showed that he was conscious of that contribution in the introduction to Un ancien royaume bandia (1967): Akabati, Zangandu, Nukusa, Kaali, Gbesende, Vugba, Sayo and others who offered me hospitality have now died without knowing that, in talking with me, they were also writing their people’s history. Their sons, all too conscious

of their past because they want to be someone else, are reclaiming that history out of fear of never knowing it. If, nevertheless, this book, by some dreadful trick of history, could transmit to the sons the knowledge of their fathers, it would take its place among the uncertain fruits of those few, very

rare years in human history: those few years in which our common civilization — impoverished because become one, but infinitely rich in a history it endlessly recreates while at the same time making a project of its future —encounters and immediately but impertinently relates the complex splendour of societies that live in the present, content with their origins, but discovering, for the first and the last time, the face of the outsider in the hearts of their children. (1967: 12)

Dampierre laid the groundwork for us to follow. In the preface of Une esthétique perdue, he challenges us to continue to search for what makes the Nzakara and Zande society so distinct: We hope that these |...] projects will be completed. As of now, it clearly seems

that the ideas elaborated elsewhere to explain the sculpture and music of central Africa do not allow us to understand the particularity/uniqueness of Zande society. That should not be surprising: different analyses for different societies. It must be said that, after a century of work, the deepest workings of this society of irreducible individualists still escape us. |...] We must one day undertake head-on a study of Nzakara and Zande rhetoric. It goes without saying that what is said must be qualified by the discourse

12 Margaret Buckner situation and context. But we must also ask ourselves a less obvious question: can an entire society wish daily for the same and its contrary in order to escape the vicissitudes of human life? |...] This edited collection, preceded and followed by other works, is only a milestone on a very difficult road, on a wild goose chase whose first entrant was E. E. Evans-Pritchard. |...] We know that others will have to join us, others that the generous and rigorous analysis of the ways of African aesthetics also sometimes keep from

sleeping. (1995: 10-11)

The office of the Mission Sociologique du Haut-Oubangui, currently attached to the Laboratorie d’ethnologie et de sociologie comparative at the University of Paris-X (Nanterre), is one of Dampierre’s most impressive legacies and is a monument to his fieldwork. He collected published and unpublished works dealing with the general area of the Upper Ubangui as well as neighbouring peoples. He deposited there for the use of interested researchers miles of recorded tapes (both music and narrative, in Nzakara, Zande and, more rarely, Sango), hundreds of photographs (both historical and those he himself took in the field), the complete genealogical records of the various lineages of the Bandia clan

going back some fourteen generations, a map collection, a plant collection, a French-Nzakara dictionary and dozens of indexed field notebooks. Because he used historical sources so painstakingly yet successfully, he was very much aware of the importance of leaving proper records of his own observations and experiences; his field notebooks — all fifty or so of them — are numbered, paginated, indexed

and cross-referenced, furnishing evidence and examples for his published works and unpublished papers. Finally, Eric de Dampierre will be remembered for and by his students and colleagues at both the Department of Ethnology and the Laboratoire d’ethnologie et de sociologie at the University of Paris X. As director of

those institutions, and then as an ‘elder’, he instilled in all of us the importance of thorough, careful fieldwork. Long, repeated periods in the

field were crucial, as was learning the language. He was sceptical of ethnographers who went only once to the field, did not stay long, and did not learn the language well. His principles were passed on through his graduate seminars and supervision of dissertations. The emphasis on fieldwork that he instilled in ethnology at Nanterre lives on. As the Nzakara would insist, he was a man hors par — without equal.

Eric de Dampierre and the art of fieldwork 125 Notes 1. Dampierre wrote a total of thirty-eight notes de recherche (‘research notes’) of varying lengths and on a variety of subjects. Six were later revised and published. They are located in the office of the Mission sociologique du Haut Oubangui, at the University of Paris-X (Nanterre). 2. Dampierre continued working on UNESCO projects even after he began carrying out fieldwork in Africa. In 1959, he was named programme specialist at UNESCO and

was responsible for the section on human rights and the struggle against racial discrimination. In 1960, he travelled to Jerusalem and to the Negev for UNESCO to undertake sociological research on irrigation in arid zones. 3. Poetes nzakara (2 volumes, 1963, ms.; Poetes nzakara II is a finished manuscript but was not published); also Satires de Lamadani (1987, text and cassette). 4. Dampierre had only compliments for Evans-Pritchard’s ethnography of ‘the Zande society,

which has been so magnificently studied since 1927 by E.E. Evans-Pritchard, whom I

could not sufficiently praise for his scrupulous exactitude’ (1967: 247). He read everything Evans-Pritchard had written about the Zande. He sent Evans-Pritchard a draft of at least some chapters of his dissertation, and he visited him on at least a few occasions.

References Aron, R. 1951. Les guerres en chaine, Paris: Gallimard.

— 1968. Main currents in sociological thought I, Garden City, NY: Doubleday and Company. Translation of first half of Les étapes de la pensée sociologique, Paris: Gallimard, 1967. Chirac, A. 1897. Sociométrie, Revue Socialiste, 6(34) (October). Dampicrre, E. de. 1948. Sociométrie: note étymologique, Echanges sociologiques, 2: 6 3-66.

— 1951. Sur deux different types d’hérétiques, unpublished ms., 5 pp. — 1956. Malvire-sur-Desle: une commune aux [ranges de al région parisienne, L' Information géographique, 20: 68—7 3.

— 1957. Le sociologue et l’analyse des documents personnels, Annales, 12: 44254.

— 1960. Coton noir, café blanc, Cahiers d'études africaines, 2: 128-47. —— ]1963. Poetes nzakara, vol. 1, Paris: Julliard. — 1967. Unancien royaume Bandia du Haut-Oubangui, Paris: Plon. —— 1968. Présentation de theses soumises a la faculté des letters de Université de Paris en vue du grade de docteur és letters, unpublished manuscript. — ]97]. Elders and youngers in Nzakara kingdom, in Kinship and culture, E.L.K. Hsu (ed.), Chicago: Aldine Publishing Company, 246-70. —— 1982. Sons ainés, sons cadets, Revue de musicologie, 68: 325-9. — 1983. Des ennemis, des arabes, des histoires, Paris: Société d’ Ethnographie. —— 1984. Penser au singulier, Paris: Société d’Ethnographie. —— ]987. Satires de Lamadani, Paris: Armand Colin (2 vols, with cassette). —— ]992. Harpes zandeé, Paris: Klincksieck. — 1994. Accord entre deux harpes, accord entre deux voix en Afrique équatoriale, Note de recherche, no. 29, 1-4. —— 1995. Une esthétique perdue, Paris: Presses de |’ENS.

— ]1996. Le reste épimore, Note de recherche no 33, 1-3. —— 1998. Les idées-forces de la politique des Bandia a travers les propos de leurs souverains (1870-1917), Africa, 53(1): 1-16.

124 Margaret Buckner Evans-Pritchard, E.E. 1971. Azande, History and Political Institutions, Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Ferry, Jules 1892. Rapport sur lorganisation et les attributions du gouverneur general de l’Algérie, Paris: Imprimerie nationale. Moreno, Dr. 1943. Sociometry and the cultural order, Sociometric Monograph, 2: 318 (cited in Dampierre 1948). Rouget, G. 1982. Note sur l'accord des sanza d’Ebézagui, Revue de musicologie, 68: 3 30-44. Schweinfurth, G. 1875. Au coeur de l’Afrique, 1868—187 1: voyages et découvertes dans les régions inexplorées de l’Afrique centrale, vol. 2, Paris: Hachette. Vaux, P. de. 1967. CR [Compte rendu? |, Academic inscr. et belles-lettres (cited in Dampierre

1968). Weber, M. 1958 [1922]. The three types of legitimate rule, Berkeley Publications in Society

and Institutions 4(1): 1-11.

Chapter 5

WHAT SORT OF ANTHROPOLOGIST WAS PAUL RIVET? Laura Rival

Few anthropologists today know who Paul Rivet was. Even in France,

where he played a central role in shaping the discipline during the interwar years, the name of Paul Rivet evokes only vague memories:

‘Rivet, the Director of the Museum of Mankind?’ ‘Rivet, the Americanist?’ ‘Didn't he write that controversial book on the origins of American Indians?’ The name is known, but no one seems to remember Rivet’s theoretical contribution or teaching. Rivet was a medical doctor, military officer, field naturalist, collector,

physical anthropologist, ethnologist, linguist, a builder of academic institutions and a politician — indeed, a success in all these professions.

He became an anthropologist while working in the field in the Ecuadorian Andes. His five years of fieldwork little resembled the classic

ethnographic fieldwork that Malinowski was to undertake in the Trobriands ten years later, but they nevertheless determined the range

of issues, methods and theoretical questions he was to explore throughout his long career. Even though he may have been practically erased from the discipline’s collective memory today, Rivet’s work shaped and influenced the development of post-Second World War social anthropology in France, including Lévi-Strauss’s structuralism.

Moreover, his holistic and humanist vision of anthropology as the science of humankind, as well as his political commitment to educating

the public about the value of cultures other than their own, are surprisingly relevant today. Indeed, as I suggest in the conclusion, they are perhaps even more relevant today than at any time since his death

in 1958.

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x. . ° Z ° 7 a ° ° ° ° . +"ee a . °e "e° .7aE *° =e 5: .;. eees Paul Rivet’s multi-stranded career

The second of six children, Paul Adolphe Rivet was born on 7 May 1876 in Wasigny, a small village in Lorraine.' He started school near Nancy, in the village of Blénod-les-Toul, where his father, a soldier who had lost his right arm during the Franco-Prussian war, worked as a tax

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ae- ~| ?° Figure 10.1. Louis Dumont, taken by himself, among the Kallar, Tamil Nadu (India), with his chief informant, Muttusami Tevar, 1949. Courtesy Mme Dumont.

Louis Dumont oy Dumont was taken prisoner early in the war and sent to Germany. He

was set to work as a field hand, then as a worker in a factory in a Hamburg suburb. During his spare time in captivity he not only learned

German but also translated three German books on French folklore. Feeling at some point that he had done enough of this, he asked his wife to send him materials with which he could learn Sanskrit. Even more extraordinary, with the connivance of a guard he was not only able to

meet Walther Schubring, an expert on the Jains, but to take weekly lessons from him in Sanskrit too. After the War, in 1945, he resumed his activities at the Musée des Arts et Traditions Populaires, in which capacity he undertook a study of the southern French festival of La Tarasque, the subject of his first major written work (Dumont 1951). Simultaneously he studied Hindi and Tamil in preparation for fieldwork in India, which he was able to

undertake from 1948 through a scholarship obtained for him by the eminent French Sanskritist, Louis Renou. He himself describes this period as one of unremitting hard work. Dumont therefore started his substantive career in anthropology relatively late, at the age of 38. His first trip to India lasted two years altogether, including eight months with the Pramalai Kallar, a Shudra caste of former warriors and bandits in Tamil Nadu. It resulted in his only fieldwork monograph, Une sous-caste de Inde du Sud (1957c). After a further brief sojourn with the Musée des Arts et Traditions Populaires,

at the instance of Furer-Haimendorf he went to Oxford in 1951 to replace M. Srinivas, a former student of Radcliffe-Brown’s, as Lecturer in Indian Sociology in the then Institute of Social Anthropology. This was during Evans-Pritchard’s tenure of the chair, and Dumont referred to this period as a kind of ‘second training’ (in Galey 1982b: 18). In 1955 he returned to Paris, took his doctorate, and was appointed to the chair of the Sociology of India, later changed to a chair in Comparative Sociology, at the 6th section of the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes (later the Maison des Sciences de l’Homme), where he remained for the

rest of his career. He apparently owed this appointment in great measure to Lévi-Strauss and Lucien Febvre. Immediately after his appointment he set up the Centre d’Etudes Indiennes en Sciences Sociales, which became the Centre d’Etudes de |l’Inde et del’ Asie du Sud

in 1967, though he left this to pursue other interests in 1970. In 1976 he founded ERASME (Equipe de Recherche en Anthropologie Sociale: Morphologie, Echanges), a research team set up by CNRS (the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique) with the aim of comparing whole cultures on the basis of their key values (the latter being a basic concept in Dumont’s mature thought). These years also saw the launch in 1977

of a book series jointly published by the Maison des Sciences de

238 Robert Parkin l"Homme and Cambridge University Press. In 1982 ERASME was taken over by Daniel de Coppet, but following his death in 2002 it broke up. From 1955, Dumont spent fifteen months intermittently in a village in Uttar Pradesh, but was neither as inspired by nor as successful in this second period of fieldwork, of which little was published, despite plans

for a monograph on mourning. It was here, however, that he was confronted with renunciation, from which he later developed the important notion of the out-worldly individual, a fulcrum in his later comparison between India and the West. Instead of writing up this stint of fieldwork, he turned to global accounts of Indian civilisation, first in the semi-popular La civilisation indienne et nous (1964) and then in his major work, Homo hierarchicus: essai sur le systeme de castes (1966a). Many of the articles in Contributions to Indian Sociology, the journal he

founded in 1957 with his former student David Pocock, were a preparation for this task (Pocock ceased to be editor in 1964, Dumont

in 1967). Subsequently Dumont turned to the study of European ideology, which he saw as fundamentally reversing Indian ideology in stressing both equality and individualism. This led to the two volumes of Homo aequalis, Genése et épanouissement de lidéologie économique

(1977) and L'idéologie allemande (1991), the first charting the emergence of economic thought as a separate domain from politics in Europe, the second demonstrating variations in individualism in Europe (specifically Germany in relation to France). This was supplemented by a collection of papers entitled Essais sur lindividualisme: une perspective anthropologique sur lidéologie moderne (1983b). All of these works were eventually translated into English apart from La civilisation indienne et nous. To complete the picture there is his work on kinship, some of the major works being collected together in the volume Affinity as a value

(1983a), including the comparative paper Hierarchy and marriage alliance in south India (originally 1957b), but also consisting of a course

of lectures given in Paris on descent theory and alliance theory, Introduction a deux théories d’anthropologie sociale (1971).

Ideas Dumont is known today principally as a structuralist, indeed the leading

structuralist of his generation in French anthropology after LéviStrauss himself. Intellectually, however, his thought developed, even changed radically during the early part of his career. His involvement with the Musée des Arts et Traditions Populaires seems to have given him not only an interest in material culture, which was still to be found in Sous-caste, but also a diffusionist perspective on the past, which

Louis Dumont Z2o9 stimulated his interest in south India specifically. This was because he was influenced to begin with by sub-stratum theories that postulated, in this part of India, a Brahmanical or ‘Aryan’ veneer to local society and

ideology that had been diffused to the area from north India but that now existed over an earlier and indigenous Dravidian base. Although this view has since been superseded in mainstream anthropology, not least thanks to Dumont’s own efforts, it has more recently entered political discourses advocating a specifically Dravidian national identity

and the rejection of Aryan’ influences from the north. But it was initially because of a desire to get at the Dravidian sub-stratum that

Dumont chose to study a middle-ranking caste remote from Brahmanical influences, in a village without Brahmans. However, Dumont had also gone out to India having read in proof the relevant chapters of Lévi-Strauss’s Les structures élémentaires de la parenté (1949), with which the author had himself provided him. This, plus the fact that the Tamils themselves, ‘born sociologists’ according to Dumont (in Galey 1982b: 21), thought like structuralists in terms of binary oppositions between kin and affines, quickly led Dumont to see

structuralism, not diffusionism, as the best approach towards understanding south Indian social organisation. This was the second profound change in attitude he experienced, the first having been the

discovery of Mauss, which initiated the shift in his thought from

cultural to sociological approaches that was completed by his experiences of south India and of Oxford (the latter still had something

of its Radcliffe-Brownian tradition of social rather than cultural anthropology that itself drew on Durkheimian precedents). Substratum theories and survivals were therefore progressively abandoned by Dumont in favour of a combination of Maussian sociological holism and what became an original form of structuralism. I shall return to

the significance of Mauss’s teaching for Dumont’s comparisons between India and the West later.

These sociological and structuralist influences remained with Dumont henceforward, though he was never a slavish imitator of any of them, his structuralism in particular developing in markedly different directions from Lévi-Strauss’s. As Toffin (1999: 12) remarks, although

meaning is still present in Dumont’s structuralism, values replace signifiers and signifieds, and hierarchy replaces structuralism of what

might be called here the ‘simple’ sort of Lévi-Strauss: in short, hierarchical oppositions involving encompassment, and reversal between differently constructed levels, replace simple binary oppositions that may or may not be asymmetric and whose reversal is a matter of different contexts only. However, as Toffin also points out, these differences from Lévi-Strauss are more apparent in Dumont’s

240 Robert Parkin work on India and modernity than in his studies of kinship, where indigenous values are of lesser importance than general principles. Another way of putting this is that Dumont’s work on kinship freed itself less from Lévi-Straussian structuralism than his studies of caste and European modernity. And Galey makes the further point that, unlike Lévi-Strauss’s structuralism, Dumont’s ‘does not aim at defining the universal through the similarities of a human nature postulated a

priori’ (1982a: 8). The focus on values permits Dumont to attempt instead ‘to recapture the entirety of mankind through the recognition of intrinsic dissimilarities’ (ibid.: 9). As Moffat hints, however, Sous-caste too is closer to Lévi-Straussian structuralism than Dumont’s later work on India: ‘In the years since Une

sous-caste, the divergences have become increasingly apparent. Dumont’s structuralism is more concretely grounded in particular intersocietal comparisons; it has a stronger interest in social action; and it is more relative and reflexive’ (1986: xix). Sous-caste recognises fully the importance of the dichotomy between pure and impure, and therefore of status, among the Pramalai Kallar, but the absence of Brahmans from the village Dumont worked in means that the relation of status to power

is left aside here. And although the importance of hierarchy is recognised, it is not problematised as it was to be in Homo hierarchicus and related work. This is significant in light of the frequent charge that Dumont’s overall account of caste is excessively Brahmanical: to the extent that this charge can be made to stick, it does not apply to Souscaste. The early numbers of Contributions also represent a decisive and explicit break with the past. This was quite deliberate from the outset. Thus Dumont and Pocock downgraded earlier tribal studies, which had dominated the anthropology of India hitherto — despite tribes being a definite minority of the population — in favour of an advocacy of the study not just of caste, but of the caste system. Thus although history, including Maussian world history, remained important in Dumont’s later work, with world-historical perspectives even becoming central later on, the flirtation with diffusionist survivals and sub-strata had disappeared from his writings by the late 1950s. At that point in his career, his attention became focused rather on the need to study a society like the caste system synchronically and holistically, as a coherently functioning and structured phenomenon, not as a series

of historical layers and accidental accretions. Caste was also to be treated as comprehensible in terms of its own values, which were fundamentally religious, not as a pathological or degenerate system of

naked power and oppression. As Madan (1999: 479) points out, Dumont controversially saw caste as resolving conflict, unlike totalitarianism, which was the elevation of power as a value in its own

Louis Dumont 241 right. Dumont also doubted whether caste could be reformed: it could

only cease to exist. From this point of view, modern competition between castes represented a change not in fundamental values but in behaviour, a change produced, furthermore, by external influences introduced under the cover of modernity. His work on kinship is perhaps even more striking in respect of the adoption of synchronic, holistic, sociological perspectives over purely historical and cultural ones, as in the famous article of 1953 on ‘The Dravidian kinship terminology as an expression of marriage’. Although this part of his corpus is relatively small, it is in part concerned to see in what he called ‘positive marriage rules’ — elsewhere ‘prescriptive alliance’ or ‘cross-cousin marriage’ — a system found in all parts of the world, even where historical links are unknown, in the manner of LéviStrauss. This stands in marked contrast to his arguments that caste is unique to India. It is exemplified by his re-examination of Australian as well as Indian material on kinship (the parallels between Australia and south India in their both having systems of prescriptive alliance, though with differences in detail, are well known), as well as his lectures on kinship (Dumont 1971). But even within India, there were two other examples in which he sought to understand kinship in comparative, universal terms. One was his largely failed attempt to argue away the acknowledged differences between north and south Indian kinship, which he himself recognised was problematic (Dumont 1957a). The other, much more convincing, was his demonstration that the highly unusual system of affinity (if such it was) of the matrilineal Nayar in Kerala could be understood in terms of wider, pan-Indian values and practices (Dumont 198 3a). As already indicated, a third major impact on Dumont, apart from Mauss and structuralism, was his four-year sojourn in Oxford with Evans-Pritchard. Although Dumont evidently doubted whether the great man entirely understood what he (Dumont) was trying to do, he saw in The Nuer, with its demonstration of the relativity of groups

through unending processes of fission and fusion, the work of a structuralist manqué (Dumont 1968). He may also have been influenced by Evans-Pritchard’s notion of anthropology as essentially a process of

translation (cf. Madan 1999: 476-77). More than anything, though, the experience seems to have drawn Dumont away from what I would claim is the common division of labour in France between ethnography and theory, and towards a more Anglo-Saxon situation where it is more usual for anthropologists to contribute to both. Certainly, according to Galey (2000: 325), ‘he admired British ethnography’, and Sous-caste, his only ethnographic monograph, is noticeably influenced by it. This, plus his interest in India, led him to produce the great majority of his

242 Robert Parkin work in English, either originally or through eventual translation, which he always controlled very directly. He is therefore probably the

best-known French anthropologist of his generation in the AngloSaxon world, for many even ahead of Lévi-Strauss himself. Indeed, he is perhaps better known in Britain, America and of course India than in

his native France, despite his being made a Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur in 1987 (with Georges Dumézil making the presentation at

Dumont’s home in Paris). Together with his reluctance to become involved in wider political issues and his readiness to occupy a single post in his career after 1955, this helped cushion him from some of the competition and rivalries of the Parisian academic hothouse. Other intellectual positions that Dumont adopted can be traced right back to his study of the popular festival in southern France known as La Tarasque, which he set not only in its regional context in southern France,

but also in the wider context of Mediterranean Christianity. Thus the study combined anthropological fieldwork with a consideration of the wider context of his study, using insights drawn from history. This recognition of different contexts is also found in his later work on India —

though stretched out over all his subsequent major writings rather than condensed into just one — and with a similarly varied methodology. Fieldwork in south India described the specifics of a particular caste in a

particular region, Tamil Nadu. This led to a regional south Indian comparison of kinship in an extended paper, Hierarchy and marriage alliance in south India (Dumont 1957b), then to wider comparisons focusing essentially on the different forms of relationship between kinship

and caste in north and south India (see especially Dumont 1966b). As far as India was concerned, this process culminated in the overall account presented in Homo hierarchicus (Dumont 1966a), which drew, as already noted, on localised ethnographies (mainly by other anthropologists) as well as the more global insights of history and Indology. In this regard, it

is a pity that Dumont’s fieldwork in north India was so much less successful that his research in Tamil Nadu. Not only was the area physically less pleasant, dry and dusty, and the people not really ‘born sociologists’ like the Tamils, but the absence of his wife on this trip

evidently upset him somewhat, as did persistent sickness. More specifically, though, the village he chose had thirty-six castes living in it, unlike the Tamil village, where it was a simpler matter to concentrate on just one caste. The idea behind his later trip to Uttar Pradesh was to extend

regional comparison within India. In the event, in Homo hierarchicus Dumont had to rely instead on the often outmoded work of earlier anthropologists to give him a solid ethnographic basis for north India. But this was not the end of the process of continually expanding comparative horizons, for Dumont’s work on European ideology, taken

Louis Dumont 243 together with that on India, could be seen as forming the starting point for a global comparison of what he called non-modern and modern societies. By the time of the work on Europe, ethnography had been left

behind and general ideas had replaced observed facts. The source material is rather history, especially the history of ideas, to which Dumont’s own account is often seen as having contributed. The chief inspiration here again appears to have been Mauss. Although Mauss's

influence on Dumont is usually seen in terms of his holism and sociology, Dumont’s overall approach to historical change, even after his conversion to structuralism, was also influenced by the distinctive evolutionism of the Année sociologique school that is perhaps most clearly represented by Mauss. Indeed, Dumont’s overall comparison of

India and Europe is cast in the world-historical terms of a contrast between non-modern and modern ideologies, in a manner very similar to that routinely adopted by this school. And like much of its work, Dumont’s typological sequences do not entirely match the historical ones: in particular, while the India Dumont discusses as the paradigm

of non-modern societies is contemporary, the Europe of modern ideology is mostly historical. Similarly, the separation of economic from political ideas charted in Homo aequalis I resembles a disassembling in

modernity of aspects of a phenomenon that were fused together primordially, which one finds regularly in the writings of the Année sociologique school and forms a significant aspect of their specific version of evolutionism (cf. Parkin 2001: Ch. 13).

A further influence of the Année Sociologique on Dumont as represented by Mauss concerns the virtues of cooperative work in academic activities. But this was not the only, nor even the first example he had encountered that had this impact on him: there was also his early work in the Musée des Arts et Traditions Populaires, where Dumont and his colleagues saw their work in preserving France’s folklore heritage as ‘a duty as much as a profession’, in Toffin’s words (1999: 8). Similar attitudes informed his later work. Early articles in Contributions were

unsigned, to indicate that they were the joint work of the two editors (Dumont and Pocock), a policy soon abandoned, however, as it came to be feared that it was discouraging other scholars from taking part in these debates. Dumont conceived of the study of India as a joint project not only between Indologists and anthropologists, but also between anthropologists undertaking fieldwork in different parts of India, who provided the local factual underpinnings to his synthetic view of the whole. This is represented not only in the use made of various materials in Homo hierarchicus, in terms of both geographical regions and different disciplines, but also in his engagement with other specialists from these

disciplines after his foundation of the Centre d’Etudes Indiennes en

244 Robert Parkin Sciences Sociales (Toffin 1999: 9). ERASME too was intended to go beyond the usual levels of cooperation, even producing one text jointly

authored by four of its members (Barraud et al. 1984). In general Dumont appears to have regarded joint work as more akin to scientific research, though he also felt that this was difficult to sustain in the social sciences, where the individual researcher is the norm, resulting in what he called ‘a chronic instability in the major interest or interests of the profession’ (in Galey 198 2b: 20). This feeling can also be connected with Dumont’s overall view of the scholar’s task. An immensely hard-working and precise scholar, with an eye for detail as well as the wider picture, he explicitly saw himself as

an artisan or craftsman as much as an intellectual, as comes out especially strongly in his interviews with Jean-Claude Galey (1982b) and Christian Delacampagne (1981: 4), to whom he described himself as ‘a jobbing social anthropologist’. He felt he had a duty to other researchers coming later who might want to use his work in being as

comprehensive as possible. Thus Sous-caste, being intended as a comprehensive account of a particular caste, contains data on many matters not of pressing concern to Dumont himself but provided in case they might be of value to scholars coming afterwards. Indeed, as Moffat points out (1986: xviii), while the earlier chapters in that book are based on observation, the later ones reflect more directly the people’s own collective representations; it is easy to see that it is the latter that most

interested Dumont, especially in respect of his later work. Another aspect of his craftsmanship was that, although allegedly sensitive, even

hostile to criticism (cf. Madan 1999: 490), he was also prepared to revise his own work, as shown in his successive studies of north Indian

kinship (e.g. Dumont 1962, 1975) and his occasional replies to his critics. Moffat called him ‘a good experimentalist’ (1986: xvi), while Galey remarked that he ‘was neither a man of systems nor a figurehead’

(2000: 326), but one scholar among many cooperating scholars, though undoubtedly at least primus inter pares to his followers. Rarely engaging as a scholar in the wider world of affairs, Dumont nonetheless clearly had a scepticism of egalitarianism, recognising that

it had its limits, beyond which ordinary moderns were no longer prepared to recognise it (as with race in the West); thus his attitude here was, in a sense, ethnographic, not ideological. He was similarly sceptical,

mainly in conversations reported by others, of the notion of human rights in contemporary international discourses, seeing it as a form of universalism based ultimately upon the atomising and egalitarian values of Western modernity, and therefore quite possibly of doubtful relevance to other traditions (cf. de Coppet 1990: 123-24, Galey 2000: 327).

Louis Dumont 245 Applications Although he is often compared with de Tocqueville, Dumont’s career thus reversed the earlier Durkheimian project of Célestin Bouglé, who began studying Western notions of equality before turning to India. Bouglé, who never visited India, certainly understood it less well than Dumont and blamed all its alleged problems on the Brahmans. Few anthropologists have capitalised more literally than Dumont on the principle that studying another society teaches us alot about our own. As for structuralism, as already noted, in Dumont’s case this was always more ethnographically specific, less universalistic, than Lévi-Strauss'’s. But it is Dumont’s development of Lévi-Strauss’s structuralist device of binary opposition into what Dumont called hierarchical opposition that

I want to focus on here. Not only is it the key to Dumont’s understanding of India, it also raises a number of interesting issues regarding how the West too views itself, as I shall argue below. However,

it has also been widely misunderstood; at the same time, it provides a method of relating ideology and practice in a way that was not open, I would argue, to Lévi-Strauss’s simpler form of structuralism.

Dumont initially applied this revised form of opposition to the relationship between the Brahman and the Kshatriya in Indian society.

Varnas rather than castes in the strict sense, both Brahmans and Kshatriyas were associated with different forms of authority. In the Brahman’s case, this meant spiritual authority in a broad sense. The canonical depiction of the Brahman as a priest reflects reality in India only partly. There are priests who are not Brahmans, especially those who serve lower status castes and tribes. There are also Brahmans who

are not priests but landholders, having their land worked by often untouchable labour, but seeing themselves as restricted or even nontransactors whose lack of dependence on the gifts of clients and the sins embodied in those gifts allows them to claim superiority over Brahman priests. The role that these landowning Brahmans claim for themselves is to study the ancient texts, the Vedas, and to perform rituals, including exact repetitions of these texts, of profound cosmological significance. In the traditional system the Kshatriyas, by contrast, have authority in the secular sphere and are associated with secular rule, power and wartare. Everyone, including the Brahman, is subject to them, Dut only in that sphere. This indicates the inferior status of that sphere compared

to that of the Brahman, who is responsible for cosmic goals transcending the narrow domain of the practical affairs of the man in the world, the domain of the Kshatriya. In short, Dumont says, this is not an ordinary binary opposition of the type exploited by Lévi-Strauss, whether the poles are seen as equivalent in status (or in ‘value’, to use

246 Robert Parkin Dumont’s term) or as asymmetric. The nature of the Brahman— Kshatriya relationship is that it is a hierarchical opposition in which the values represented by the Kshatriya are ‘encompassed’ by those of the

Brahman. This is because, while even the Brahman landowner is subject to the Kshatriya in the secular sphere, that sphere is not only inferior to, it is also encompassed by, the sphere of the Brahman, which by virtue of its transcendence is superior overall. This view is reinforced by the fact that the Kshatriya supports the Brahman in the latter’s task (by giving him land in the first case, and in pre-Hindu, Vedic times, by providing the sacrifice) and protects him physically by providing social order. In other words, the secular sphere has no purpose other than to support the transcendental activities of the sphere of the Brahman. As already noted, this notion of hierarchical opposition is certainly among the most misunderstood in the whole of post-war anthropology. A more familiar, though much abused example may make clearer just what is involved (cf. Dumont 1980: 239-40). In pre-politically correct times, the English word ‘man’ had a double meaning. On one ‘level’, to use Dumont’s term, ‘man’ was simply opposed

to ‘woman’ as its opposite. On the other level, it stood for the whole of humanity, including ‘woman’ (as in ‘mankind’). On this latter level, in other words, it ‘encompassed’ its contrary, ‘woman’. Clearly this went along with a whole set of circumstances in which things male were seen as ideologically more important, of higher value and so on, than things female. On the level involving encompassment, moreover, women are simply invisible, thanks precisely to their encompassment. It is only on the secondary level, that of distinction, that the category ‘woman’ appears at

all. The two ‘levels’ are thus differently structured. They are also ideologically unified into a single structure: they do not simply represent different ‘contexts’ in which first one pole of a binary opposition, then the

other, is prominent. The contexts produced by reversing one of LéviStrauss’s merely asymmetric binary oppositions are equivalent, in that moving between them simply involves reversing the polarity of the opposition. In moving between Dumont’s levels, on the other hand, one is

moving between a superordinate situation of the encompassment (i.e. non-visibility) of one pole by the other, and a subordinate situation in which both are present by being distinguished. Thus, to return to India, the

Brahman either stands for (encompasses) the whole of society in its relations with the cosmos, in rituals in which only he is evident; or else he

appears alongside the Kshatriya as subject to the latter’s authority in a subordinate (secular, non-transcendent) situation or level. So much for encompassment — what about hierarchy? First, given that levels are unequally valued, there must be hierarchy. It is fairly easy to relate this to a society like India’s, which is still hierarchical today to

Louis Dumont 247 a high degree (e.g. the persistence of caste, but also aspects of modern life, like office politics, as well as kinship). The problem for Dumont’s critics has been his insistence that this model is pertinent to the West too, despite the West’s claims to egalitarianism. One result of this has been that Dumont has been accused of mistaking or ignoring the nature of equality, and even of actually preferring hierarchy to it as a mode of life. Even within India, his account has repeatedly been criticised for giving

the Brahman’s point of view and ignoring those of other sectors of society. This can be seen partly with respect to the values of the renouncer, who turns his (sometimes her) back on society in order to

pursue personal salvation as an individual. Yet the landowning Brahman may be considered closest to these ideals of anyone still in society, given his status as a minimal transactor — like the renouncer, the

landowning Brahman tries to minimise his dependence on the householder and also avoids exchange transactions, since they carry with them some of the sin-laden and otherwise inauspicious substance of their inferior givers. As already noted, it is this that distinguishes the landowning from the priestly Brahmans, who are more or less entirely dependent on such transactions (cf, Dumont 1966, 1980). Dumont’s critics have made some significant points, but they still

tend to misconstrue both his own position and the nature, let alone existence, of hierarchy in the West. Again, this often reflects sheer misunderstanding. Hierarchy is not simply the basis of the model of hierarchical opposition seen objectively — as a subjective cultural value, it may itself partake in this very model by actively being one of the poles of ahierarchical opposition. It is perhaps a failure to recognise this that has most misled Dumont’s critics. Hierarchy in Dumont’s terminology is not just social stratification: it is the operation of according different values to different things. Here it is useful, I think, to invoke the notion of ‘preference’. Briefly, we may say that while India prefers the values of hierarchy to those of equality, so that the former encompass the latter,

the West does the reverse. In other words, in the West the value ‘equality’ itself encompasses the value ‘hierarchy’ in what is clearly

another hierarchical opposition. That is, equality is an ideal, one associated with other ideals like individuality and freedom. As such, ordinarily it is stressed to the exclusion of hierarchy. Yet Western society

is still hierarchical in many respects, which mostly relate to practical

(i.e. non-ideological) matters. The world of work in particular is hierarchical, since — however much this may be mystified by modern industrial relations and personnel practices — orders are still given and

obeyed, and firms managed through processes of hiring and firing subject others. Similarly, the law, government and the military are

domains that are rarely endowed with more than the status of

248 Robert Parkin necessary evils, in that they too limit the practical exercise of the Western ideals of liberty and equality, not least because they are hierarchical, generally quite literally so. Yet significantly they also appeal to their own support or protection of the ideals of liberty and

equality as their ultimate justification, that is, they explicitly subordinate themselves to them. In short, there is a hierarchical opposition in the West that places equality in a superordinate and therefore encompassing position in relation to its opposite, hierarchy. The latter only emerges in domains proper to it, and then as a practical matter necessitated by, but also supporting, the level of fundamentally egalitarian and individualistic ideals. Thus the relationship between equality and hierarchy in the West is itself a hierarchical opposition involving levels and encompassment. This formulation may seem strange, but that is simply because there

is a fundamental contradiction in the Western way of life that a hierarchical society like India is not faced with. For Dumont, hierarchy

is unavoidable, anywhere. In India, the parallel to the hierarchical opposition described above for the West is the reverse situation, in which hierarchy encompasses egalitarianism, just as society encompasses the

individual and duty encompasses both material interest and freedom

(sometimes represented by pleasure). This can be expressed in indigenous terms, in respect of the triple but still hierarchical distinction

between the ends of life, dharma, artha and kama, or duty, work and pleasure: all have their place, but in a descending order of value, and therefore encompassment. Certainly, as has often been remarked, the values of the renouncer, which are ultimately concerned with personal salvation, appear to stress both individuality and the basic equality of

all transcendent approaches to that end. This is far from being a negligible point, since this is an important form of transcendence, though one only pursued by a minority of Indian society (since, moreover, the aim is moksha, that is, liberation from the cycle of rebirths, it can also be seen as encompassing the above three values). Yet ideologically the renouncer is not in society, and indeed often marks his

or her removal from it by undergoing a symbolic death ritual, quite possibly complete with shrouds and immersion into the Ganges or a river assimilated to it. Conversely the Brahman’s role is a social one, since he keeps the cosmos in being for the good of society and ultimately of humanity; he can therefore claim to lack the self-centredness of the

path of the renouncer. This is one area where, as Richard Burghart

shows us (1978), the values of the renouncer and the Brahman conflict, both politically and ideologically.

However that may be, Dumont argues that, in expressing a preference for hierarchy, the model of hierarchical opposition therefore

Louis Dumont 249 accords with the superordinate value in Indian society; in the West it does not. In other words, hierarchical societies comfortably exist in conformity with their ideals, which stress that very hierarchy; egalitarian

ones never can, because for practical reasons they can never entirely evade the hierarchy they are opposed to — all they can do is subordinate it as a value to the higher emphasis placed on egalitarianism. This has at least three further consequences. One relates to racism. Dumont does not oppose this to egalitarianism so much as see it as one of the latter’s pathologies. Although the West has influenced some Indian discourses in the direction of racism, and differences between castes have probably always been seen in part as differences of substance, modern racism never appears to have existed in traditional India. In the first place, the caste system is a system of inclusion rather than exclusion. Although one’s practices (cousin marriage, consuming beef and alcohol, polygyny) may consign you to a low status within the system, the system will still find you a place. In other words, hierarchies are flexible, because they are essentially relational: you are not absolutely different from me, just more or less pure, and your rank with respect to me reflects this. Even if you are impure, and although I might shun all contact with you, ideologically I do not dismiss you entirely but rank you accordingly.

Egalitarianism, on the other hand, can only produce definitions in substantial terms, since adopting a relational approach to definition along Indian lines would involve introducing the very hierarchy that egalitarianism rejects. However, no society that sees itself as ideologically

egalitarian seems to be able to free itself entirely from some urge to discriminate in practice: this is one of the ironic contradictions that Dumont locates in modernity. And if a social group is to discriminate while still maintaining equality within its own boundaries, it can only do so through a process of exclusion, that is, by defining the object of its

discrimination as wholly different in substantial terms, for example racially or ethnically. We should not forget that the white populations that dominated certain multi-racial societies in the fairly recent past, as

in the southern United States or South Africa, saw themselves as internally equal, at least racially and therefore in terms of substance, if not always socially (e.g. class). This was, of course, contrasted with the draconian and often vicious discrimination, also in substantial terms, meted out to non-whites in the same society. The practical outcomes of this discrimination were the colour bar in the US and apartheid in South Africa (cf. Dumont 1980, Appendix). The second consequence of applying hierarchical opposition to the egalitarian West relates to questions of discrimination in other ways.

Dumont repeatedly insists on the relationship between making distinctions and differentially valuing what is distinguished: indeed, for

250) Robert Parkin him we only distinguish in order to state a preference, that is, to allocate different values. This is another reason why oppositions cannot be other

than hierarchical. A corollary of this is that if we wish to cease to discriminate we should not distinguish, that is, should not draw attention to difference. Up to a point, this reflects practice in the West as this has evolved over the past few decades. There is a contrast here with many other parts of the world, where it may be much more common for

individuals to be identified casually with others in terms of race or ethnicity. In the West such usages are increasingly felt to be wrong, or at least impolite, and as making an unnecessary point — which is not to say that they have disappeared entirely, of course. Only if ethnic or racial discrimination is being discussed substantively, for example as an issue that still needs addressing, does reference to such differences seem justified. Similar practices have extended to other domains of potential or actual discrimination, such as sexual orientation, disability or food preferences (vegetarianism, for example). One might also add gender, though here the situation is complicated by a continuing compulsion to

make often oblique reference to difference in circumstances of, for example, flirting and seeking partners. But even here — in work environments, for example — discussing work in relation to gender differences is no longer seen as acceptable except in the context of overcoming any remaining discrimination (again, Iam not saying that it never happens, only that it is no longer considered politically correct).

Gender also becomes interesting when it is combined with a consideration of sexual orientation, or at any rate gay politics. In Britain, at least, the term ‘gay’ tends to have a double reference of the sort discussed earlier for ‘man’ and ‘woman’, sometimes covering both genders, sometimes only men, as in the frequent identifier ‘gay and lesbian’; conversely ‘lesbian’ is categorically female, never male. This surely demonstrates the continuing power of hierarchical opposition, even in social circles that would appear to have the greatest interest in rejecting not only discrimination, but also the sense of differential value and hierarchy that goes along with it. The third consequence of applying hierarchical opposition to the egalitarian West is the relation of ideology to practice. As Allen notes

(1998: 3), Dumont was well aware of Weberian and Parsonian sociology, and unlike Lévi-Strauss took them into account by giving the practical activities they stressed their due place, while characteristically subordinating them to the level of ideals. It is in the nature of pragmatic

activities that they may conflict with ideals while at the same time supporting them (e.g. the offerings the wealthy make to the church or temple from their ill-gotten gains; see Parry and Bloch 1989). As Parry reminds us (1994), so long as humans have values distinct from the

Louis Dumont 2 ok: world of the practical, their ideals will be unattainable and will thus always have a separate existence from the actual and the practical. I

have no qualms in suggesting that, even in a period that stresses practice and agency, ideals remain equally valid objects of enquiry for the anthropologist. One of the reasons I believe Dumont’s work to be of

value is that, through the notion of hierarchical opposition, he has offered us a way of relating ideology and practice that is rooted in the Durkheim tradition, yet also goes beyond it. As noted above, the level of ideals and values always encompasses that of practice, since although

the former may be reliant on the latter for its fulfilment, the latter is ideologically subordinate, sometimes even ideologically unrecognised.

It is only when the pragmatics of providing worship or the morally compromised nature of the world of practice become focal points for discussion that they are at all evident, and then only at the subordinate level of distinction, not the superordinate level of encompassment. I therefore suggest that Dumont’s name should be added to those who have attempted to combine practice and agency with ideology, including in the most recent period Giddens and Bourdieu, in the middle distance Parsons, and originally Weber himself. However, Dumont differs from all of these in according ideology a clearly superordinate value with respect to practice, thus keeping him closer to Durkheim,

while articulating this difference through the uniquely Dumontial hierarchical opposition. To recap, therefore, Dumont’s intellectual trajectory can be seen as

involving a series of shifts. The first was from early diffusionist, culturological approaches drawn from his museum experience to Maussian sociology, holism and world-historical perspectives, supported by a growing appreciation of Lévi-Straussian structuralism focused on simple binary oppositions. A second shift was from an early familiarity

with this latter form of structuralism, stimulated also by his early fieldwork in Tamil Nadu, to the revision of structuralism in the direction of hierarchical opposition that was stimulated by his wider

comparisons within India, as well as sustained in his yet wider comparison between India and the West. A third shift was from observation to ideas, from fieldwork to writings, in forming the evidential basis of his work, though in both producing ethnography and

using it theoretically he was also adopting a distinctly Anglo-Saxon rather than French anthropological methodology. Yet, in combination with a lesser but still real familiarity with non-Durkheimian writers such as Parsons and Weber, who emphasise practice as much as ideas and values, hierarchical opposition also gave Dumont a way of relating and reconciling ideology and practice that was simply not open to Lévi-

Strauss’s simpler form of structuralism. This is in addition to the

Poy Robert Parkin manner in which he used hierarchical opposition to render less opaque aspects of Western ideology and practice as well as Indian. It is these

latter aspects, I suggest, that give Dumont his greatest claim to our continuing attention.

Note 1. Inever met Dumont personally, though I corresponded with him on one occasion and

saw him speak on another. In this appraisal I am therefore relying on published sources, especially for Dumont’s life (Part 1) and his more private views, namely the

obituaries by Allen (1998), Galey (1999, 2000), Madan (1999) and Toffin (1999), two interviews given by Dumont (Delacampagne 1981, Galey 198 2b), and appraisals by Galey (1982a) and Moffat (1986). Many of the views I give voice to in Part 2 are also anticipated in these writings. Part 3 has a little more claim to originality. A slightly different version of this chapter has already appeared in Spanish (Parkin 2006).

References Allen, N.J. 1998. Obituary: Louis Dumont 1911-1998, Journal of the Anthropological Society of Oxford, 29(1): 1-4.

Barraud, C., D. de Coppet, A. Iteanu and R. Jamous. 1984. Des relations et des morts: quatre sociétés sous l’angle des échanges, in J.-C. Galey (ed.), Différences, valeurs, hiérarchie: texts offerts d Louis Dumont, Paris: Editions de l’Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales.

Burghart, R. 1978. Hierarchical models of the Hindu social system, Man (n.s.), 13(4): 519-36. de Coppet, D. 1990. The society as an ultimate value and the socio-cosmic configuration, Ethnos, 1990(3-4): 140-50. Delacampagne, C. 1981. Louis Dumont and the Indian mirror, Royal Anthropological Institute News, 43: 4-7. Dumont, L. 1951. La Tarasque: essai de description d'un fait local d'un point de vue ethnographique, Paris: Gallimard.

— ]953.The Dravidian kinship terminology as an expression of marriage, Man, 53: 34-39. — ]957a. For a sociology of India, Contributions to Indian Sociology, 1: 7-22.

—— ]1957b. Hierarchy and marriage alliance in south India, London: Royal Anthropological Institute. — 1957c. Une sous-caste de Inde du Sud: organisation sociale et religion des Pramalai Kallar, Paris: Mouton.

— 1962. Le vocabulaire de parenté dans |'Inde du Nord, L’Homme, 2(2): 5-48. —— 1964. La civilisation indienne et nous: esquisse de sociologie comparée, Paris: Armand Colin.

—— 1966a. Homo hierarchicus: essai sur le systeme des castes, Paris: Gallimard.

— ]966b. Marriage in India, the present state of the question III: north India in relation to south India, Contributions to Indian Sociology, 9: 90-114. —— 19068. Preface, in E.E. Evans-Pritchard, Les Nuers, Paris: Gallimard.

— ]97]. Introduction a deux theories d’anthropologie sociale, Paris and The Hague: Mouton.

Louis Dumont 205 — ]975. Terminology and prestations revisited, Contributions to Indian Sociology (n.s.), 9(2): 197-215. — ]977. Homo aequalis: genése et épanouissement de Vidéologie économique, Paris: Gallimard. — 1980. Homo hierarchichus: the caste system and its implications (2nd ed.), Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. —— 198 3a. Affinity as a value: marriage alliance and south India, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. —— ]1983b. Essais sur Vindividualisme: une perspective anthropologique sur Vidéologie moderne, Paris: Le Seuil.

— 1991. Homo aequalis I: Pidéologie allemande, France-Allemagne et retour, Paris: Gallimard. Galey, J.-C. 198 2a. The spirit of apprenticeship in a master craftsman, in T.N. Madan (ed.), Way of life: king, householder, renouncer. Essays in honour of Louis Dumont, Delhi: Vikas,

and Paris: Editions de la Maison des Sciences de ‘Homme.

— 19§2b. A conversation with Louis Dumont, Paris, 12 December 1979, in T.N. Madan (ed.), Way of life: king, householder, renouncer. Essays in honour of Louis Dumont,

Delhi: Vikas, and Paris: Editions de la Maison des Sciences de l'Homme.

— ]999. Obituary. Louis Dumont (1911-1998): an enduring consistency, EASA Newsletter, 25: 13-17.

— 2000. Louis Dumont (1911-1998): a committed distancing, American Anthropologist, 102(2): 324-29. Lévi-Strauss, C. 1949. Les structures élémentaires de la parenté, Paris: Presses Universitaires

de France.

Madan, T.M. 1999. Louis Dumont (1911-1998): a memoir, Contributions to Indian Sociology (n.s.), 33(3): 473-501. Moffat, M. 1986. Preface to Louis Dumont, A south Indian subcaste: social organization and religion of the Pramalai Kallar, Delhi: Oxford University Press.

Parkin, R. 2001. Durkheimian evolution in the work of Marcel Mauss, in R. Parkin, Perilous transactions: papers in general and Indian anthropology, Bhubaneswar: Sikshasandhan.

— 2006. Louis Dumont: estructuralismo, jerarquia e individualism, Revista de Occidente, 299: 9-34. Parry, J. 1994. Death in Banares, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Parry, J. and M. Bloch (eds). 1989. Money and the morality of exchange, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Toffin, G. 1999. Louis Dumont, 1911-1998, L’Homme, 150, 7-13.

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Chapter 11

WILL THE REAL MAURICE LEENHARDT PLEASE STAND UP? FOUR ANTHROPOLOGISTS IN SEARCH OF AN ANCESTOR

Jeremy MacClancy

Students of anthropology have it tough: the courses they are taught on the history of the subject are usually boring, blinkered and Whiggish to boot.! All too often the subject is presented as a deadening chronicle of disciplinary self-improvement, with each generation identifying, then moving beyond, the sins of their forefathers (and mothers). Evolutionism, this story tells us, was racist, functionalism dovetailed with colonialism,

structural-functionalism ignored history, high structuralism was for mystics, postmodernism was an apolitical dead-end, while diffusionism was just plain wrong-headed. Only the present holds out much promise. ‘Onward, ever upward’ is the underlying agenda to this all-too common tale. At times I am surprised our students stay with us. Of course, this party line of constant self-advancement only appears coherent because it wilfully excludes so much. At an Oxford lecture I attended several years ago, Stephen Jay Gould argued that we humans are not at the apical growing tip of some evolutionary tree but out on a limb, and we ignore all the other branches we happened not to go down at our peril. It was a salutary reminder of just how random our development can be.

Anthropology is little different. The conventional format of our history remains oddly silent about a whole host of different approaches which did not make it for the wrong reasons. And there are even more, still worthy of our consideration today, which contain valuable insights and suggestive agendas. In other words, what our students need is not

200 Jeremy MacClancy

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just a history of anthropology, but an anthropology of that history as well. They need to learn why some ideas are yet propagated while the rest are left to lie fallow. For if anthropology is about putting ideas and customs into their contexts, surely it behoves us to do the same with our own practices. We are not special. There are, of course, exceptions. Not all historians of anthropology are Whigs with a wilfully exclusionary style. Some have tried to rewrite

the past by vigorously promoting the forgotten, the neglected, the marginalised. But this is not a high-minded, Lazarus-like revival of the otherwise dead, merely a variant of the tired self-interested strategy of those striving for hegemony. I could cite several examples. Instead I will

stick with the one I know best. In the 1960s and 1970s, Rodney Needham persuaded the University of Chicago Press to establish a series,

with him as editor, dedicated to the re-printing of nineteenth-century works, each with a lengthy introduction by himself or one of his brighter

students. Needham’s aim was manifold. First, these books gently subverted established historiographies by exposing their structuring conventions. Second, they acted as cautionary tales for students, reminding them that ideas then being touted as new were not in fact quite that novel. Third, they implicitly criticised high structuralist abstraction and love of apparent paradox by demonstrating that anthropological ideas could be discussed in a pellucid, seemingly

Will the real Maurice Leenhardt please stand up? 2a7 unpretentious nineteenth-century prose (which happened to chime with Needham ’s own literary style). Fourth, and perhaps above all, these books reflected, and so further established, the singularity and historical depth of his own vision of our discipline: who else had had the insight to realise the contemporary value of these forsaken classics? These books could thus act as supplementary means of advancing the project more explicitly stated in his major essays and books. They were, if you like, the soft sell complementing the hard sell of his key articles and tomes. Though a former student of Needham’s, I am still rather surprised to lind myself treading a somewhat similar path, albeit in a far less illustrious mode. In a variety of papers, I have tried to re-illuminate once bright

corners of anthropology, almost forcibly bringing them to others’ attention (e.g. MacClancy 1986, 1995, 1996, 2000). In this chapter, however, I wish to do something different. Instead of attempting to resuscitate a long-dead figure, I wish to examine how others have tried to do so, and to what effect. In the process we might learn something about the way histories of anthropology are negotiated for present-day purposes.

My object of attention is Maurice Leenhardt. If the aim of this volume is to demonstrate that French anthropology has not been, as the stereotype has it, all grand theorising from afar and that, to the contrary, it has in fact a long tradition of empirical fieldwork with its own grounded theory, then Leenhardt fits the bill extremely well. For in the 1930s and 1940s, he was hailed by his peers as one of the greatest fieldworkers of his day, and certainly the most long-term one. Moreover, as we shall see, he had his own particular theoretical approach, born in his case out of his missionary concerns. In this chapter, I first sketch his life; then examine the interests of his varied would-be resuscitators, including those who wish to revive the man, only in order to put the knife back in; I end with some general comments.

A life We can be brief. Our subject's biography has already been recounted many times, most memorably by Clifford (1982). The Leenhardts were a pious family of bourgeois Protestants inclined

towards the liberal professions and the pastorate. Franz Leenhardt (1846-1922) was an eminent geologist who desired to fuse theology with positive science. His fourth child, Maurice (born 1878), was a mediocre, occasionally troublesome student, who went deaf in one ear and failed his baccalaureate three times. Inclined towards the missions from an early age, he married in 1902 and was ordained three months later; four days alter that, the couple left to establish a mission in New Caledonia.

299 Jeremy MacClancy Life on the former penal colony was not easy. The locals were increasingly hemmed in by expansionist colonists: farmers, herdsmen, miners, Catholic missionaries, administrators. Between 1855 and 1900 the local population dropped by almost half, their death hastened by imported alcohol, diseases and firearms, while the rebellion of 1878-79

led to the killing of two hundred Europeans and several times that number of indigenes. Leenhardt had to contend with demoralised but still proud locals (known as Canaques), territorial priests and colonials keen to keep their potential labour-force subdued, not educated. The highminded young missionary was forced to learn, by painful mistakes, how to be diplomatic yet firm if he wished to assist those he defended. To the colonial government of the day, he became a long-term irritant.

He established his mission station, Do Neva, on the eastern coast and worked intensively with his natas, pastor-evangelists. They were the

central plank of his conversion strategy: he saw his own role as protecting and encouraging an autonomous Melanesian church. Thus

educating the natas became his first priority, essentially through practical exercises in the comparative analysis of religious languages: the biblical and the indigenous forms. Leenhardt would make tours to visit his natas stationed in villages along the coast and in the bush, and he and his wife also ran a school for local children. Though his church steadily grew, Leenhardt remained concerned about the thoroughness of locals’ conversions. In order to understand this process better, he realised he would have to comprehend indigenous ways as deeply as possible. So, during his first leave home in 1908-9, he broached the work of Durkheim’s Année Sociologique group and of Lévy-Bruhl, while his father,

‘as usual, urged him toward more precise observation and stressed the importance of collecting genealogies’ (Clifford 1982: 75). On his return to

Do Neva, he commenced in earnest an ethnographic study of his neighbours. He wished, through repeated discussions and encounters, to probe the lived reality of customary life, and so derive the most apposite terms and forms for a New Caledonian Bible. Working with his natas, he aimed to translate the words of God into expressions meaningful to a living Melanesian language. To Leenhardt, this laborious co-operative translation was the key to any worthwhile conversion.

In 1920 he and his family returned to France. There he began to engage seriously with university anthropology. At his father-in-law’s house, he met Lucien Lévy-Bruhl. This proved to be the start of a long and productive friendship, the philosopher eager to learn from the fieldworker about Melanesian conceptions and Leenhardt keen to discuss his companion’s ideas about the ‘prelogical’ and ‘modes of participation’. He gave papers at academic meetings, met with Marcel

Mauss, and at his request published a long article on a key New

Will the real Maurice Leenhardt please stand up? 299 Caledonian festival. In 1922 he embarked on a seventeen-month investigative tour of all the French Protestant missions in sub-Saharan Africa. During these visits he was able to check and prove the worth of the guiding ideas he had elaborated in New Caledonia. In late 1923 he went back to Do Neva, this time without his family. It was to be a difficult stay, with Leenhardt wishing to see the principles of his evangelising approach well-rooted, so that it would survive his

departure. He believed in a strong indigenous church, with great autonomy, little hierarchy, and reliant on local pastors. To his great

disappointment, his ideas would be rejected by his metropolitan superiors. They continued to regard their independent, critical colleague with suspicion; his recommendations were quietly ignored. Back, this time definitively, in Paris in 1926, Leenhardt had to look for work, as his Mission Society would not give him a position of responsibility.

He gained employment as an ‘urban missionary’, attending to the needy of the city. That took up half his time; the rest of each week he dedicated

to writing and teaching, for both anthropological and missionary audiences. He established and edited a bimonthly journal about missionary matters, Propos missionaires, and besides producing numerous articles of ethnography, published a trilogy of works: Notes d’ethnologie néo-calédonienne (1930), Documents néo-calédoniens (1932), and Vocabulaire et grammaire de la langue houailou (1935). Thanks to his growing friendship

with Mauss, he began in 1933 to teach at the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes. Within a few years he was doing half of Mauss’s teaching.

In 1937 he accepted an invitation to publish a popular account of indigenous life, grounded in fieldwork. His Gens de la Grande Terre presents a sympathetic account of New Caledonians as bearers of a

rich, rounded tradition, worthy of our interest and increasingly threatened by colonialist inroads. Shortly after its publication in 1938 Leenhardt and his wife returned for more than a year’s stay to carry

out a survey of the languages and dialects of New Caledonia and nearby islands. The result, Langues et dialects de ’ Austro-Melanesie, is a

somewhat forbidding compendium of grammatical sketches and vocabularies. Of course Leenhardt, while conducting his survey, did not act as an aloof academic, but attempted to intercede in important issues of the day. Many of his supporters now venerated their white-bearded ‘Missi’, while his white opponents continued to regard him, with unease, as an influential, interfering négrophile.

When, in 1940, the anti-Semitic laws of the Vichy government forced Mauss to resign from the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, he had Leenhardt replace him. Leenhardt turned the lectures he gave there into his most famous, most challenging book, Do Kamo: la personne et le mythe dans le monde mélanésien (1947). The next year he returned, for

260 Jeremy MacClancy the last time, to New Caledonia as the founding director of a government research station in the capital, the Institut Francais d’Océanie. As before, colonialist differences made his stay initially very tense. While waiting patiently for these criticisms to peter out, he gently

encouraged the work of his junior colleagues and so cemented the reputation of the fledgling institute. In Paris, Leenhardt, who was now well into his seventies, kept up an exemplary list of activities: organising, teaching, writing. In 1952 he accepted the presidency of the Alliance Evangélique Universelle. The next year he planned a final trip to la Grande Terre. But that summer he was diagnosed with cancer, and died in January 1954.

In search of an ancestor In my sketch of his life, I have coasted over Leenhardt’s central ideas, because exactly what they were is the key issue of this chapter. Instead of advancing my own exegesis of his words, I wish to examine how others have interpreted his thoughts.

Leenhardt the post-structuralist avant la lettre In the mid-19 70s Jim Clifford was an unknown, young academic with

a first degree in literature from Harvard, where he had become acquainted with the first signs of what is now termed a _ poststructuralist approach. He went to Paris to do doctoral research on the

history of French anthropology during the interwar period. After reading Do Kamo and then Leenhardt’s unpublished letters and journals, he chose to focus on this by then neglected figure. Throughout his book, Clifford takes pains to stress the open-ended, dynamic nature of Leenhardt’s thoughts and approaches. He portrays an assiduous, sensitive priest who engaged with anthropology in order

to further his missionary project. According to Clifford, Leenhardt

wanted to comprehend the amplitude and profundity of New Caledonian thought in order to ascertain the most effective way towards meaningful conversion. He did not arrive at a final, definitive position but ‘thought and rethought a difficult and inspiring involvement with the Melanesian world’ (Clifford 1982: 1). Moreover, this rethinking had

reflexive effect, making Leenhardt reconsider the very nature of Christianity and its teachings. In the process, theological abstraction came to yield first place to the power of a concrete immediacy. Clifford lays stress on Leenhardt’s radical notion of selves without

unifying centres: ‘There is no experience of a defining “body”. The Melanesian feels no physical envelope that separates a personal “inside”

Will the real Maurice Leenhardt please stand up? 261 from an objective “outside” (ibid.: 185). Rather, the self is that amalgamation of dualistic relationships which each New Caledonian accumulates and participates in. Instead of a centralising ‘ego’, an indigene is made up of dualities, between himself and his parent, uncle, spouse, cross-cousin, clan, ancestor, totem, and so on. Leenhardt did

not speak of traditional locals as individuals but as each having a ‘personage , a relational ensemble of such dualities. Myths are not to be seen as stories but as geographically rooted providers

of images which, through juxtaposition, enable locals to experience complex emotional states. Thus myths are not so much narrated as lived.

Especially at heightened, ritualised moments, a New Caledonian may participate, via these dualities, in a socio-mythic space, where time and distance, in conventional Western terms, are collapsed, transcended.

Leenhardt wished to forge a Western vocabulary to render the distinctiveness of New Caledonian ways. He wished, for instance, to emphasise the lack of distinction for indigenes between thought, on the one hand, and expression and concrete action on the other. In modern

parlance, he wanted to emphasise the illocutionary dimension of utterance. Here, saying is doing, and utterance a speech act. For him ‘parole’, which his English commentators have translated as ‘the word’ or ‘words’, dissolved the conventional gap between speech and language.

But he wished to give ‘parole’ a much broader compass than those linguistic dimensions. Not tied to elocution, it was positioned more concretely in gestures. While it could not be separated from thinking, ‘thought’ was here understood as solidified emotion rather than intellect. In sum, this remarkably wide version of ‘parole’ was whatever manifests the person, was more likely to be exemplified by things than words, and was to be understood as expressivity rather than structure. Clifford's analysis is subtle and gracefully couched. Indeed, he does the job so well that almost all subsequent Anglophone re-interpreters of Leenhardt are to a certain extent influenced by his reading of the man’s work. However, what is of particular interest here is his stress on the contemporary relevance of Leenhardt, whom he portrays as a bypassed

trailblazer: ‘What is important ... is that his mistrust of systematic

closure, his emphasis on reciprocal interpretation and cultural expressivity, placed him on the boundary of a science that, since Tylor, had concerned itself with the study of whole, integrated ways of life in more or less continuous development’ (ibid.: 173). Clifford’s Leenhardt

is an institutionally marginal figure, whose interests and approaches dovetail remarkably well with ideas only then beginning to percolate

through into the anthropology of the early 1980s. On a perhaps flippant, more likely designedly polemical note, Clifford even terms Leenhardt a post-structuralist, albeit one avant la lettre (ibid.: 173).

262 Jeremy MacClancy The various concerns which Clifford underlines in his biography — reciprocity, reflexivity, open-endedness, persistent provisionality, the decentred self, and the problems of translation — are all, of course, now classically post-modernist matters. And the first raisers of that banner in social anthropology were Clifford himself and his colleague George Marcus in the book they edited, Writing culture: the poetics and politics of

ethnography (1986), today as notorious as it is famous. In arecently translated book, the Parisian historian of ideas Francois

Cusset (2008) argues that in the 1980s American academics trumpeted the ideas of French theoreticians (e.g. Derrida, Foucault, Baudrillard), which they branded ‘poststructuralism’, just as those approaches were rapidly losing favour on their home turf. The very term

‘poststructuralism’ is itself an American coinage; it does not exist in France (Wolin 2008). The postwar saw was ‘When a philosophy dies, it comes to Oxford’. For the 1980s, replace ‘Oxford’ with America’. Cusset does not discuss anthropology in his account, but Clifford’s importation of Leenhardt into US academe slips all too easily into this interpretation of the trans-Atlantic trade in ideas. For these reasons, it is not overly cynical to see Clifford as in effect

exploiting the figure of Leenhardt as a means to bring poststructuralism into anthropology. At the same time, of course, it is also an exploitation of Leenhardt in order to advance his own academic

career, to be recognised as a standard-bearer of the then anthropological avant-garde. I contend that this interpretation is not too cynical because Sangren, in one of the first incisive critiques of post-

modernism, exposed the hegemonic pretensions of Clifford and Marcus’s movement (Sangren 1988). For, by claiming the equality and diversity of different theoretical approaches, they quietly failed to state the superiority of one theory: their own. When Sangren links this bid for hegemony to their own desire for institutional self-advancement, Clifford, an otherwise very astute respondent, complains of ‘innuendo about career strategies’ (Clifford 1988: 425).

Leenhardt the phenomenologist Romantic The American anthropologist Thomas Maschio did fieldwork in the mid-1980s among the Rauto of southwestern New Britain. In his

magisterial ethnography of them, he openly acknowledges the influence of ‘Leenhardt’s seminal work on the character of New Caledonian religious experience. It is an insight that to my mind has neither been applied, nor even recognised, save tangentially, by the anthropology of religion’ (Maschio 1994: 28). What Maschio finds so useful in Leenhardt is his conception of the role of mythic consciousness in a New Caledonian’s progress towards

Will the real Maurice Leenhardt please stand up? 263 authentic personhood. Dissatisfied with well-established anthropological

approaches which stress the discursive interpretation of symbolic representation, Maschio is stimulated by Leenhardt’s phenomenological focus. Following his exemplar, Maschio does not wish to comprehend

local ways according to the structuring constraints of a Western semiology, but to explore the ways Rauto ritual and poetic performances

enable the enactment, expression and invention of the self. Thus, openly inspired by Leenhardt, he sees Rauto religious performance and expression as ways to transform nostalgia, anger and other emotions

into a style of cultural memory, one which juxtaposes patterned cultural meaning with an emotional feeling of plenitude. While he acknowledges the use of Clifford’s reading of Leenhardt,

Maschio goes further, for he wishes to associate Leenhardt with a longstanding strand within Western ideas. First he points out how Leenhardt’s portrayal of the link between individuation and mythic

consciousness resonates with Jung’s characterisation of the individuation process. The ideas of both intellectuals about the mythic image being ‘somehow basic to human existence’ dovetail with Barthes’

conception of it as retaining the obtuse and ‘sometimes obscure meaning of primary intuitive experience ... as a way of knowing that eschews clear conceptual thought and language’ (ibid.: 31). While Leenhardt and Jung saw mythic thought as central, they both regarded it as only the foundation for individuation. Both considered that mythic thinking needed to be coupled with rationality ‘so that a person could bring about a psychologically balanced form of individuation’ (ibid.: 220). Openly opposing them to modern symbolic anthropologists who employ metaphors of reading, writing and editing, Maschio groups Leenhardt and Jung into a long line of Romantic thinkers, especially Vico, who were concerned with the relations between image, memory and experience (ibid.: 33).°

In other words, in order to understand Leenhardt within his plenitude, Maschio places him within a strand of Western thought

which goes back centuries while retaining much relevance for anthropologists of religion today. According to Maschio, Leenhardt can yet be a guide for our times.

Leenhardt the existentialist Deborah van Heekeren sees Leenhardt as a crypto-existentialist who embedded a Heideggerian perspective into his ethnography. Since Leenhardt did not explicitly acknowledge any debts to the philosopher,

she grounds her argument on several struts: Clifford’s note about Leenhardt’s regular conversations with a translator of Heidegger (Clifford

1982: 250, n. 39); the ethnographer’s concern to focus on experience

264 Jeremy MacClancy and thus, if need be, to transcend western categories of analysis; and the parallels between his concept of mythic participation and Heidegger’s notion of Dasein, ‘an ontological term which he employed to designate man in respect of his being’ (van Heekeren 2004: 433).

Heidegger argued that the essential nature of existence could be revealed in certain ‘limit situations’, such as struggle and death. Only in these situations might the presence of being become evident. To van Heekeren, these situations, which she designates ‘existential events’, resonate with Leenhardt’s stress on clusters of participations in which mythic thought is lived. Just as the philosopher thought authentic being

was discovered in a situation such as death, so the ethnographer considered that New Caledonian authenticity was discovered in sociomythic events: ‘a moment experienced as passion/flight/transformation, or perhaps fear or despair, that is universally recognised yet deeply and individually experienced’ (ibid.: 438). Similarly, she sees Leenhardt’s idea of the collapse in socio-mythic space of distance between people and things as strikingly similar to Sartre's comment on the annihilation of distance between subject and object (ibid.: 438). She concludes that

both Leenhardt and Heidegger recognised a mode of being that participates with the world. This being-with-the-world is at the same time a being-with-others. However, to be with others authentically, one has to experience the mode of relation to the other which promotes existence

in the full sense (ibid.: 446). If Heidegger was concerned about the survival of authenticity in the modern world, Leenhardt was similarly troubled about the continuation of ‘plenitude’ in colonialist times. The value of van Heekeren’s approach is heuristic, or pragmatic: it is to be judged in terms of its results. A fieldworker of Papua New Guinea, she claims, ‘I have been particularly impressed by the way Leenhardt’s writing resonates with the work of indigenous authors in so far as each seems to capture a fundamental sense of being that other models elide’ (ibid.: 432). Analysing her own field-data, she wishes to demonstrate that mythic dimensions to ontology can also be uncovered in other parts

of Melanesia. To her, this is the greatest legacy of Leenhardt: his interpretation of myth as more than story or charter, leading to an ‘outstanding philosophy of Melanesian existence’ (ibid.: 433). The problem with approaches such as van Heekeren’s is that the game

is rarely worth the candle. It is all too easy to speculate on possible precursors whom Leenhardt might have read and who might have influenced him. Heidegger is one candidate. Bergson and Mach are others. But how to choose between them, unless we have substantiated evidence?*+

Will the real Maurice Leenhardt please stand up? 269 Leenharat the decentred soul If there is a key volume in Marilyn Strathern’s oeuvre, it is her Gender of the gift (Strathern 1988). And if there is a key, much commented-upon

idea in that book, it is her portrayal of Melanesians as ‘dividuals’, an idea first formulated by Marriott in his South Asian ethnography (ibid.: 348-49, n. 7). Recognising dividuality means regarding persons in primarily relational terms, constructed as the plural and composite site of the relationships that produced them (ibid.: 13). While praising the

‘brilliance’ of Leenhardt for charting the extent to which persons appear through their relationships, Strathern bluntly states that he made the mistake of thinking there is a centre, albeit an empty one, to New Caledonian personhood (ibid.: 268—69). Instead she wishes to speak almost exclusively of relationships. Bill Maurer, who wishes to promote a ‘lateral anthropology’, strongly queries Strathern’s desire to call Leenhardt mistaken: ‘Refusing the structure of error, I would simply add that this language lies alongside

others, where mistakes can be made and where the very idea of a mistake can be obviated by multiple and polyvalent emergences’ (Maurer 2005: 19). Edward LiPuma, a fellow Melanesianist, criticises

her on precisely this point. He contends that she has exploited the much-used tactic of criticising predecessors on the grounds that they have been compromised by ethnocentric presuppositions, in this case Leenhardt. He considers that the power of her argument rests on a usually unexamined ‘theory of anthropological “progress” based on increasing epistemological awareness of the uniqueness of other’s cultures’ (LiPuma 1998: 55). In other words, he regards her as a Whig. Eric Hirsch, a Melanesianist colleague of Strathern’s, counter-argues that LiPuma has misrepresented her. She did not ignore the individual aspect of personhood. As Hirsch emphasises, Strathern states early on in her book: ‘Far from being regarded as unique entities, Melanesian persons are as dividually as they are individually conceived’ (ibid.: 13, Hirsch 2001: 140).° Even though we take this point, it does not puncture the power of LiPuma’s criticism of Strathern’s discriminating dismissal of Leenhardt. I might add that if, as Hirsch claims, ‘her interest is not to deny the relevance of the individual to Melanesian social life’ (ibid.: 140), how are we meant to conceive of individuals without centres? It would seem difficult for Hirsch to answer that convincingly without having to modulate Strathern’s criticism of Leenhardt.

266 Jeremy MacClancy Towards an assessment? Leenhardt as _ post-structualist (Clifford), romantic (Maschio), existentialist (van Heekeren), decentred soul (Strathern): one man, four anthropologists, four rather different interpretations of the same work: why the diversity? We have already mentioned the felt need of some academics to cut their own road, and to be seen to be doing so. In other words, it pays the ambitious to come up with an individual interpretation of Leenhardt which advances their own interests. But there is a further reason why he is such a suitable candidate for multiple interpretation.

Do Kamo is not easy to read. It is at times a confusing jumble of inconsistent language and unannounced shifts in style. Its English translator stresses its labile vocabulary and eccentric organisation (Gulati 1979; see also Clifford 1982: 172). Bensa claims that Leenhardt proceeds ‘less by progressive analyses than by inspired affirmations’ (Bensa 2000: 95). Crapanzano notes that in Do Kamo, Leenhardt can confuse role and person, and fails to separate the concept of the person from the experience of being a person. He also highlights ‘the sudden

intrusion of the concrete in the abstract and the abstract in the concrete, indeed the idiosyncrasy of its language’ (Crapanzano 1979: xvi, xxiv). Jamin, while sympathetic to Leenhardt’s desire to produce an effective translation, queries the limits of his endeavour: By turning translation upside down, that is to say by trying to adapt and bend his own language to that of others, he certainly reinstated the original

erammar, but immediately risked a loss of meaning: because he so wanted to learn, say and transcribe difference, he risked making it incomprehensible. (Jamin 1978: 56)

In other words, by attempting to render into French the almost unnameable, Leenhardt produces the almost unreadable. Several criticise his inconsistent use of ‘myth’. Crapanzano contends that he confuses ‘a mode of knowledge with a cultural reality of some

never quite clear status’. According to him, Leenhardt elided a construct, analytically derived by himself, from observed behaviour with an experientially felt reality portrayed by him and then attributed to New Caledonians (Crapanzano 1979: xviii—xix; see also Young 1983:

15). To put that another way, how much of Do Kamo’s ‘mythic consciousness’ represents indigenous patterns of thought, and how much is Leenhardt’s own mystifying creation? One reason this question is so difficult to answer is that, unlike Malinowski, Leenhardt did not provide the social contexts associated with individual myths (Young

1983: 15-16). Thus several of his analyses can appear more literary than social, and some even anecdotal (Crapanzano 1979: xx).

Will the real Maurice Leenhardt please stand up? 207 Furthermore, Leenhardt’s central notion of participation can be easily questioned. Thus Naepels points out that Leenhardt, when speaking of a related pair, such as an uncle and his nephew, claims that a local does not ‘perceive two persons but the unity of that pair, without truly being conscious of the individuals composing it’. As he argues,

though indigenes might speak of their ‘parents’, that does not mean that they are not clearly aware of the individual existence of their mothers and fathers (Naepels 2007: 77). Naepels, himself a veteran fieldworker of New Caledonia, here speaks with some authority. Some have argued that Leenhardt lacked a modern appreciation of metaphor, in effect denying New Caledonians’ ability for metaphorical

play and beauty. Instead he tended to confound local descriptions of experience with evidence for description (Young 1983: 15; see also Naepels 2007: 79). This criticism could stand as a particular instance of the more general fear that Leenhardt appears to give a determining weight to linguistic structures as reflecting ways of thought (Naepels 2007: 71). Itis therefore of great concern to learn that Leenhardt, even though he had lived among the locals for so long, could still get it badly

wrong. Clifford starts the key chapter of his book, Chapter Eleven ‘Structures of the person’, with the following: Leenhardt never tired of recounting a conversation with Boesoou Erijisi in which he proposed to his oldest convert: ‘In short, what we've brought into your thinking is the notion of spirit.’ To which came the correction: ‘Spirit? Bah! We’ve always known about the spirit. What you brought was the body.’ The largest part of Leenhardt’s ethnological theorizing was direct or indirect exegesis of this retort. (Clifford 1982: 172)

Clifford makes such a grand claim because, he states, the response made Leenhardt revaluate the applicability of the Western notion of ‘body’ to

New Caledonians, and so enabled him to conceive of indigenous personages as transcending European ideas of corporal limits. It is all the more worrying, therefore, that Leenhardt can here be accused of mistranslation. Naepels, who is able to read Leenhardt’s texts in their indigenous languages, contends that he incorrectly translated the term used by Boesoou Erijisi, ‘karo’, as ‘body’ (corps). The nata made his

remark in the course of a conversation about Paul's Epistle to the Romans, in which he argued that what the missionaries had brought was the flesh, in the Pauline sense of the carnal, the fleshy, the sinful. Naepels is emphatic that Leenhardt’s transcription of his friend’s words does not justify his claim that New Caledonians had been unaware of their bodies as bodies, as the support or prop of individual existence:

268 Jeremy MacClancy When Leenhardt, unconscious of the conceptual difference between flesh and body, quoted the decontextualized translation of this dialogue, he turned his very subtle indigenous pupil into the involuntary witness of the primitive absence of the consciousness of self. (Naepels 2007: 84)

If Naepels is correct, a central feature of Do Kamo is exposed as the outcome of a single miscomprehension. It is criticisms such as these which enable some of Leenhardt’s commentators to characterise him in less than eulogistic terms. Thus L’Estoile points out that his work in places suffers from an evolutionist, truly primitivist vision of New Caledonians (L’Estoile 2007: 29-32), while even Clifford, otherwise a panegyrist of Leenhardt, feels forced at one point to admit that ‘his rather mystical Canaque is an exaggeration’ (Clifford 1982: 137). Not surprisingly, then, at least one Melanesianist has accused Leenhardt of explicit racism (Guidieri 1984: 75, n. 1). Alban Bensa, a French anthropologist of New Caledonia, has questioned

much of Leenhardt’s ethnographic analysis.° But he goes further. According to him, Parisian intellectuals cited Do Kamo so often because

its portrait of Canaques dovetailed neatly with the long-grounded stereotype of the ‘primitive’, still inhabiting an Eden long denied to us.

In other words Leenhardt’s language seduced an anguished intelligentsia. Bensa concludes, somewhat rhetorically, by asking, how Leenhardt, who had done such lengthy, painstaking fieldwork, could ‘come up with a vision of the Canaque world so strange and so distant from those of his predecessors and of his successors?’ (Bensa 2000: 97).

Jean Guiart, Leenhardt’s most distinguished pupil, stung by the criticisms of his Parisian colleagues, tried to defend his revered teacher by writing a short biography of him. Unintentionally, in his hagiography

he provides his enemies with further arms. For he reveals that, in Documents néo-calédoniens (1932), Leenhardt quoted long extracts, without any attribution whatsoever, from the notebooks of one especially talented nata (Guiart 1998). As Naepels notes, this is surely plagiarism and verges dangerously close to colonial exploitation (Naepels 2000). While Leenhardt’s work is now much utilised and praised by Canaques in their struggle to regain a sense of cultural dignity, Bensa worries that the ideas in Do Kamo are also being used to explain, ‘against all evidence’, the scholastic failure and economic difficulties of native New Caledonians. Far from assisting politicised Canaques, Do Kamo may be exploited to show the indigenes up as living in an archaic world (Bensa 2000: 94).” Leenhardt’s eulogisers might wish us to view him as an exemplary, activist anthropologist, prepared to fight against the worst excesses of colonialism, but, according to his critics, he was still very much a man of his time. However hard he was prepared to rethink his position and

Will the real Maurice Leenhardt please stand up? 269 understanding of New Caledonian ways, he was, unsurprisingly, not able to free himself of all the prejudices of his varied milieux. Indeed, is it unfair to think that he could?

Towards a lateral history of anthropology Every complex thinker, over the course of their life, stakes a variety of positions. Moreover, the different facets of his or her work can be picked

up by commentators in a plurality of ways. We have already seen Leenhardt in four different guises. More, of course, are possible: such as Leenhardt as a ‘pioneer of ethnolinguistics’ (Calame-Griaule 1978: 43,

Laroche 1978: 46) or as ‘the first French anthropologist to carry out

serious ethnography’ (Cavignac 2001: 8); he is praised by phenomenologists and mythologists for his contribution to their fields, and by clinical psychologists as ‘one of the very few anthropologists who

influenced the psychological and psychiatric theories of his time’ (Dardel 1954, Garelli 1995, Mouchenik 2005).® Others are surely possible.’ This interpretative process is further enriched if the thinker does not write in a pellucid prose. Given the spasmodic abstruseness of Do Kamo, it is not surprising that many of his commentators preface their remarks with ‘If I understand him correctly’. Of course, this lack

of clarity only fuels the exegetic challenge, facilitating multiple and often competing interpretations. The obvious question most commentators here raise is why, if their man is so worthy of critical attention, was his work marginalised for so long? Jamin, for instance, says Leenhardt was ‘unappreciated, forgotten, neglected’ (Jamin 1978: 55). No commentator suggests that there was any discernible, deliberate intention by succeeding generations of French anthropologists to sideline him and his oeuvre. Rather, structuralism

came very strongly to the fore, and his approach simply went out of fashion. Lévi-Strauss, who replaced Leenhardt at the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, practised a very different kind of anthropology, much

more rationalist in style and with almost no concern for phenomenological issues. He did not need to criticise Leenhardt — he just

asked an alternative, maybe complementary set of questions. This explanation is all the more likely because it was precisely when the vogue for structuralism had passed and its replacements were first being touted that the re-evaluation of Leenhardt’s work commenced.!” If (and that is a big ‘if’) the influence of Leenhardt’s writings can be easily summarised for today’s anthropologists, it is as an exemplar of experience-rich ethnography which strives to grapple with translating the non-discursive. What the resurrection of his work strongly suggests

270 Jeremy MacClancy is that Whiggish approaches to the history of our subject are deeply misleading, if not downright distorting. Imagine the difference if, instead of teaching it in a hierarchical format, grounded on an illusion

of progress, we presented its past practitioners and their ideas in a lateral, multi-layered manner (e.g. Maurer 2005: 19). How much richer, more suggestive, more open-ended, more receptive to alternative styles our subject could be!

Notes 1. My thanks to Peter Parkes for comments, and to Anne de Sales for assistance in obtaining French references. All translations from the French are by myself. 2. Marcus, in a joint reply with his fellow postmodernist promoters Michael Fischer and Stephen Tyler, complains of an ‘unsavory, ad hominem charge of bad faith, a totally unsupported charge of scheming careerists who wish merely to advance themselves’ (Fischer, Marcus and Tyler 1988: 426). 3. Stephen, who did fieldwork in southeast Papua New Guinea, judges Leenhardt’s understanding of New Caledonians’ mythic participation to have been ‘romantic’ (Stephen 1995: 141). 4. Given that several commentators on Leenhardt note parallels between his work and Malinowski's, especially regarding the former’s concern with myth and the latter’s with magic, it might be entertaining to play with the idea of Mach (on whom Malinowski wrote his doctorate) influencing both, but in divergent ways. But would the enterprise rise above the level of entertainment? 5. Hemer, who quotes the same phrase, states that it is only on close reading of your book that one can spot that ‘Strathern’s analysis does allow space for non-relational aspects of Melanesian personhood’. In a review of recent work on personhood in the region, she notes the divergence of subsequent Melanesianists from Strathern’s approach and stresses the need to make a distinction between individuality (recognised and perhaps valued) and individualism (recognised and not valued) (Hemer 2008). 6. See, for example, Bensa’s critique of Leenhardt’s approach to totemism (Bensa 1990)

and of his conception of the relation between grammatical categories and forms of

thought (Bensa 1995); also Bensa and Leblic 2000. For further criticisms of Leenhardt’s notions of totemism, see Naepels (1998), Salomon (2000).

7. For examples of Leenhardt’s relevance to contemporary New Caledonia, see http://www.adck.nc/html_en/programme/mwavee.pho?7num=38 (accessed 20 April

2005). Mouchenik, a clinical psychologist, is concerned that Leenhardt’s ideas directly influenced psychiatric ideas in New Caledonia until recently, allowing most

local psychiatrists to neglect ‘the more multiple evolutions of contemporary psychoanalysis: familial, group, and transcultural’ (Mouchenik 2006: 664).

8. Dardel, one of the earliest exponents of social geography in France, was also Leenhardt’s brother-in-law. 9. There is, for instance, the literary Leenhardt, in a short story, ‘Boys smell like oranges’,

by Guy Davenport, a university friend of Needham’s (Davenport 1996). Needham

himself praised Leenhardt for Do Kamo, which he regarded as an exemplary ethnography of a particular concept (Needham 1972: 152-53). When I asked him, in 2006, where he had first heard of Leenhardt, he said he did not know. Leenhardt was someone he seemed to have learnt of from very early on (Needham, personal communication).

Will the real Maurice Leenhardt please stand up? Dee A. 10. My colleague Peter Parkes comments: ‘Lévi-Strauss’s refusal to speak of Leenhardt is

still curious: I don’t think he was anti-phenomenology, at least with respect to Merleau-Ponty, more against what he called “shop-girl philosophy”, maybe regarding

his EHESS predecessor as a sentimental precursor to Sartre’ (Parkes, personal communication. ). In his reply dated 23 September 2008 to a letter of my own about

his silence, Professor Lévi-Strauss stated, ‘I am unfortunately too old...to try answering your query . The old fox!

References Bensa, A. 1990. Des ancétres et des hommes: introduction aux théories kanak de la nature, de l’action et de l'histoire (Nouvelle-Calédonie), in R. Boulay (ed.), De jade et de nacre: patrimoine artistique kanak, Paris: Reunion des Musées nationaux. — 1995, Chroniques kanak: l’ethnologie en marche, Paris: Ethnies-Document.

— 2000. Les ‘réalités mythiques’ de Maurice Leenhardt, Gradhiva, 27: 93-97. Bensa, A. and I. Leblic (eds). 2000. En pays Kanak: ethnologie, linguistique, archéologie, histoire de la Nouvelle Calédonie, Paris: Editions de la Maison des Sciences de Il'Homme.

Calame-Griaule, G. 1978. Maurice Leenhardt, pionnier de l’ethnolinguistique, Journal de la Société des Océanistes, 34: 43-44. Cavignac, J.A. 2001. Maurice Leenhardt e 0 inicio de pesquisa de campo na antropologia

francesa, cchla.ufrn.br/tapera/equipe/julie/maurice_leenhardt.pdf (accessed 4 July 2008). Clifford, J. 1982. Person and myth: Maurice Leenhardt in the Melanesian world, Berkeley: University of California Press.

—— 198&. Comment (on Sangren 1988), Current Anthropology, 29: 424-25. Clifford, J. and G. Marcus (eds). 1986. Writing culture: the poetics and politics of ethnography,

Berkeley: University of California Press. Crapanzano, V. 1979. Preface to English translation of Do Kamo by Maurice Leenhardt, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Cusset, FE 2008. French theory: how Foucault, Derrida, Deleuze, & Co. transformed the intellectual life of the United States, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Dardel, E. 1954. The mythic: according to the ethnological work of Maurice Leenhardt, Diogenes, 7: 33-51. Davenport, G. 1996. The Cardiff team: ten stories. New York: New Directions.

Fischer, M. and G. Marcus with S. Tyler. 1988. Comment (on Sangren 1988), Current Anthropology, 29: 426-27. Garelli, J. 1995. La phénoménologie du jugement et la dimension ‘cosmomorphique’ du corps chez les Canaques, selon Maurice Leenhardt, Droits et cultures, 29: 255-74. Guiart, J. 1998. Maurice Leenhardt: le lien d'un homme avec un peuple qui ne voulait pas mourir, Nouméa: Le Rocher-a-la-Voile. Guidieri, R. 1984. L’abondance des pauvres: six apercus critiques sur Panthropologie, Paris: Seuil.

Gulati, B.M. 1979. Translator’s note, to English translation of Do Kamo by Maurice Leenhardt, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Hemer, S.R. 2008. Poit, personhood, place and mobility in Lihir, Papua New Guinea, Oceania, 78(1): 1O9-25. Hirsch, E. 2001. When was modernity in Melanesia?, Social Anthropology, 9(2): 131-46. Jamin, J. 1978. De Videntité a la difference: la personne colonisée, Journal de la Société des

Océanistes, 34: 51-56. Laroche, M.-C. 1978. L’enseignement de Maurice Leenhardt, Journal de la Société des Océanistes, 34: 45-48.

Diode Jeremy MacClancy Leenhardt, M. 1930. Notes d’ethnologie néo-calédonienne, Paris: Institut d’Ethnologie (Travaux et Memoires, 8). — 1932. Documents néo-calédoniens, Paris: Institut d’Ethnologie (Travaux et Mémoires, 9).

—— 1935. Vocabulaire et grammaire de la langue houailou, Paris: Institut d’Ethnologie (Travaux et Mémoires, 10). —— ]937. Gens de la Grande Terre: Nouvelle Calédonie, Paris: Gallimard.

—— 1946. Langues et dialects de I’ Austro-Melanésie, Paris: Institut d’Ethnologie (Travaux et Memoires, 46). — 1947. Do Kamo: la personne et le mythe dans le monde mélanésien, Paris: Gallimard. L’Estoile, B. de. 2007. Une politique de lame: ethnologies et humanisme colonial, in M. Naepels and C. Salomon (eds), Terrains et destins de Maurice Leenhardt, Paris: EHESS.

LiPuma, E. 1998. Modernity and forms of personhood in Melanesia, in M. Lambek and A. Strathern (eds), Bodies and persons: comparative perspectives from Africa and Melanesia, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. MacClancy, J. 1986. Unconventional character and disciplinary convention: John Layard, Jungian and anthropologist, in G. Stocking (ed.), Malinowski, Rivers, Benedict and

others: essays on culture and personality (History of Anthropology 4), Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. — ]995. Brief encounter: the meeting, in Mass Observation, of British surrealism and popular anthropology, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 1(3),495-512.

—— 1996. Popularizing anthropology, in J. MacClancy and C. McDonaugh (eds), Popularizing anthropology, London: Routledge. ——— 2000. The decline of Carlism (The Basque Series), Reno: University of Nevada Press. Maschio, T. 1994. To remember the faces of the dead: the plenitude of memory in southwestern

New Britain, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Maurer, B. 2005. Mutual life, Limited: Islamic banking, alternative currencies, lateral reason,

Princeton: Princeton University Press. Mouchenik, Y. 2006. Maurice Leenhardt et |'invention d’une personnalité indigene en Nouvelle-Calédonie, Annales médico-psychologiques, 164(8): 659-67. Naepels, M. 1998. Histoires de terres kanaks: conflits fonciers et rapports sociaux dans le region de Houailou (Nouvelle-Calédonie), Paris: Belin.

— 2000. Review of Guiart 1998, Oceania, 70(4): 370-71. —— 2007. Notion de personne et dynamique missionaire, in M. Naepels and C. Salomon (eds), Terrains et destins de Maurice Leenhardt, Paris: EHESS. Needham, R. 1972. Belief language and experience, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Salomon, C. 2000. Savoirs et pouvoirs thérapeutiques kanaks, Paris: PUF-INSERM.

Sangren, S. 1988. Rhetoric and the Authority of Ethnography: ‘Post-Modernism’ and the Social Reproduction of Texts, Current Anthropology, 29: 405-35. Stephen, M. 1995. A‘aisa’s gifts: a study of magic and the self (Studies in Melanesian Anthropology 13), Berkeley: University of California Press. Strathern, M. 1988. The gender of the gift: problems with women and problems with society in Melanesia, Berkeley: University of California Press.

van Heekeren, D. 2004. ‘Don't tell the crocodile’: an existentialist view of Melanesian myth, Critique of Anthropology, 24(4): 430-54. Wolin, R. 2008. The state of literary theory: America’s tolerance for French radicalism (review of Cusset 2008), The Chronicle of Higher Education, The Chronicle Review, 13 June,

http://chronicle.com/temp/reprint.php7id=ww474ben5 3kn7fv2¢17ytbnzwr2rxhpt (accessed 26 June 2008). Young, M. 1983. Magicians of Manumanua: living myth in Kaluana, Berkeley: University of

California Press.

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS Alban Bensa, anthropologist and Directeur d’Etudes at l’Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales (IRIS), Paris, is a specialist in the Kanak societies of New Caledonia, where André-Georges Haudricourt

sent him on a mission starting in 1973. He has conducted ethnolinguistic and social anthropological research focused on politics and narrative, as well as on the relationship between anthropology and

history. Among his recent publications are La fin de Il’exotisme: Panthropologie autrement, Toulouse: Anacharsis 2006; and with Didier Fassin (eds.), Les politiques de l'enquéte: épreuves ethnographiques, Paris: La

Deécouverte, 2008.

Margaret Buckner completed graduate studies in anthropology at the University of Paris X-Nanterre under the direction of Professor Eric de Dampierre, whom she met as a Peace Corps volunteer in Bangassou, Central African Republic. Still a member of the Laboratoire d’ethnologie et de sociologie comparative, she now teaches cultural and linguistic anthropology at Missouri State University. She has published several

articles on the Zande, but since 1991 has also been carrying out research among the Manjako of Guinea-Bissau.

Stefania Capone took her PhD from Paris X-Nanterre in 1997 and her habilitation in 2005. She is currently Directrice de recherche (Tenured Senior Researcher) at Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique. She is currently a Visiting Scholar at the New York University, and a researcher at CIRHUS, the Center for International Research in the Humanities and Social Sciences, CNRS/NYU (New York). She is the author of La quéte de l’Afrique dans le candomble (Paris,

1999; Brazilian edition, 2004; American edition, 2010, Duke University Press); and Les Yoruba du Nouveau Monde: religion, ethnicité et

nationalisme noir aux Etats-Unis (Paris, 2005; Brazilian edition, 2009).

Girodana Charuty is a Directrice d’Etudes at the Ecole Pratique des

Hautes Etudes in Paris. A Europeanist, she has worked on the medicalization of madness, Christian custom in Mediterranean Europe

274 Notes on Contributors and social practices of writing. Her current research is on the history of Italian anthropology and on ethnographic knowledge developed in the course of the nineteenth century in the context of missionary activity. Her publications include: Le Couvent des fous: 'internement et ses usages en Languedoc aux XIXe et XXe siecles, Paris, Flammarion, 1985; Nel paese del tempo: antropologia dell’ Europa cristiana, Naples, Liguori, 1995; Folie, mariage et mort: pratiques chrétiennes de la folie en Europe occidentale, Paris, Le Seuil, 1997; and De Martino: les vies antérieures d'un anthropologue,

Aix-en-Provence and Marseille, Parenthéses/MMSH, 2009.

Anne de Sales is a Researcher in anthropology at the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, a member of the Laboratoire d’Ethnologie et de Sociologie Comparative in Nanterre (CNRS-LESC), and a Research Associate at the Institute of Social and Cultural Anthropology (Oxford).

She has carried out extended periods of fieldwork in Nepal, where her studies of shamanic practices and oral literature include the monograph Je suis né de vos jeux de tambours: La religion chamanique des Magar du nord

(Nanterre: Société d’ethnologie, 1991). More recently she has published a series of articles towards a comprehensive ethnography of the Maoist insurrection that overthrew the royal regime in Nepal in 2006.

Paul Henley is Professor of Visual Anthropology at the University of Manchester, where he has been Director of the Granada Centre for Visual Anthropology since its foundation in 1987. Having begun his career as an Amazonist specialist, he moved into visual anthropology alter training as a documentarist at the National Film and Television

School through a scheme managed by the Royal Anthropological Institute and funded by the Leverhulme Trust. He has recently published The Adventure of the Real, a major study of the film methods of Jean Rouch, with the University of Chicago Press. Jeremy MacClancy, Professor of Social Anthropology, Oxford Brookes

University, has done major fieldwork in Vanuatu and the Basque Country. He has published extensively on the histories of anthropology

and of its interchange with literature. His latest book is Expressing identities in the Basque arena (Oxford: James Currey, 2008).

Peter Parkes is Reader in Historical Anthropology at the University of Kent. His fieldwork has concentrated on the Hindu Kush region of eastern Afghanistan and northern Pakistan, particularly among the

non-Islamic Kalasha (Kalash Kafirs) of Chitral District, NWFP. Pakistan. His research interests include mountain subsistence and development, verbal arts, visual anthropology, and_ historical

Notes on contributors pA gs anthropology. He has also published extensively on fosterage and adoptive kinship in Eurasia. Robert Parkin is a Departmental Lecturer in Social Anthropology at the University of Oxford. His interests include kinship, the anthropologies of South Asia and eastern Europe, and the history of French anthropology. His main works regarding the latter are The dark side of humanity: the work

of Robert Hertz and its legacy (Harwood, 1995), Louis Dumont and hierarchical opposition (Berghahn, 2003) and ‘The French-speaking countries’, in Fredrik Barth et al., One discipline, four ways (The University

of Chicago Press, 2005). He has also translated work by Henri Hubert,

Robert Hertz and Louis Dumont into English, including Dumont’s Introduction to two theories of social anthropology (Berghahn, 2006).

Laura Rival is University Lecturer in Ecological Anthropology and Development, and a Fellow of Linacre College. Her doctoral research was

among the Huaorani Indians, on whom she has published numerous articles and two books (Hijos del Sol, Padres del Jaguar: Los Huaorani de Ayer y Hoy, Abya Yala 1996, and Trekking Through History: The Huaorani of Amazonian Ecuador, Columbia University Press 2002). Her research

interests include the impact of development policies on indigenous peoples; Amerindian conceptualisations of nature and society; and nationalism, citizenship and state education in Latin America.

Peter Riviére is Professor Emeritus of Social Anthropology at the University of Oxford and Emeritus Fellow of Linacre College, Oxford. He has had a life-long interest in the Native Peoples of Lowland South

America. His main works include Marriage among the Trio (1969), Individual and Society in Guiana (1984), Absent-minded Imperialism

(1995), and a two-volume work, The Guiana Travels of Robert Schomburgk 1835-1844 (2006). He has recently edited A History of Oxford Anthropology (2007), published by Berghahn.

Gérard Toffin is an anthropologist, Directeur de recherche at CNRS and a specialist on the Himalayas. He has worked on the material culture, social structures and religions of several ethnic groups in Nepal, in particular the Newar of the Kathmandu valley. His main publications

are Man and his house in the Himalayas (1991), Le palais et le temple (1993), L’ethnologie: la quéte de l'autre (2005) and Newar society: city, village and periphery (2007). He is currently preparing a book on a major Nepali royal festival and is interested in the anthropology of space.

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SUBJECT INDEX

A ‘anaya (protection), 54, 57, 63 abian (novices), 185 Ancoaquil, 166

Académie des Sciences de Paris, 1 27 Andes, 125, 136, 139, 140, 142, 143, 164

acculturation, 16, 179, 187 Anduze, 173

action, 197, 261 Angola, 180, 193 action, social, 19, 240 animism, 159

activism, political, 20 Année du Patrimoine, 25 ‘ada (custom), 64 Année sociologique, 6, 8, 22, 26, 31, 160,

adatrecht, 62, 68 192, 243, 258 advocacy, 57, 59 Anthropologie, 28

affinity, 24] anthropology

Africa, 14, 16, 21, 77, 80, 103, 105, Anglo-Saxon, 76, 81, 83, 86, 87,

106, 109, 119, 153, 171, 182-8, 95-100, 143, 241, 242, 251

190-2, 207, 225 armchair, 43, 46

East, 226 biological, 144 French West, 62 British, 2, 6,8, 26, 109,162, 198, South, 19, 22, 249 oe eee Be

West, 78, 79, 81-3, 93, 97 cognitive, 9

Afro-Americanism, 171 cultural, 8

agency, 25] dialogical, 86,95 agriculture, 204-6, 208, 212, 213 four-field, 105

swidden (slash and burn), 208 French, passim

Aguaruna, 137 lateral, 265, 269-70

Ait Amar, 49, 59 physical, 3;.29;.105,.128,.130, 136, Ait Iraten (Kabyles), 48, 49, 52, 57, 61 139, 141, 144, 147 Albania, 67 shared, 86, 96, 97 Algeria, 11, 12, 27,45, 47, 60, 65, 66 structural, 144 Algiers, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 58, 60, 68 visual, 75—100

‘alim (ulema) (religious scholar]|s), 49 anthropometry, 128, 133, 138, 139, 142

alliance, prescriptive, 241 Antioquia, 131

Alliance Evangélique Universelle, 260 antisemitism, 41

alliance theory, 238 anti-structuralism, 17, 20

alterity, 9,29, 156,171 Aosta, 199 Altiplano, 152, 157, 165, 166 apartheid, 249 Amazon, 7, 23, 143 apegado, 134-5 America, 22, 182, 225, 242 Apulia, 39

Black, 171 Arabic, 48 Latin, 143 Arabs, 134

South, 142, 154, 163, 225 archacology, 8, 129, 138, 139, 143,

American Man, 138-40 198, 233 Amcerindians, 21, 148, 163 archives, 27

amin (president), 54, 61 Argentina, 15,5 132, Loy

278 Subject index Argonauts of the Western Pacific, 99 Bible, 223,258

Armenians, 16, 176 Big Men, 229

art, 171,172,175,178 binaries (binary oppositions), 239, 245,

art, history of, 236 246, 251

Art Negre, 77 biology, 30, 133, 142, 219, 232, 233

artefacts, 145 bitti (drum), 89, 91

artha, 248 Blénod-les-Toul, 126 Arts populaires et loisirs ouvriers, 34 blood groups, 142

Aryans, 239 Bocage, 39

Ashluslay, 154 body, 23, 41, 42, 206, 230, 231, 260, 267

Asia, 143, 224, 225, 229, 230 Bogata, 131

South, 208 Bolivia, 151-3, 157, 166 215;.226;.227 bori, 185, 193

Southeast, 197, 200, 208, 209, 210, Bonneville, 30

Asie du Sud-Est et le Monde Indonésien Bororo, 160, 177, 236

(ASEMI), 210 botany, 208, 213, 230

Assam, 200 Bourg la Reine, 34 Astrophel and Stella, 1 Bourgogne, 39

asymmetry, 118 Brahmans, 239, 240, 245-8 atlases, linguistic, 210 Brantes, 201

Auraucanians, 156, 165 Brazil, 15, 153, 164, 171, 177-83, 187,

Aurés, 10 188, 190-3 Australians, 143, 148, 153, 241] Bresle Valley, 213 Austroasiatic, 209 Briancon, 36 Aymara, 153, 164 brideprice, 67

Azande history and political institutions, 114 — bridewealth, 114

Brotas, 184

B Bureau of American Ethnology, 153

babalawo (diviner), 185, 186 Bureau Politique des Affarires Arabes

Bahia, 180, 181, 184, 185, 187, 192, 193 (bureaux arabes), 47, 50, 53, 58, 66, 67

Bahnar, 4 Burma, 197, 200, 203, 209-11

ballet, 91 Burmese, 17, 216

Bandia, 113-16, 120, 122 bush school, 30 Bandiagara Cliffs, 77, 82

Bangassou, 103, 104, 107-9,113,114,120 C

Bangladesh, 199 Cak, 200, 201, 206, 209, 216 Bangui, 109 Calchaqui, 151, 157,158, 161 bantu, 193 Canaques, 23, 258, 268; see also Kanaks barbarians, 233 candomblé, 16, 172, 177-81, 184, 187,

Baroque, 178 188, 191-3 Bastidiana, 171] candombleé de caboclo, 193 Belém de Para, 187 cannibalism, 156, 158

belief, 174 canons, 46 Bella, 84 Carhuauz, 164 Bendo, 120 Caribbean, 140, 187

Bengal, East, 211, 213 Cartesianism, 171, 183

Bénin, 172, 186 cartography, 34

Berbers, 12, 45, 46, 48, 60, 62, 66-8 Casa Branca, 193

Bering Straits, 143 Casa de Oxumaré, 193 Bernice Bishop Museum, 152 caste, 19, 21, 160, 183, 202, 240, 241, Beyliks, 59 245, 247, 249 bia (soul etc.), 93 catalogues, 35

Subject index 279 categories, 230 Colombian Society of Ethnology, 131] Catholicism, 134 Colonial Exhibition (French), 7, 9

Cauca, 131 colonialism, 9, 12, 14, 21, 46, 50, 60-5,

Caucasus, 67 80, 84,97, 117, 129, 134, 135, 207,

causality, 231] 255, 258-60, 264, 268

Central African Republic, 14, 103, 104, 107 = Comité de Vigilance des Intellectuels

Centre d’ Anthropologie de Toulouse, 40 Antifascistes, 131 Centre d'Etudes de l'Inde et del’ Asie du Commune, Paris, 60

Sud, 237 comparison, 11, 38

Centre d'Etudes Indiennes en Sciences compartmentalization, principle of, 176,

Sociales, 237, 243-4 192

Centre d’Etudes Sociologiques, 106 concierto, 134-5

Centre de Documentation et de conflict, 240

Recherches sur I’ Asie du Sud-Est et le congo, 193 Monde Indonésien (Cedrasemi), 200 Congress of Popular Art, 28

Centre National de la Recherche consciousness, collective, 175, 189 Scientifique (CNRS), 8, 78, 89, 93, Constantople, 235

106; 108, 193; 200,237 Contributions to Indian Sociology, 238, Cévennes, 173 240, 243

charivari, 41, 43 cosmology, 81, 83, 246, 248

chiasmus, 183 coutumiers, 5, 61 Chicago, 107 Creoles, 143, 144

Chile, 15] cults, 21, 81, 135, 181, 185, 187, 191, 193

Chin, 209 cultural relativism, 8 China.2 10, 220,223,224, 227,229 culture

Chinese, 199, 211 contact, 179 Chipaya, 152,157 heroes, 156

Chiriguano, 152, 157, 158, 160 material, 133, 136, 138, 140-2, 147, Chittagong Hills, 197, 199-200, 209 158, 159, 205, 206, 208

Christ, 125 and nature, 18

Christianity, 39, 41, 43, 59, 67,91, 140, and personality school, 199

Christmas, 41 D Chronicle of a summer, 89,92 Dahomey, 186 224, 242, 260

Chroniques, 11, 28-32, 35 Dakar, 79

ciné-eye, 93 Dakar-Djibouti Expedition, 7, 32, 77

ciné-poems, 78 dance, 22, 38,81, 85 ciné-trance, 13, 16, 21, 75, 89-92, 94, Dasein, 264

95-6 Dauphinois, 36 cinema, ethnographic, 75-100 deduction, 2, 171

cinema-veérité, 92,93, 94 Dellys, 50 circumcision, female, 21 democracy, 50, 58

class, 249 depth levels, 189

Clermont-Ferrand, 178 depth sociology, 17, 190

Clisthenes, 120 descent theory, 238 Codé Civil; 5:9, 50).57 dharma, 248

Code Pénal, 57 Diaguita, 151 coffee, 116 dichotomies, 63 cognition, 211 Dieu d'eau, 98

College de France, 6, 28, 198, 200-1, 208 — diffusionism, 7, 17, 20, 140, 142, 143,

College de Sociologie, 182, 235 210; 213,.232,238,239;.240, 25:1, Colombia, 15, 131, 138, 140, 141, 143, 147 259

280 Subject index diglossia, 40 Epiphany, 41

Dionysian, 91, 96 Equipe de Recherche en Anthropologie Direct Cinema Group, 87-8, 92 Sociale: Morphologie, Echanges

disability, 250 (ERASME), 237-8, 244

discourse, 14 Escuela Nacional de Antropologia, 153 discrimination, 249, 250 Essai sur la religion bambara, 81

distinction, 246, 251 essentialism, ethnographic, 2, 3, 8,9, 11,

dividuals, 265 7,20; 22, 472

Do Kamo, 259, 260, 266, 268, 269, 270 Ethiopian church movement, 19

Do Neva, 258, 259 ethnicity, 250

Dogon, 16, 77-85, 98, 99, 160, 182 ethnobotany, 17, 200, 208, 214

domestication, 227 ethnocentrism, 174

Dra el-Mizan, 48, 52, 67 ethnofiction, 78

Dravidian, 239 Ethnographie, 28

drawing, 33 ethnography dreams, 182 ancient, 146

dualism, 18, 224, 261 canonical, 12, 13, 66 Dutch East Indies, 62 dialogical, 12, 13 French, passim

E ethnolinguistics, 209, 269 Easter Island, 152, 153, 154, 155, 157, ethnology, 6, 27, 28, 37,42, 77, 103,

158,159; 162, 163 105, 109, 129, 130, 132, 141, 144, Ecole des Annales, 212 146, 147, 199, 200, 236 Ecole des Chartes, 151 ethnopoetics, 66 Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences ethnopsychiatry, 41 Sociales (EHESS), 197, 198, 271 ethnozoology, 208

Ecole du Louvre, 28, 236 Europe, 37, 242-3

204 exchange, 247

Ecole Francaise d’Extréme-Orient, 5,198, evolutionism, 4, 20, 213, 243, 255, 268

Ecole Francaise de Sociologie, 229-30 existential events, 264 Ecole Nationale des Langues Orientales existentialism, 8, 19, 263-4, 266

Vivantes, 25,151,161, 215 experience,.16, 13,21; 22,29,33,41, Ecole Polytechnique, 47, 56, 58, 235 174, 221, 263, 266 Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes (EPHE), Exploration scientifique d' Algérie, 66

2562 7,408; 150; 151; 159.1oo;

LO; 197, 200, 202,205,:210;237, F

259;209 laCts: 26 7s Ly | ed 7s by 2 Oy ody 22, Ecole Speciale des Langues Orientales, 215 1375 L55;.1615:164,.2 20; 223,233;

Ecuador, 15, 125, 127, 129, 132, 138- 243

47 facts, social, 174,175 education, 204 family, 4, 134, 136, 137, 160, 203, 207 efon, 193 Far East, 18 efun (chalk), 187 fascism, 21, 146 egalitarianism, 19, 244-50 feeding the head, 193

egun (revanent), 187 feitura do santo, 193 Empire, French, 4, 7 Fertile Crescent, 223,229; 25:1 Empire, Second, 60, 64 fertility, 39, 40 empiricism, British, 2, 95 fieldwork, passim encompassment (of contrary etc.), 239, figh, 49, 56

246, 248, 25] First World War, 6, 43, 129, 146, 173

Encyclopédie, 25 fission, 241

epilepsy, 41 Florida, 153

Subject index 281 lolklore,.4,. 5,11, 20,25,:27, 29; 32,36, Harvard, 260

37,39, 139, 214, 243 Hautes-Alps, 35 Folklore du Dauphine, 34 Hawaii, 152

food, 133, 136 hegemony, 262 Fort-Napoléon, 12, 47,48, 51, 52, 53, hierarchy, 3, 18, 191, 224, 239, 240,

57; 50.59, 60,61, 67,66 245, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250, 251,

Fort-National, 61, 68 252,239,270

Franco-Prussian War, 126 Hierarchy and marriage alliance in south

Freudianism, 87 India, 242

Fulani, 84, 90 Himalayas, 210

functionalism, 213, 255 Hindi, 237

funlade (spirit), 187 Hispanics, 140 fusion, 241 Historical Society of Algeria, 50, 66

G historiography, 256 Ganges, 248 history, 18,42, 81, 105, 110, 139, Histories of the Berbers, 48

gay, 250 144-6, 154, 156, 159, 175,177,

gender, 250 201, 219, 231-3, 240, 242, 243, 255 Gender of the gift, 265 cultural, 39 eenealogical method, 203 of ideas, 243 eenealogies, 202, 223, 258 lie; LE

Geneva, 165 oral, 5, 110

geography, 35, 139,177, 212, 213, 243 of religions, 25, 42

human, 34, 38 social, 38 social, 270 world, 240, 251

Germans, 11, 189, 232 holism, 20, 175, 204, 239-1, 243 Germany, 21, 22, 134, 146, 237 holism, methodological, 190

Gestapo, 131 homicide, 57 gestures, 261 L’'Homme, 162 Gien, 199 Homo Aequalis, 238 gilts, 245 Homo Hierarchicus, 238, 240, 242 Godeste, 108 Honolulu, 152 Gold Coast, 76 horticulture, 226 Gothenburg, 151, 154 householder, 247

eovernment, 247 houses, 41, 204, 207, 213 Gran Chaco, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, Human Relations Area Files (HRAF), 152 i hes wae Isobe, human rights, 244

Grand Jeu, 235 humanism, 15, 144-5 GreE6CE,.23 5 hurma (moral reputation), 54, 57 Greeks, 14, 119 hybridity, 140, 143 Groupement des Universités et Grand Hylean Amazon Project, 153

Ecoles de France, 177 hysteria, 41

H iad, 180 habitus, 233 Ibarra, 147

Guianas, 156

I

Haiti, 155, 159, 166, 213, 216 ideals, 251 Handbook of American Indian Languages, 147 — ideas, 221

Handbook of South American Indians, 153 identity, 15, 19

Hanoi, 5, 224 ideology, 19, 245

Hanunoo, 208, 211 idiophones, 112

harp, 112,117,118 Ifa cult, 185

202 Subject index Ifanhin, 172 internationalism, 146

iexd, 193 interpreters, 20 ikhwan (religious contfraternities), 59 Intha, 200, 201 illocutionary, 261 Inuit, 85 ‘ilm i-qalam (Islamic jurisprudence), 60 Iroquois, 46 immigrants, 176 Isere, 34

Imprimerie Nationale, 199 Islam, 59, 60, 62, 68 impurity, 227, 229, 240, 249; see also Italy, 6, 37, 42

pure-impure izerf (Berber customary law), 68

imrabden (marabouts), 59

Incas, 134, 139, 140 J

India, 18, 21, 203, 211, 235-52 Jains, 237 Indians (American), 133-6, 139,140,156 —jama’a (public assemblies), 46, 53, 54,

indirect rule, 66 57,61, 64 individualism, 19, 238, 247, 248, 265,270 ~~ jazz, 77

individuation, 263 J.B. Bailliere, 216

Indo-China, 62, 68 Jé, 160

Indo-European, 140, 142 jeje, 193

Indology, 242, 243 Jerusalem, 123

Indus Valley, 154 Jews, 224

Informants Jibaros, 132, 136-8

indirect, 138 jihad (holy war), 59, 60 intermediary, 137 Journal d’Agronomie Tropicale et de secondary, 144 Botanique Appliqué, 208

INHErILAnee; 5295 Journal de la Société des Américanistes, 146, initiation, 172, 184, 187, 188, 191, 193 147

Inle Lake, 200 Judeo-Christians, 221 Institut d’Amérique Latine, 188 jurisprudence, 63, 64

Institut d’Ethnologie, 6, 14, 129,146,207 —Jurjura massif, 45, 51, 61, 66 Institut d’Etudes Politiques, 103

Institut des Langues et Civilisations K

Orientales, 215 Kabylia, Kabyle, 12-13, 21, 27, 45-68

Institut Francais d’Alrique Noire (IFAN), Kadu, 200

79,193 Kallar, Pramalai, 236, 237, 240

Institut Francais d’Anthropologie, 128—9 kama, 248

Institut Francais d’ Océanie, 260 Kanaks (see also Canaques), 227-8 Institut International de Coopération karo (body), 267

Intellectuelle, 28, 34 Kathmandu, 210, 215

Institut National d’ Agronomie, 219 Kayapo, 160, 164 Institut National des Langues et des Kengu (river), 116

Civilisations Orientales, 200 ketu, 193

Institut pour la Recherche et de khoja (interpreter/secretary), 12, 48-9

Développement (IRD), 22 Khyang, 209 Institute of Social Anthropology kinship, 58, 112, 158, 160, 200, 203,

(Oxford), 237 204, 209, 238, 240, 241, 242, 244, Instituto de Etnologia, 152 247 Instituts franco-brésiliens de Haute kinship, spiritual, 41 Culture, 177 kisoro (board game), 112 Instruments, musical, 111 Kontiki expedition, 159

intellectualists, 5, 88 Kshatriyas, 245—6 interdisciplinarity, 212 Kubenkankrey, 164

International Labour Office, 153 Kyoto, 206

Subject index 283 L literature, 15, 35, 42, 126-7, 175,179, L’Anthropologie, 29 180, 188 L’ethnographie, 28 oral, 112 La Kabyle et les coutumes kabyles, 45-68 Loiret, 199

La Maison Rustique, 216 Lorraine, 126

La notion de personne en Afrique noire, 89 Lucania, 37

La pense sauvage, 27 Lycée St Louis, 219, 235 La religion et la magie songhay, 81

La Tarasque, 4, 199, 237, 242 M Laboratoire d’Ethnologie et de Sociologie Madabazouma, 104

Comparative, 108, 122 mae-de-santo (chief priestess), 184, 193 Laboratoire de Sociologie de la Maghrib, 60, 62

Connaissance, 189 magic, 37-9, 155, 156, 191, 192, 270 labour, division of 204 magico-religious, 42

language(s), 111, 118, 138, 140, 142, Maison des Sciences de |'Homme, 237

182;.197, 199,:203,-233,295 Maison Franco-Japonaise, 206

Indo-European, 142 Malayo-Polynesian, 143, 148, 153, 165

Melanesian, 19 Mali, 77

North American, 141] Maliki, 49, 52, 56, 59, 63, 64

Romance, 35 Malvire-sur-Desle, 105 South American, 142 ma'mara college, 67

Langues O, 215 Man with a movie camera, 92-3

Laos, 210-11 mana, 228

Lascaux caves, 227 Mandalay, 200

Latin, 180 mandrel, 110

Lausanne, 151 Manuel d’ethnographie, 6, 207, 212, 216 lavagem das contas (washing of the Manuel de folklore francaise contemporaine,

necklaces), 184, 192 4,25, 28, 30, 32, 36, 37, 39-43

law(s), 45, 46, 48, 51-6, 58, 62, 68, maps, 210

160, 191, 207, 247 Mapuche, 165

Le réve plus fort que la mort, 75 marabouts, 59

League of the Iroquois, 46 Maranhao, 187, 192

learned societies, 3, 33 Marbial Valley, 166

Leiden, 62, 68 marginal man, 179 Leningrad, 233 marginality, 173

Les demi-savants, 27 Marma, 200, 201, 204, 207, 208, 211, Les forms élémentaires de la vie religieuse, 213,216

26,174, 229 marriage, 40, 43, 115, 134, 136, 158,

Les langues du monde, 129 160, 201, 203, 205, 214, 249 Les rites de passage, 5, 26, 27 cross-cousin, 241 Les structures élémentaires de la parenté, 239 rules, positive, 241

Les tabours d’avant: tourou et bitti, 89 voodoo, 159

lesbian, 250 Marxism, 2, 8, 17, 38, 87, 189, 190, levels, 239, 246, 247, 250 HO 2, ZI VLDO L’exotique est quotidian, 23 Masai, 29

liberty, 248 Masques dogon, 98

life-cycle, 204 Massif Central, 210

liminality, 12, 37 Mataco, 152, 154, 157, 160

limit situations, 264 materiality, 219, 221, 222, 230, 233, 234 linguistics, 25, 40, 129, 130, 135, 138, matriarchy, 67

140, 142-5, 146, 147, 209-13, Max Planck Institute of Social

231-3, 267 Anthropology (Halle), 22

structural, 8 Mboki, 108, 111

284 Subject index Mbomu (river), 116 Musée des Arts et Traditions Populaires,

meaning, 42 4,25, 28, 29, 235-8, 243

medicine, 41, 43, 127 Musée du Quai Branly, 9, 22, 131, 146

Mediterranean, 37, 242 museology, 235 mediums, 13 Muséum National d'Histoire Naturelle

Melanesia, 18, 19, 226, 229, 256, 258, (MNHN), 28, 127-30, 146, 147, 208,

260, 264, 265, 268, 270 209

Mélanges de sociologie religieuse et de museums, 3, 9-10, 27, 141, 251

folklore, 31 music, 14,111,113,117,193

memory, 39, 177, 190, 263 Muslim (s), 51, 52, 55, 59, 62, 64, 224

Mendoza, 151 mysticism, 15, 16, 172-6, 178, 182-8,

mentality, 183 191: 192 mentality, pre-logical, 176, 258 myth(s), 19, 137, 138, 155-7, 160, 165, Mercure de France, 11, 26, 28, 29, 32, 33, 181, 261-4, 266, 270

36, 43 Mythes et legends d’Australie, 26

mestizos, 132, 136, 143, 144 mythico-ritual, 63

metaphor, 13, 117-18, 263 mythologists, 269 metaphysics, 41, 175, 181, 187

Méthode de l’ethnographie, 81 N meétissage, 21, 140-3, 232 Nago, 180, 186, 193

Mexico City, 153 Nambikwara, 177 Middle East, 18 Nancy, 126 Middle Kingdom, 231 Nandi, 29 migration, 143, 156, 221 Nanook of the North, 85 mind, 231 Nanterre, 14, 103, 108, 122, 123, 200 Mindoro, 208 nata (pastor-evangelist), 258, 267, 268 Minot, 39 National Committee of Geography, 216 Minotaure, 77 National Film Board of Canada, 87

miscenegation, 140 National Institute of Anthropology, 147 Mission Society, 259 National Institute of Ethnology, 131 Mission Sociologique du Haut-Oubangui National Philosophy Faculty, 179

(MSHO), 108, 122, 123 National University of Tucuman, 152 missionaries, 4, 5,19, 23, 37,135, 156, nationalism, 146

LIL DLIO¢, ZOU nature, 18

Modern Art Week, 178 Nayar, 241

modernism, modernity, 14, 87, 178, Near East, 224

240-4, 249 Negev, 123

moksha, 248 Neolithic, 16, 21, 163, 224

Mon-Khmer, 209 Nepal, 207, 210, 213, 215 monographic approach, 201-3 Neuchatel, 27, 33

montage, 93 New Britain, 262

Montauban, 19 New Caledonia, 4, 19, 21, 228, 256-62,

Mograni, 68 265-9, 270 Morocco, 62 New Guinea, 229, 264, 270

Mu river, 200 New School of Social Research, 8

Mukhtasar, 56 New World, 4

multiculturalism, 9 New York, 8, 179

Musée d'Ethnographie, 4 Newar, 207, 215 Musée d'Histoire Naturelle, 3 Negebandi, 114 Musée de (Homme, 9, 14, 22, 108, 125, nguinza (money), 105

127, 130-2, 146, 147, 198, 199, Niamey, 79, 89

204, 206, 236 Nice, 30

Subject index 285 Niger 146; 173;,47 9/298 river, 78, 80 photography, 33, 98, 184, 188, 202 territory, 79, 84, 89 Picardy, 199, 219

Nimes, 173 pigs, 228-9 Nivacle, 154 Pilaga, 157, 160 non-modern, 243 plants, 18

Normandy, 39, 199, 209 poetry, poets, 48, 77, 109, 111-12, 126,

Notes and Queries, 203, 216 172, 175, 181, 182,193,263 Nouvelle Calédonie, see New Caledonia Poland, 27

Nouville, 17, 199, 201-4, 209, 211, politeness, 221]

213,214, 216 politics, 14, 20, 204, 211

Nzakara, 14, 21, 103, 107-22 polygyny, 249

Polynesia, 155, 158, 159, 163, 207

O Ponts et Chaussées (Grand Ecole), 79 oba, obaj, 180, 193 Popular Front, 131

observation, 19 Portuguese, 180, 204 participant, 9,83, 185, 188, 203 positivism, 56, 174, 190

Oceania, 224, 225, 227-231 possession, spirit, 13, 16, 78, 79, 84, 89,

ogan, 180, 193 90, 93-4 Oju Oba, 186 postmodernism, 8, 13, 76, 86-7, 255,

opposition 2623.27 1 binary, 19, 239, 245, 246, 251 post-structuralism, 19, 23, 260-2, 266 hierarchical, 18, 239, 245-7, potlatch, 153 249-52 pottery, 27 Organisation pour la Recherche power, 42, 211, 240, 245 Scientifique et Technicque de I’Outre- practice(s), 8, 13, 21, 62, 221, 222, 230,

Mer (ORSTOM), 8, 107 245, 250-1, 252 orixd (saint), 180, 193 practice, theory of, 63

Oryza, 208 Prague, 28

Oxford, 18, 237, 241, 255 Pramali Kallar, 237, 240

P predation, 156

Pre-Colombian, 139, 147

pai-de-santo (chief priest), 184, 193 prehistory, 29, 105, 147 Pakistan, East, 199-200, 209, 216 pre-logical, 176, 258 Papua New Guinea, 229, 264, 270 primitivism, 268 Paris, 79 MOy2 90, 174 7 Op 107 LOD, 125, Protestant(s), 19, 173, 257, 259

130,145, 187,133, 199).207, 237, Provence, 36, 199

242, 258, 259, 260 psychiatry, 270 parody, 40 psychoanalysis, 8, 32, 178, 270 parole, 261 psychology, 18, 105, 174-6, 189, 203, participation, mythic, 264, 267, 270 204, 269

participations, law of, modes of, 190, 258 social, 105, 174, 179, 192

paysannat system, 116 pure/impure, 18, 227, 229, 240, 249

peasants, 213 purity, 232

270 Q

personage, 261, 267 Pyangaon, 215 personhood, 19, 38, 41, 42, 261, 263-7,

perspectivism, 156 gadi (judge), 61

Pera, LO Ryko ganun (qawanin) (canon), 12, 46-68 phatic speech, 221 Quechua, 132-6, 140, 142, 147,153 phenomenology, 8, 12, 19, 189, 269, 271 questionnaires, 137

philology, 57 Quito, 147 philosophy, 15, 42, 105, 126-7, 130,

286 Subject index

R Roussillon, 199

race, 15, 128, 134, 136, 139-41, 153, Rules of sociological method, 22 190, 244, 250

racism, 61, 135, 141, 144, 146, 249, S

255, 268 sacred, 178, 182 Rafai, 114 sacrifice, 246 Rahmaniyya order, 59, 60, 67 saints, 43, 180

ragba (feud), 57 Salonica, 129, 235

rationality, 2, 135, 182, 263, 269 Salvador de Bahia, 178, 179, 183, 184, 193

Cartesian, 17] Salvation, 247

Rauto, 262, 263 Sanga, 82

realism, 93 Sango, 122 reason, 162, 191 Sanskrit, 237

reasoning, deductive, 2, 171] sanza (thumb piano), 112

rebirth, 248 Sao Liuz do Maranhao, 192 Recherches en sciences humaines, 106 sao Paulo, 16, 177-178,187, 138,192

Rechtsgeschichte, 55 Sar Luk, 23 Recife, 179, 187, 192 Savoy, 30, 36

reflexivity, 171] Sayyid, 12, 49 regionalism, 33-5 science, 181

relativism, cultural, 8 science fiction, 78 relativity of groups, 241 Sciences Po, 103 religion(s), 6, 15, 18, 39-42, 81, 135-8, Second Empire, 60, 64 155,.158;.159; 065017 1,.1./73,174, Second World War, 7, 8, 11, 27, 39, 153,

176-9, 182, 187, 204, 206, 207, 23:6

211, 215, 240, 262, 263 Sedan, 60

African, 16, 190 Seine-Maritime, 209 Afro-Brazilian, 16 self, 260-1, 263 history of, 25, 29 self-development, 19

Muslim, 59 semiology, 263 remainders, 118 Senegal, 4

Renaissance, 143 shamanism, 156, 165

renunciation, 238, 247, 248 Shari a, 51755,59} 61 representations, 18, 221, 230 Shudras, 237

collective, 175, 244 Sigui, 85,98

reproduction, cultural, 7 singularity (seeing, thinking in), 14,

republicanism, 58 118-21, 233-4 resistance, 11 Sirens, 185, 191

reversal, 239 Smithsonian Institution, 131, 147, 153 Revue Africaine, 50 socialism, 134 Revue de |’ Histoire des Religions, 26 Socialist Party, 131] rice, 208, 210 Sociedad Colombiana de Etnologia, 131 rights, human, 244 Société d’ Anthropologie de Paris, 128

Rio de Janeiro, 177, 179 Société d'Etudes Alfred Métraux, 165

Riobamba, 132-6 Société de Folklore Francais, 28

ritual(s), 7, 12, 30, 33, 35-43, 77, 85, Société des Américanistes de Paris, 128,

133,135, 158, 178, 184-5, 205, 129,131,147

228, 245, 246, 248 Société des Nations, 28 rituals of atonement, 42 Société des Observateurs de l'Homme, 3, 10

role, 266 Société des Sultanats, 117

Romans, 55, 233, 267 Société Francaise de Psychologie, 212

rotie, 40 sociography, 200-1

Subject index 287 sociology, 4-8, 18, 20, 27,42, 105, 109, Tamang, 207 130, 172-9, 183, 187-92, 204, 237, Tamazirt, 51, 61, 67

239, 243 Tamil, 237

depth, 17, 190 Tamil Nadu, 236, 237, 242, 251

rural, 213 Tamils, 18, 239, 242

sociometry, 104-5 tapirage, 165

Somme, 209 tarentism, 39 Songhay, 13, 78, 80, 81, 84, 85,93,94,99 — techniques, technology, 17, 200, 205-9,

Sorbonne, 28, 79, 130, 198, 210 222-3, 232

sorcery, 39 Terre Humaine, 10

Sorko, 84 terreiro (cult house), 180-1, 184-7, 193

Soudan, 77 Thai, 209

soul(s),.233-L59,.193;185, 137 theology, 257

Soviet Union, 233 theory, 2, 10, 15-22, 160, 172, 189,

space, 207, 213, 220 198, 213, 241, 257

Spain, 67 of practice, 13 Spanish, 134, 139, 142,191 Third Republic, 21, 46

Sre, 22 Tibetan, 199 St Besse (cult), 6, 31, 199 Tibeto-Burman, 200, 209, 215 St Paul, 267 time, 38-9, 40, 118, 203 state, 19 Toba, 152, 157, 160 status, 240 Torres Straits expedition, 7

Stimmung, 91, 94, 96 total, totalities, 211-12, 222

Strasbourg, 179 totalitarianism, 240

stratification, social, 247 totemism, 6, 30, 136, 160, 270 structural-functionalism, 8, 255 Toulouse, 40 structuralism, 2, 3, 7,8, 17, 18, 20, 40, tourou (drum), 89, 90, 91, 94

87,88, 125, 144, 145, 148, 171, tradition, invention of, 12 1935202;.2:15,230;,2315235, trance, 13, 16, 21,91, 180, 186, 192

238-45, 251, 255, 256 transactionalism, 12

structure, 19 transactions, 63

substance, 249 transcendence, 224—5, 232, 246, 248 sub-stratum theories, 239, 240 transition, 12

Sud e magia, 38 translation, 241, 262

suelto, 134-5 travellers, 9, 28 suicide, 137, 153 tribes, 240

superstition, 15, 39 Trickster, 119 surrealism, surrealists, 13, 76-7, 88, 91, Tristes tropiques, 16, 22, 167, 186, 200 96,99, 163, 182 Trobriands, 125 survivals, 32, 239 Trocadéro, 4, 9, 10, 14, 22, 28, 130,

Sweden, 15, 151] 146, 147,198 Switzerland, 15, 27, 35,151,191 Tsachilas, 136 symbolism, 19, 37-42, 206, 263 Tuareg, 48, 65

symmetry, 118 Tucuman, 152, 153

T Turks, 59 taboo, 227, 228 twins, 118

syncretism, 16, 178, 187, 192, 194 Tupi-Guarani, 15, 151, 156 Tupinamba, 151, 156, 157

Tabou et totemisme a Madagascar, 28

taddart (village), 54 U

Tahoua, 75 Ubaneui tiver, 11:3; 120.122 tajmaat (assembly), 53 Uele river, 113

288 Subject index ‘ulama, 46, see also ‘alim WwW

Ulysses, 191 war, 158, 245

Une esthétique perdue, 14 washing of the necklace, 184, 192

UNESCO; 2.05.:123,;-1593; 159; 165,166, Wayapi, 156

199, 203,216 Wasigny, 126

Union Rationaliste, 219 weapons, 136 United States, 249 West, 19, 239, 244, 245, 247-52

universalism, 232 wheat, 18

universities, 3, 8 Whigs, 255, 256, 265, 270 Untouchables, 245 Whites, 134, 19]

VY

‘urf (customary usages), 64 witch doctors, 133

Uro, 157, 166 witchcraft, 136, 137 Uro(u)-Chipaya, 152,157,158 work, 250

Uttar Pradesh, 238, 242 Writing culture, 262

Valence, 16, 176 Yale, 152

245-50 youth, 41

value(s), 3, 18-19, 207, 237, 239-41, Yoruba, 186

Vanuatu, 228 Yuma, 148 varnas, 245 Vedas, 245, 246 Z

vegetarianism, 250 Zande, 14, 107, 108, 111-23

Versailles, 177 7en, 220

Vichy, 79, 84, 131, 259 Zerma, 84, 89,93

Vienna school, 140, 143 zima (cult priests), 90 Vietnam, 4, 17, 22, 210-11, 223 zoology, 230 Vincennes, 7 Virgin, 41

voodoo, 159, 160, 162, 166 Vungara dynasty, 113, 114

NAME INDEX

A Berbrugger, L.A., 50, 66 Ageron, C.R., 58, 61, 66, 67, 68, 69 Berger, L., 22, 24 Alain, 131] Bergson, H., 264

Aleijadinho, 178 Bernand, C., 147, 148, 149

2; 22 66, 67, 68, 69

Allen, N.J., 22, 23, 24, 70, 130, 148, Bernard, A., 47, 50, 51, 52, 56, 60, 62,

Allier, R., 173 Bernot, D, 199, 216 Althusser, Ls 1,298 Bernot, L., 2,5, 9, 10, 14, 16. 17, 18, 20, Amadigné Dolo, 85 21,197-218 Amado, J., 179, 180, 184 Berque, J., 45, 66, 67, 68

Andrade, M. de, 178 Berrouet, E., 159 Andrade, O. de, 178 Bertholet, D., 148

Ans, A.-M. d’, 164, 167 Betts, R.E. 61, 69

Anthony, R., 128 Beylier, C., 192, 194 Arauz, J., 146, 147, 148, 149 Bing, EF, 162, 163, 166, 167 Arbousse-Bastide, P., 173, 177 Blancard, R., 199, 203, 204, 214, 217

Archaimbault, C., 198 Blanckaert, C., 9, 23, 63, 69, 149

Aristotle, 182 Bloch, Marc, 212

Armstrong, L., 91 Bloch, Maurice, 145, 149, 250, 253 Aron, R.,:106,;. L1 7,123 Blue, J.. 88, LOO

Aucapitaine, H., 66, 67, 69 Boas, F., 8, 140, 141, 142, 144, 145,

Aurégan, P., 23 146, 147, 148, 151 Auroi, C., 152, 154, 167 Bouglé, C., 160, 245 Boulbet, J., 198

B Bourdieu, P., 1, 8, 13, 62, 63, 68, 69, 71, Bachelard, G., 231 2334251 Bailliere, J.B., 205, 216 Bousquet, G.H., 55, 62, 67, 68, 69, 71

Baker, J., 77 Braudel, EF, 177, 180 Balandier, G., 9, 191, 193, 194 Breton, A., 9]

Bangbanzi, R., 117 Broca, H., 28

Barrau, J., 208, 244, 252 Bromberger, C., 11, 24, 43

Barraud, C., 244, 252 Bruneau, M., 201, 217

Barthes, R., 1, 263 Buckner, M., 14, 273

Bastide, R. 5, 14, 16, 17, 19, 20, 21, 70, Burghart, R., 248, 252

171-196 Burke, E., 68, 69

Bataille, G.. 151, 161, 167, 169, 182, 235 Burns, P., 68, 70 Bate, D., 98, 100

Bateson, G., 222 C

Baudrillard, J., 1, 262 Caillois, R., 182, 194, 235

Beads Senne Campbell, L., 142, 149 Bédoucha, G., 215 Capone, S., 273 Behar, R., 67, 69 Cardoso, I., 178, 195

Bellwood, P., 143, 148 Carelli, M., 177,192,195

Belmont, N., 25, 28 Carette, E., 48, 66, 70 Bensa, A., 17, 18, 266, 268, 270, 271, Carlos, A., 150

242 Castelain, J.P, 136, 149

290 Name index Céfai, D., 9, 23 Drew, R., 87

Certeau, M. de, 1 Duarte, P., 131,178 Cervoni, A., 99, 100 Dumas, G., 177,195

Chaix, B., 35 Dumézil, G., 242 Chanock, M., 68, 70 Dumont, J., 235

Charuty, G., 4, 11, 12, 274 Dumont, L., 1, 2, 3, 4,5, 14, 15, 16,18,

Chevasse, P., 127, 148, 149 19,20, 21)-235 199; 200, 202.217,

Chirac, A., 105, 123 235-254

Chiva, D., 25, 28, 43 Dumont, V.E., 235

Chomsky, N., 231 Dundes, A., 27, 43

Christelow, A., 68, 70 Durham, M.E., 67, 70 Clancy-Smith, J.A., 67, 70 Durkhéim;.E.; 1, 536; 7,.11;.18,22,.23,

Clastres, P., 16, 19 26, 28, 31, 37,42, 43, 68, 72,128

Clifford, J., 19, 22, 77, 80, 83, 98, 100, Dussan de Reichel, 126, 132, 140, 142,

195.217. 2575.290;200)2015.262% 148, 149

203, 2065267;2004-27 / Duvigneaud, J., 193, 195 Cohen, M., 28, 150

Colleyn, J.P., 97 E Colonna, F., 68, 70 Eaton, M., 98, LOO

Comte, A., 56 Echeverria, R., 185, 186, 193, 196 Condominas, G., 9, 17, 23, 200, 214 Ellington, D., 91

Conklin, H.C., 208, 211, 217 Emerit, M., 67, 70 Cooper, J., 154, 155, 167, 169 Evan-Pritchard, E.E., 14, 18, 23, 112,113,

Copans, J., 10, 22, 23 114, 122, 123, 124, 237, 241, 252 Coppet, D. de, 3, 238, 244, 252

Crapanzano, V., 43,57, 266, 271 F

Cuisenier, J., 25, 43 Fabar, P., 48, 57, 70 Cusset, E, 10,22, 23, 262,271,272 Fabre, D., 25, 28, 40, 43

D Faron, L., 165, 167 Da Silva, V.G., 188, 195 Favret-Saada, J., 39, 44, 45 Fabre-Vassas, C., 41, 44

Damouré Zika, 84 Febvre, lis LZ 7 Looe 492,199; 199;

Dampierre, E. de, 9, 103-124 JAD 215; 21.6,2175 237 Daumas, E., 48, 57, 66, 67 Féraud, L.C., 66, 70

Davis, N.Z., 24, 43 Fernandes, FE, 156

Davis, W., 16] Ferry, J., 117, 124

De Martino, E., 37, 38, 39, 43, 44, 274 Fieschi, J.-A., 88, 100

Delacampagne, C., 3, 23, 244, 252 Fine, A., 41

Delafosse, M., 6, 7,9 Flaherty, R., 85

Delamarre, M., 224, 234 Forbes, J., 98, 100

Demangeon, A., 212 Foucault, M., 1, 8, 262

Derrida, J., 23, 262 Fox, R.G., 11, 24

Descola, P., 8 Francqui, Commandant, 115 Dias, N., 129, 138, 141, 145, 146, 149 Frazer, J.G., 37, 148, 150, 158, 161 Dieterlen, G., 7, 11, 79, 80, 81, 82, 85, Fréemaux, J., 66, 70

88, 98, 100 Friedberg, C., 208

Dion, R., 212 Friedemann, N.S. de, 131, 149 Djabir, 115, Fulchignoni, E., 91,94, 99, 100 Dostal, W., 48, 57, 66, 67

Douglas, M., 98, 100 G

Dournes, J., 22 Gaillard, G., 3, 4, 24

Dresch, P., 68, 70 Galey, J.-C., 240, 241, 244

Name index 291 Gellner, E., 68, 69, 70 Hirsch, E., 265, 27] Georgakas, D., 98, LOO Hobbes, T., 63 Gernet, J., 224, 234 Hocart;A5¢2.15,:2.07

Giddens, A., 251 Hodgson, B., 210

Gil, G., 186 Holleman, J.E., 68, 71

Gilissen, J., 68, 70 Hornborg, A., 143, 149 Gingrich, A., 11, 24 Horton, R., 106 Giorgio de Chirico, 77, 99 Hubert, H., 175,275

Gjecov, S., 67, 70 Hugo, V., 233

Godelier, M., 2, 8, 24 Hurgronje, R., 8 Gonzalez Suarez, FE, 136, 139, 147, 149 Hurgronje, S., 62 Goodman, J.E., 66, 70

Gould, S.J., 255 I Gourmont, R. de, 28, 36 [Ilo Gaoudel, 84

Graebner, F., 232 Izard, M., 147, 148 Granet, M., 190

Grenand, P., 156, 167 J Griaule, M., 6-8, 11, 13, 16, 22-4, 32, Jamin, J., 10, 23, 43, 44, 77,98, 101,

77,79-85, 88, 98, 99, 100, 160, 130, 148, 148, 195, 266, 269, 27]

LoL; £32,193; 269; 271 Jijon caamano, J., 147 Gruzinski, S. 136, 149 Johnson, C., 141, 144, 146, 148, 149 Gueydon, (Admiral de), 61, 70 Jolas, T., 39

HK

Guiart,.:, 263;271,272 Julien, C.-A., 66, 68, 7] Guimaraes, A.S.A., 192, 195 Jung, 19, 272, 263 Gurvitch, G., 8, 17, 98, 178,179, 188, Just, Ras 7-1

TS9,.190; 993 194,195 jairaC., 99, 101

Hacoun-Campredon, P., 67, 70 Kalt, J.P., 147, 149

Haekel, J., 140, 149 Kant, E., 225 Hatiner, B,.97, 100 Karsten, 147

Hall, G., 147, 149 Kemlin, J., 4

Hallbwachs, M., 173, 175, 176 Kemper, M., 67, 68, 70, 71

Hamy, E.-T., 4,8, 17,98, 128 Kerns, V., 131, 149 Hannemann, T., 45, 52, 56, 60, 63, 66, Khalil ibn Ishaq, 56, 60, 71

6/70 Koch-Grunberg, 147

Hanoteau, A., 12, 13, 20, 21, 45-73 Kovalevsky, M.M., 68, 71

Harcourt, R. d’, 126, 149 Krickeberg, 147

Harris, O., 147 Kropotkin, P., 68, 71 Hasluck, M., 67, 71

Haudricourt, A.-G., 9, 10; 17, 18, 20, L 200, 206, 208, 213, 214, 219-234 L'Estoile, B. de, 7,9, 10, 22, 24, 268, 272 Heekeren, D. van, 263, 234, 266, 272 Lacan, J., 1,8

Heidegger, 19, 232, 263, 264 Lam Ibrahim Dia, 84 Henley, P, 7, 13, 16, 75-102, 274 Landaburu, J., 142, 147, 149

Hennebelle, G., 97, 101 Langevin, P., 131]

Heritier, F., 8 Laplantine, EF, 22, 24

Herskovits, M., 179, 192, 195, 196 Laroche, M.C., 163, 167, 269, 271

Hertz, R., 6, 24, 31,43, 44, 128 Latour, B., 1 Heusch, L. de, 1, 8, 100 Lauriere, C., 12.7; 128,.129, 130,136,

Hevezy, G. de, 154 137, 138, 141, 146, 147, 148, 149 Heyerdahl,T., 159 Laveleye, E., 68, 71

292 Name index Lazreg, M., 67, 71] Malaurie, J., 22 he Bouler, |.-B: LS 1,167,193,195, 196 Malinowski, B., 7, 15, 19, 42, 53, 62, 63,

Le Chatelier, A., 200 81,82,98, 99, 101, 125, 149, 150, Le Cour Grandmaison, O., 68, 71 160, 176

Le Play, F., 4, 5, 28 Mamber, S., 87,98, 10]

Leach, E., 138, 149, 166, 167 Mamdani, M., 68, 71

Leacock, R., 87 Marcel, J.-C., 189, 190, 194, 195 Léautaud, P,, 36 Marcorelles, L., 87, 101 Leenhardt, EF, 257 Marcus, G., 19, 271 Leenhardt, M., 5,19, 21, 23, 160, 176, Marcy, G., 67, 71

190, 195, 255-272 Marillier, L., 25

Lefévre, L., 67, 71 Marin, L., 28 Lehmann, 147 Mary, A., 191, 194, 195 Leiris, M., 7, 22, 24, 43, 44, 100, 101, Maschio, T., 262, 263, 266, 272 1O7; 108, Tol, 167, 182; 193,195, Masqueray, E., 45, 67, 72, 68, 70

193,259; Massignon, L., 201

Leon, L., 25, 127, 139, 146, 147, 149 Maunier, R., 63, 72

Leontovitch, EL, 7] Maurer, B., 265, 270, 272 Leroi-Gourhan, A., 4, 6, 17, 198, 199, Mauss, M., 1, 5, 6, 7, 8, 12, 13, 14, 15,

200, 206, 214, 216, 230 17,18, 19, 20, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26,

Letourneux, A., 12, 13, 45-74 27,28, 37, 44, 63, 80, 81, 86, 88,

Levallois, M., 67, 71 128, 129, 130, 146, 148, 151, 152, Lévi-Strauss, C., 1, 2, 7, 8, 14, 16, 17, 153,175) 1:76; 189,192; 196,204, 18,19, 22, 24, 27, 37, 39, 42, 44, 206, 207.211, 202,216; 217 229; 125, 141, 143, 144, 145, 146, 148, 230; 2324234, 236; 239,240,241, 149, 160, 165, 166, 167, 171, 186, 243, 251, 253, 259 191, 195, 198, 199, 200, 214, 216, Meillassoux, C., 2

DAA BUG 2 OO a1». Os Merleau-Ponty, M., 1, 8, 27] 240, 241, 242, 245, 246, 250, 251, Meétraux, A,;.L5, 16,.19,20,21, 105;

253; 269;271 131, 151-169, 185, 186, 193, 196 Lévy-Bruhl, L., 6, 14, 28, 37, 128, 129, Mézieéres, B. de, 116

130, 131,146; 16), b62,-166,.175, Michelet, J., 67, 72

LZ O90. dS Millet, S.. 178

Linant de Bellefonds, Y., 66, 71 Milliot, L., 47, 50, 51, 52, 56, 60, 62, 66,

Linton; Be, 179; 196 67,06; 09.72 LiPuma, E., 265, 272 Mistral, F., 36

Lorcin, PM.E., 61, 66, 67 Moffat, M., 240, 244, 252, 253

Lottman, H., 131, 149 Monbeig, P., 177

Lowie, R., 131, 154, 160 Monnier, A., 152, 154, 167

Luc, B., 51,57, 71 Montagne, R., 45, 68, 72 Luce, G.H., 209, 216 Montesquieu, 55 Luhning, A., 180, 193,195 Moore, S.F., 68, 72

Lyautey, M., 7, 68, 69 Morand, M., 67, 72 Moréchand, G., 198

M Moreno, Dr., 104, 124 MacCarthy, O., 47, 71 Morgan, L. H., 46, 73 MacClancy, J., 5, 6, 19, 24, 255-272 Morin, E., 89, 92

Mach, 264, 270 Motta, R., 181, 196 MacMahon (Marshal), 57, 71 Moura, C.E.M., 193, 196 Madan, T.M., 240, 241, 244, 252, 253 Moussa Hamidou, 84 Mahé, A., 45, 53, 57, 61, 63, 66, 67, 68 Murra, J., 193,196

Maine, H., 160 Muttusami, Tevar, 236

NR

Name index 293 Naepels, 267, 268, 270, 272 Rabih, 110 Nauton, P., 210, 217 Radcliffe-Brown, A.R., 160, 237, 239 Needham, J., 206, 217 Ramos, A., 179, 192, 195, 196 Needham, R., 27, 44, 256, 257,270,272 Randon, Marshal, 48, 49, 58, 61, 64, 66

Nef, J., 105 Ravalet, C., 184, 192, 196 Neumann-Spallart, EX., 105 Redfield, R., 105, 179, 196

Neveu, E. de, 67, 72 Reichel-Dolmatoff, G., 131

Nietzsche, F 91, 99 Renan, E., 36, 51, 72 Nobrega, C., 185, 186, 193, 196 Renou, L., 237

Nordenskiold, N.E., 15, 143, 147, 151, Renshaw, J., 160, 169

154, 155, 158, 165, 169 Rey, PP, 2,8

Richard, G., 173, 174, 175, 192, 196

O Richardson, M., 98, 10] Ould-Braham, O., 67, 72 Ricoeur, Fc Bann, 155, O8e/2

P Rival, L., 1,8, 14, 15, 23, 275 Parain, C., 202, 223 Rivers, W.H.R., 203, 217

Park, R.E., 179, 196 Rivet, P.,.6, 10, 14, 15, 17, 18, 20,21, 22,

Parker, E., 46 28, 125-150, 152, 153, 154, 165,198 Parkes, P., 12, 13, 270, 271, 274 Riviere, G.-H., 4, 22, 28, 235

Parry, ]3,.250,253 Riviere, 2s 15; bo; 204275

Parsons, T., 25] Roberts, H., 68, 72

Patorni, FE, 53, 72 Robin, J.N., 68, 72

Patrinos, H.A., 147, 149 Rochereau, H.J., 138, 150 Paulme, D., 7, 11, 107, 160 Rogers, S., 5, 24 Peixoto, RA., 174, 175,177,178, 182, Rohmer, E., 87, 10]

192,195,196 Rosfelder, R., 82

Pergaud, L., 36 ROUCH hess oy LL. fay 16,20, 241

Perkins, K.J., 66, 67, 72 75-102, 274

Pessoa, J., 179 Rouget, G., 113, 124 Piault, M.-H., 98, 10] Rousseau, 163, 167

Pina-Cabral, J., 149 Royer, L., 36 Pineda Camacho, R., 126, 130, 138, 141, 142, 143, 147, 148 S Pingaud, M.C., 39 Sabatier, L., 5, 68

Plato, 119, 182, 225 Sadoul, G., 99, 101

Pocock, D., 238, 240, 243 Saint-Simon, 50, 58, 67, 71 Poussereau, L.M., 66, 67, 72 Saintyves, P., 31

Prédal, R., 75, 100, 101 Salemink, M.B., 68, 72

Preuss, 147 Salemink, O., 68, 72

Price; Sie67, 95,101 Sand, G., 35

Prins, H., 152, 165, 166, 169 saneren; B.262;27 1, 272

Privat, J.M., 29, 44 Sartre, J.P, 8, 234, 264, 271

Pythagorus, 119 Saussure, F. de, 8, 9

QO Schaeffner, A., 107 Quatrelages, A. de, 4, 9 Scheele, J., 63, 66, 67, 68, 72 Savigny, 55

Queiroz, M.I.P. de, 173, 180, 183,185,196 Schubring, W,, 237 Schweinfurth, G., 110, 124 Segalen, M., 5 Segall, L., 178

294 Name index Senhora, 184, 185, 186 U

Shafer, R., 209, 217 Urbain, I., 50, 58, 59, 66, 67, 71

Shinar, P., 68, 72 Uribe, T. 139, 150 Si Lunis, 49, 51, 60, 61, 67

Si Mula, 49, 51, 52, 53, 56, 57, 59, 60, V

61, 64, 66, 67, 68 Valles, J.. 36

Sibeud, E., 22, 24, 68, 72 van Gennep, A., 4, 5, 6, 11, 12, 20, 21,

Slane, W. de, 48 23, 24, 25-44, 160

Snyder, F., 68, 72 Vangele, 110 Sorre, M., 212 Vaux, P. de, 113, 124 pouty, JG 03.73. 193,196 Velay-Valentin, C., 25, 44 Sperber, D., 9 Verdier, Y., 39, 40, 44

Srinivas, M., 237 Verger, P, 16, 164, 169, 172, 173, 180,

Stendhal, 35, 36 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188, 191, Steward, J., 131 193,194, 195, 196 Stewart, F., 68, 72 Verneau, R., 128, 129 Stocking, G., 127, 132, 138, 140, 142, Vertov, D., 92,93, 94, 95, 96

507 203,.217,225 Vico, 263

Stoller, P., 98,99, 100, 101 Vidal, J.E., 208 Strathern, M., 9, 265, 266, 270,272,275 Viveiros de Castro, E., 156

Strauss, L., 105, 106 Vollenhoven, C. van, 62, 71 Surdon, G., 68, 73 WwW

T Wagley, C., 154, 157, 160, 161, 169 Tallou Mouzourane, 84 Weber E.223259

Tarde, G., 174, 175, 192, 196 Weber, M., 106, 113, 124, 171, 175,

Tardieu, S., 235 189, 190, 250, 25] Tardits, C., 165, 169 Wilder, G., 148, 150

Taylor, L., 78, 98, 99, 102, 191 Winston, B., 98, 102

Teixeira, A., 179, 196 Wylie, L., 199, 218 Ter Haar, B., 68, 73

Terray, E., 2, 8 Y Thomas, J., 215, 217,218 Young, C., 98, 102, 266, 267

Thompson, Gic 77398, LOG; 101, 102 Tillion, G., 11, 24 Z

Tocqueville, A., 245 Zerilli, F., 126, 137, 140, 141, 147, 150

Todorov, T., 11, 24 Zin, D.L., 43

Toffin, G., 14, 17, 239, 243, 244, 252, Zonabend, E., 5, 39, 199, 218 253; 279 Tooker, E., 46, 73

Trautmann, T.R., 46, 73 Tupper, C.L., 68, 73 Tylon, Fi, 450; 160).2177,261