Have you noticed how there aren't any new French intellectuals
any more? There was a veritable flood in the late '70s and early '80s:
Derrida, Foucault, Baudrillard, Kristeva, Lyotard, de Certeau ... but
there has been almost no one since. Trendy academics and intellectual
hipsters have been forced to endlessly recycle theories now 20 or 30 years
old, or turn to countries like Italy or even Slovenia for dazzling meta-theory.
There are a lot of reasons for this. One has to do with politics in France
itself, where there has been a concerted effort on the part of media elites
to replace real intellectuals with American-style empty-headed pundits.
Still, they have not been completely successful. More important, French
intellectual life has become much more politically engaged. In the U.S.
press, there has been a near blackout on cultural news from France since
the great strike movement of 1995, when France was the first nation to
definitively reject the "American model" for the economy, and
refused to begin dismantling its welfare state. In the American press,
France immediately became the silly country, vainly trying to duck the
tide of history.
Of course this in itself is hardly going to faze the sort of Americans
who read Deleuze and Guattari. What American academics expect from France
is an intellectual high, the ability to feel one is participating in wild,
radical ideas demonstrating the inherent violence within Western
conceptions of truth or humanity, that sort of thing but in ways
that do not imply any program of political action; or, usually, any responsibility
to act at all. It's easy to see how a class of people who are considered
almost entirely irrelevant both by political elites and by 99 percent
of the general population might feel this way. In other words, while the
U.S. media represent France as silly, U.S. academics seek out those French
thinkers who seem to fit the bill.
As a result, some of the most interesting scholars in France today you
never hear about at all. One such is a group of intellectuals who go by
the rather unwieldy name of Mouvement Anti-Utilitariste dans les Sciences
Sociales, or MAUSS, and who have dedicated themselves to a systematic
attack on the philosophical underpinnings of economic theory. The group
take their inspiration from the great early-20th century French sociologist
Marcel Mauss, whose most famous work, The Gift (1925), was perhaps the
most magnificent refutation of the assumptions behind economic theory
ever written. At a time when "the free market" is being rammed
down everyone's throat as both a natural and inevitable product of human
nature, Mauss' work which demonstrated not only that most non-Western
societies did not work on anything resembling market principles, but that
neither do most modern Westerners is more relevant than ever. While
Francophile American scholars seem unable to come up with much of anything
to say about the rise of global neoliberalism, the MAUSS group is attacking
its very foundations.
A word of background. Marcel Mauss was born in 1872 to an Orthodox Jewish
family in Vosges. His uncle, Émile Durkheim, is considered the
founder of modern sociology. Durkheim surrounded himself with a circle
of brilliant young acolytes, among whom Mauss was appointed to study religion.
The circle, however, was shattered by World I; many died in the trenches,
including Durkheim's son, and Durkheim himself died of grief shortly thereafter.
Mauss was left to pick up the pieces.
By all accounts, though, Mauss was never taken completely seriously in
his role of heir apparent; a man of extraordinary erudition (he knew at
least a dozen languages, including Sanskrit, Maori and classical Arabic),
he still, somehow, lacked the gravity expected of a grand professeur.
A former amateur boxer, he was a burly man with a playful, rather silly
manner, the sort of person always juggling a dozen brilliant ideas rather
than building great philosophical systems. He spent his life working on
at least five different books (on prayer, on nationalism, on the origins
of money, etc.), none of which he ever finished. Still, he succeeded in
training a new generation of sociologists and inventing French anthropology
more or less single-handedly, as well as in publishing a series of extraordinarily
innovative essays, just about each one of which has generated an entirely
new body of social theory all by itself.
Mauss was also a revolutionary socialist. From his student days on he
was a regular contributor to the left press, and remained most of his
life an active member of the French cooperative movement. He founded and
for many years helped run a consumer co-op in Paris; and was often sent
on missions to make contact with the movement in other countries (for
which purpose he spent time in Russia after the revolution). Mauss was
not a Marxist, though. His socialism was more in the tradition of Robert
Owen or Pierre-Joseph Proudhon: He considered Communists and Social Democrats
to be equally misguided in believing that society could be transformed
primarily through government action. Rather, the role of government, he
felt, was to provide the legal framework for a socialism that had to be
built from the ground up, by creating alternative institutions.
The Russian revolution thus left him profoundly ambivalent. While exhilarated
by prospects of a genuine socialist experiment, he was outraged by the
Bolsheviks' systematic use of terror, their suppression of democratic
institutions, and most of all by their "cynical doctrine that the
end justifies the means," which, Mauss concluded, was really just
the amoral, rational calculus of the marketplace, slightly transposed.
Mauss' essay on "the gift" was, more than anything, his response
to events in Russia particularly Lenin's New Economic Policy of
1921, which abandoned earlier attempts to abolish commerce. If the market
could not simply be legislated away, even in Russia, probably the least
monetarized European society, then clearly, Mauss concluded, revolutionaries
were going to have to start thinking a lot more seriously about what this
"market" actually was, where it came from, and what a viable
alternative to it might actually be like. It was time to bring the results
of historical and ethnographic research to bear.
Mauss' conclusions were startling. First of all, almost everything that
"economic science" had to say on the subject of economic history
turned out to be entirely untrue. The universal assumption of free market
enthusiasts, then as now, was that what essentially drives human beings
is a desire to maximize their pleasures, comforts and material possessions
(their "utility"), and that all significant human interactions
can thus be analyzed in market terms. In the beginning, goes the official
version, there was barter. People were forced to get what they wanted
by directly trading one thing for another. Since this was inconvenient,
they eventually invented money as a universal medium of exchange. The
invention of further technologies of exchange (credit, banking, stock
exchanges) was simply a logical extension.
The problem was, as Mauss was quick to note, there is no reason to believe
a society based on barter has ever existed. Instead, what anthropologists
were discovering were societies where economic life was based on utterly
different principles, and most objects moved back and forth as gifts
and almost everything we would call "economic" behavior was
based on a pretense of pure generosity and a refusal to calculate exactly
who had given what to whom. Such "gift economies" could on occasion
become highly competitive, but when they did it was in exactly the opposite
way from our own: Instead of vying to see who could accumulate the most,
the winners were the ones who managed to give the most away. In some notorious
cases, such as the Kwakiutl of British Columbia, this could lead to dramatic
contests of liberality, where ambitious chiefs would try to outdo one
another by distributing thousands of silver bracelets, Hudson Bay blankets
or Singer sewing machines, and even by destroying wealth sinking
famous heirlooms in the ocean, or setting huge piles of wealth on fire
and daring their rivals to do the same.
All of this may seem very exotic. But as Mauss also asked: How alien is
it, really? Is there not something odd about the very idea of gift-giving,
even in our own society? Why is it that, when one receives a gift from
a friend (a drink, a dinner invitation, a compliment), one feels somehow
obliged to reciprocate in kind? Why is it that a recipient of generosity
often somehow feels reduced if he or she cannot? Are these not examples
of universal human feelings, which are somehow discounted in our own society
but in others were the very basis of the economic system? And is
it not the existence of these very different impulses and moral standards,
even in a capitalist system such as our own, that is the real basis for
the appeal of alternative visions and socialist policies? Mauss certainly
In a lot of ways Mauss' analysis bore a marked resemblance to Marxist
theories about alienation and reification being developed by figures like
György Lukács around the same time. In gift economies, Mauss
argued, exchanges do not have the impersonal qualities of the capitalist
marketplace: In fact, even when objects of great value change hands, what
really matters is the relations between the people; exchange is about
creating friendships, or working out rivalries, or obligations, and only
incidentally about moving around valuable goods. As a result everything
becomes personally charged, even property: In gift economies, the most
famous objects of wealth - heirloom necklaces, weapons, feather cloaks
always seem to develop personalities of their own.
In a market economy it's exactly the other way around. Transactions are
seen simply as ways of getting one's hands on useful things; the personal
qualities of buyer and seller should ideally be completely irrelevant.
As a consequence everything, even people, start being treated as if they
were things too. (Consider in this light the expression "goods and
services.") The main difference with Marxism, however, is that while
Marxists of his day still insisted on a bottom-line economic determinism,
Mauss held that in past market-less societies and by implication,
in any truly humane future one "the economy," in the
sense of an autonomous domain of action concerned solely with the creation
and distribution of wealth, and which proceeded by its own, impersonal
logic, would not even exist.
Mauss was never entirely sure what his practical conclusions were. The
Russian experience convinced him that buying and selling could not simply
be eliminated in a modern society, at least "in the foreseeable future,"
but a market ethos could. Work could be co-operatized, effective social
security guaranteed and, gradually, a new ethos created whereby the only
possible excuse for accumulating wealth was the ability to give it all
away. The result: a society whose highest values would be "the joy
of giving in public, the delight in generous artistic expenditure, the
pleasure of hospitality in the public or private feast."
Some of this may seem awfully naïve from today's perspective, but
Mauss' core insights have, if anything, become even more relevant now
than they were 75 years ago now that economic "science"
has become, effectively, the revealed religion of the modern age. So it
seemed, anyway, to the founders of MAUSS.
The idea for MAUSS was born in 1980. The project is said to have emerged
from a conversation over lunch between a French sociologist, Alain Caillé,
and a Swiss anthropologist, Gérald Berthoud. They had just sat
through several days of an interdisciplinary conference on the subject
of gifts, and after reviewing the papers, they came to the shocked realization
that it did not seem to have occurred to a single scholar in attendance
that a significant motive for giving gifts might be, say, generosity,
or genuine concern for another person's welfare. In fact, the scholars
at the conference invariably assumed that "gifts" do not really
exist: Scratch deep enough behind any human action, and you'll always
discover some selfish, calculating strategy. Even more oddly, they assumed
that this selfish strategy was always, necessarily, the real truth of
the matter; that it was more real somehow than any other motive in which
it might be entangled. It was as if to be scientific, to be "objective"
meant to be completely cynical. Why?
Caillé ultimately came to blame Christianity. Ancient Rome still
preserved something of the older ideal of aristocratic open-handedness:
Roman magnates built public gardens and monuments, and vied to sponsor
the most magnificent games. But Roman generosity was also quite obviously
meant to wound: One favorite habit was scattering gold and jewels before
the masses to watch them tussle in the mud to scoop them up. Early Christians,
for obvious reasons, developed their notion of charity in direct reaction
to such obnoxious practices. True charity was not based on any desire
to establish superiority, or favor, or indeed any egoistic motive whatsoever.
To the degree that the giver could be said to have gotten anything out
of the deal, it wasn't a real gift.
But this in turn led to endless problems, since it was very difficult
to conceive of a gift that did not benefit the giver in any way. Even
an entirely selfless act would win one points with God. There began the
habit of searching every act for the degree to which it could be said
to mask some hidden selfishness, and then assuming that this selfishness
is what's really important. One sees the same move reproduced so consistently
in modern social theory. Economists and Christian theologians agree that
if one takes pleasure in an act of generosity, it is somehow less generous.
They just disagree on the moral implications. To counteract this very
perverse logic, Mauss emphasized the "pleasure" and "joy"
of giving: In traditional societies, there was not assumed to be any contradiction
between what we would call self-interest (a phrase that, he noted, could
not even be translated into most human languages) and concern for others;
the whole point of the traditional gift is that it furthers both at the
These, anyway, were the kind of issues that
first engaged the small, interdisciplinary group of French and French-speaking
scholars (Caillé, Berthoud, Ahmet Insel, Serge Latouche, Pauline
Taieb) who were to become MAUSS. Actually, the group itself began as a
journal, called Revue du MAUSS a very small journal, printed sloppily
on bad paper whose authors conceived it as much as an in-joke as
a venue for serious scholarship, the flagship journal for a vast international
movement that did not then exist. Caillé wrote manifestos; Insel
penned fantasies about great international anti-utilitarian conventions
of the future. Articles on economics alternated with snatches from Russian
novelists. But gradually, the movement did begin to materialize. By the
mid-'90s, MAUSS had become an impressive network of scholars ranging
from sociologists and anthropologists to economists, historians and philosophers,
from Europe, North Africa and the Middle East whose ideas had become
represented in three different journals and a prominent book series (all
in French) backed up by annual conferences.
Since the strikes of 1995 and the election
of a Socialist government, Mauss' own works have undergone a considerable
revival in France, with the publication of a new biography and a collection
of his political writings. At the same time, the MAUSS group themselves
have become evermore explicitly political. In 1997, Caillé released
a broadside called "30 Theses for a New Left," and the MAUSS
group have begun dedicating their annual conferences to specific policy
issues. Their answer to the endless calls for France to adopt the "American
model" and dismantle its welfare state, for example, was to begin
promulgating an economic idea originally proposed by American revolutionary
Tom Paine: the guaranteed national income. The real way to reform welfare
policy is not to begin stripping away social benefits, but to reframe
the whole conception of what a state owes its citizens. Let us jettison
welfare and unemployment programs, they said. But instead, let us create
a system where every French citizen is guaranteed the same starting income
(say, $20,000, supplied directly by the government) and then the
rest can be up to them.
It is hard to know exactly what to make of the Maussian left, particularly
insofar as Mauss is being promoted now, in some quarters, as an alternative
to Marx. It would be easy to write them off as simply super-charged social
democrats, not really interested in the radical transformation of society.
Caillé's "30 Theses," for example, agree with Mauss in
conceding the inevitability of some kind of market but still, like
him, look forward to the abolition of capitalism, here defined as the
pursuit of financial profit as an end in itself. On another level, though,
the Maussian attack on the logic of the market is more profound, and more
radical, than anything else now on the intellectual horizon. It is hard
to escape the impression that this is precisely why American intellectuals,
particularly those who believe themselves to be the most wild-eyed radicals,
willing to deconstruct almost any concept except greed or selfishness,
simply don't know what to make of the Maussians why, in fact, their
work has been almost completely ignored.
David Graeber is a professor of anthropology at Yale University.